Default Setting

The busy season is upon me, with spring and change in the air.  I seem to be spending almost as much time trying to pull my thoughts together as I am getting any work done, but at the end of the day I can see progress – thanks to well thought out to-do lists.
 

I’ve been incorporating meditation into my daily life, with over a solid month of 10 minutes or more per day.  I like it, and I like that I’m doing it.  Is it making a difference?  I don’t know, but I feel a bit less anxious, or more precisely, more at ease.   

But tonight, my mind and emotions are in a bit of a flux, and I’m feeling discontented.

There is such an ebb and flow to how I feel and think about my son, waves of intensity.  Some days I find myself walking by his picture and lightly touching the image, so grateful for the connections we had.  Other days I sit and doubt… everything.  The moments of gratefulness I embrace as much as I can, and the others, well, sometimes I give them airtime.  I’m trying to learn to hear the chorus of critics in my head without necessarily listening to them; learning to acknowledge the fears without letting them take control. 

When it comes to my son I never knew how to tell people that I wanted to talk about him.  That even though it usually made me cry I still wanted to and to find ways to acknowledge his existence.  Now, as I continue to learn how to share him, and I tell people I want to be open about him, I find myself resorting back to my old default when they do bring him up: clamming up and shutting down – it’s so frustrating!  I don’t want to do that anymore.

My oldest sister spoke of my son fairly often, more so after we were reunited.  She wanted to know if I’d heard from him or talked to him.  It’s one of the many things I’ve always loved about her – that she never seemed afraid to bring him up in conversation.  She always made me feel as though he was a normal part of my life, our lives, and she never once doubted he would find me one day.   

For that I am so very grateful.  

My oldest brother and his wife have their own very personal relationship with adoption: they adopted two beautiful boys.  When they began their adoption journey, we talked about my experience and what I looked for in perspective parents; I think they were hoping to get the inside story – I’m not sure I was ever really helpful, but I hope so.  Our conversations, no matter how seemingly insignificant, were precious to me.

The youngest siblings, my baby sister and baby brother, were only 9 and 11 when I had my son.  I can’t even tell you what they thought about all of it, what their feelings were.  We never talked about it then, and haven’t really since, but I hope to learn someday how they felt and what their experiences were, if they are willing.

My son expressed an interest in meeting them all; especially my brothers, since his adopted family was heavily populated with girls.  One of the few times all of us siblings were together we talked with anticipation and excitement about when and where and who would be there (we didn’t think it would be wise for all of us to be present - we were a bit afraid to overwhelm him with the full force of our combined craziness).   

We talked and laughed and dreamt about what it will be like… would be like...

We just never had the chance.

From Nothing to Something

There were many times as a child and young adult I just felt nothing.  This is a skill; a skill I cultivated long ago.  I learned to remove myself from the here and now and go to a grey, dull place.  A place where there literally is nothing.  Many people learn to do this as a way to cope, as I did.  I don’t want to go into the reasons why I learned to do this, suffice it to say I was not the first and I won’t be the last.

Unfortunately after a while it becomes an automatic response.

So when I was preparing to place my son for adoption I knew that it would haunt me all the rest of my days if I did not stare it in the eyes and work through the pain.  So, I made a conscious effort, and an actual plan, to process and grieve his loss and not to go to that place of nothing.  I think this is how I’ve made it to today with less “fucked-up-ness” than I would have had otherwise.

Here, today, in the now, I am continuing to make a conscious effort to find ways to replace that auto response with something better, something healthy.  I am clear that I want to feel and experience everything I can.  I want to see the people around me and share their world, and I want to share mine.  I want to experience the good and the bad and feel it now.  I don’t want or need to block out the negative because I now have to tools I need to get through to the other side.  

Of course that doesn’t mean I always use them, but nobody's perfect, right?

Expressing Gratitude

My husband, Tom, has known me since before I was pregnant.  We met in our late teens, working together at a small roadside café.  He was a short order cook and I a waitress.  We hit it off immediately.  

Our friendship is one of the brightest spots of my youth, with specific moments of happiness I cherish to this day.  We could talk on the phone for hours at a time and, I admit, there were many nights I hardly slept during those years.  What we talked about is not important, it’s how I felt: appreciated, respected, and valued; smart and worthy of love.  We went to campus theater productions and concerts together and we played guitar with his dad in the basement of his split level.  We were the best of friends, with that sprinkle of chemistry that still gives me butterflies to this day.  This all continued until his girlfriend said “Enough!” and with good reason.

When we talk about it now, we are so grateful we were parted from each other.  If we had tried to make a go of being a couple we would have likely self-destructed.  Instead, he went off to college.

A couple years later he came home for the holidays and happened to run into me at the mall.   I was eight months pregnant, alone and lonely.   I remember he came over to my house, and sat with me.  Actually sat with me and held me on the couch, cradling me in his arms while I leaned into him, his hands on my belly.  Many years later, when meeting my son for the first time, he asked me if Tom was his father.  I told him no, but that he was the only person to truly share, even if for a brief time, in my life during that time.  And he was the only person to truly feel you in my tummy.

Today, I can’t imagine my life without him, and I need to say thank you. 

Thank you to the man who always encouraged me to pursue a relationship with my son, who shared my hopes and dreams for our future, who grieves for my loss, and recognizes it as his own.  Thank you to my best friend, who has shared this journey with me, from that day on the couch to celebrating his 7^th birthday in Taxco, Mexico to standing next to me at his graveside.  Thank you for holding my hand, wiping my tears, and guiding me through this process with gentle strength and kindness.

Light in the Forest

The days roll by like a whirlwind… 

Not one goes by that you don’t enter my thoughts…   

Sometimes you linger there...

Others, you seem like a melody floating on the wind, familiar yet fleeting;

here and gone. 

I often feel lost in this grief; lost and alone…   

It lay coiled deep in my gut; heavy, taught, warm – a serpent curled upon itself. 

No beginning, no ending, just a mass of roiling muscle. 

I remind myself I am not alone.  That many share your loss, and that despite moments of seeming disability, they pass and I go on…  life goes on…

I glimpsed you like a ray of light in the forest

soft, golden, fleeting

you cast shadows too

yet they hold no meaning for me.

As you play your music

I hear the past,

see the future,

feel the moment…

I feel the moment.

Dappled leaves flutter gently in the breeze

you walk with me… hold my hand

gravel crunches below my tired and swollen feet

road signs are trees and boulders; you’ll find no words here.

The rain and sun have conspired to nourish my soul

I smell salt in the air, and change to come

the trees that bow to the prevailing winds still grow strong

I will too.