Within These Reflections

WITHIN THESE REFLECTIONS

ESSAY + PHOTOGRAPHY: LUKE FRANCIS BIGGS

Two years as a child in Pennsylvania near Penns Creek have affected my vision ever since. We lived as a family of seven in a cinderblock hunting cabin five miles from Coburn on a dirt road, the last place on the hill, past the tunnel and truss bridge of a former rail line. While there was never a lack of movement at that age, the memories of light and space and sound from that time, in that forest, along those banks, have forever taught me to stand still. Wherever I have lived since, from Brooklyn to Philly to Wyoming, that lesson of realization in the present has allowed me find beauty everyday.

Philadelphia reminds me of Ray. We used to drive around West Philly, listening to jazz, talking about life and good coffee. His laugh and smile are incredible. He once took me to his storage unit in the Northeast where he collected old furniture to later resell. It was his ‘side hustle’, as he described it, and it was there that I found a water-damaged Degas replica that has been watching over me ever since. He sold it to me for $20. Then there’s Norma, who, when she writes an email, italicizes the whole of it. She says it reminds her of cursive. She is a continuous moment of grace and wisdom. George will be the best man in my wedding. Despite knowing that I would one day leave, he took the time to share his soul and taught me how to fly fish. Then I left. Through the countless back roads and hours spent with him, I have forever learned what is real. It is with pride that I can say that these friends are in their 60’s and 70’s. It is friendships like these that I have always based my confidence on. I’ve long felt that we are all just diamonds cutting away at one another, becoming ever more faceted as we slow down the light that surrounds us. For your refracted light and patience, I thank you all.

It seems the words hardest to find are for those we love the most. Recently, I tried to find them in a letter written to my father. There were usually two chairs in our backyard where we sat in the fading light, listening to the final gestures of squirrels and catbirds, watching the stars rise. While I always wished for words then, I only recently came to realize how few there were that would plunge beneath the placid depths of his eyes and expression to the current below. It was his silence in these moments of unspoken understanding that taught me how to care. My mother understood this silence, but her sincerity (something I’m still trying
to attain) would never allow her to keep it. She would always try to find words. She would always be willing to take time as I drove countless country lanes looking for the right combination of light and lines. She would always endure. She will always be loved.

Within these recollections lies the hope for an explanation of where I am now, some 2,000 miles away from that backyard, those country lanes and those friends, trying to leave again. Recently, I wrote in that letter to my father, that the only things I had going for me was caring and wanting to understand. Those desires and these experiences affect the interpretation of the daily as I move to stand still somewhere anew, and have become a continual reminder to “see without a camera.” They help me to see the wisdom and joy of my friends in the faces of strangers. They help me to find the silence of my father and feel the sincerity of my mother in all that surrounds me. It is the beauty of the patient unknown...It is everyday.