I promise this is the last leg of the “Disappearing Girl” story. If you’ve arrived here without reading installment #3, head over to Heart of the Matter. You might want to peek at that first…and then come back. I’ll be here. No need to rush…but please DO come back to read this last part. It’s the tear-jerker conclusion that makes me happy, sad and everything in between as I think about how much I loved my dad.
“What we choose to share with the world matters. The truest joy of all existence is this very interconnectedness. And the more we honor it by sharing our stories and our energy and our light with the world, the more our existence is enriched.”
-Laura Lynne Jackson: “Signs – The Secret Language of the Universe”, p. 159
Unexpected Ancestry
My dad, Sonny, had a cousin who, back in the dark ages before the internet, did his own brand of genealogical research which was laborious and painstaking – involving a lot of travel and great expense. Sadly, cousin Gene died before he finished his work, but he bequeathed his treasure trove of files and delicately typed pages to my dad. They’re dusty and yellow now, some thirty years later and despite Gene’s diligence, the best he could do was track the family tree, line by line, back to the various parts of the UK and a smidgen of Western Europe. His work was enchanting and wonderful, but Gene was only able to scratch the surface of the immigrant stories; very little was known about my dad’s ancestors and their lives centuries ago.
I’m grateful to the power of Ancestry.com for helping me uncover lost segments of family history. Before my cousin Dan died a few months ago, he and I enjoyed lively conversations about the power and expansiveness of digitalized records and our discoveries. But one thing? Oh my goodness. One thing stood out above all else.
The photo. That photo – of the ‘disappearing girl’? I had no idea until recently that my dad’s family, going back to the 1500’s came from that VERY village in Provence. Incredible. Even though I took the photo four decades ago, if I close my eyes, I can channel the feeling of walking that plot of earth, those ancient stones. I wonder about their decisions to emigrate to North America in 1690, arriving in Port Royal, Nova Scotia. I’m hopeful I’ll discover more as I continue exploring.
Making Meaning of it All
I wrote about the reverence and quiet preceding the photo op – not just mine, but the respectfulness of our rowdy group of teenagers as we walked that winding street. When I think about it now, I realize it was reverence for me. My friends knew I was having some sort of a moment and maybe they felt it, too, when they saw the girl? Certainly it was a magnificent scene and setting, and everyone wanted to see the pic when we returned home, but the mystery about the disappearing girl was just that – for them. I lived with its odd behavior for years, still treasuring it but mystified by a photo that had unexplained energy.
More than anything, I wish my dad – who’s been gone for many years – had lived long enough to travel and enjoy the deepest of dives into this portion of his family history. Not just the “from whence I came” knowledge, but the overlay of awe, the coincidence or cosmic love that came when I visited that same place, unaware but entranced as a teenager.
In my heart, I believe the experience with the disappearing girl was pre-destined. I wouldn’t understand the connection between my dad’s family and those old stones for years, and yet, the girl? Maybe she appeared and disappeared, wreaking a little havoc to remind me to keep my eyes open to look for the unexpected and the unexplained. And to be unafraid.
When I consider my love of France, my travels and my affinity for French design, I realize my ancestral roots have been active in my life, playing out over and over again in delicate, subtle ways. I’ve written about the phenomenon of ‘repeating patterns’ across generations and my unexplained love of fleur de lis designs and lilies. These two images will give you a sense of what I mean, visually, if you’d rather not read the stories:
I’ve also taken the time to reflect about my dad and one of the nearly imperceptible gifts he gave me. He loved design and architecture and believed in the power of place, painstakingly choosing every home we ever lived in. He sparred with mom, Sue, who was annoyed by his fixations on layout and “good bones” – foregoing more practical concerns about leaky roofs, or bad paint jobs. He listened to his gut and if a house had the look of old stone anywhere – as a feature wall inside or as part of the exterior – he held his ground and prevailed. I think I carry that sensitivity about spaces and places, too, and perhaps that’s the gift from the disappearing girl. A love of old stone.
What does it all mean? I think my head finally caught up to what my heart always knew. Family. Gratitude. Roots. Togetherness. Across time and space and with wonder abundant.
Remember. See potential – with love. Thank you so much for reading. Live in wonder. Live and love.
Vicki ❤
P.S. A little more – some lagniappe? Our dear friend and fellow blogger Michael Ross from The Real Reality Show is my hero. After last week’s posts about the funky photo, Michael reached out and I couldn’t believe what he shared! He zoomed in on the photo and in the second doorway on the right – the one that’s straight (no curve) he spied a spectre. A tiny head and shoulders, peeking out like Casper. You may not see it, but here’s the pic, enlarged as much as I could manage:
Thank you, Michael. I’d never noticed this before and as much as we might easily say it’s just the tone…of the stones…the weathering and shading. Who knows? It’s not the same doorway where the mystery girl appeared, but maybe she had friends. 😉
Victoria Ponders 
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