Lazy Summertime…

Tags

adopting a new attitude, Community, Creativity, Gardening, Lost Dog, Peace, serenity, Solitude, writing

“Seek peace and pursue it.” – St. Benedict

As the Summer Solstice draws near, I’m looking for fresh creativity and new ideas.

This scarecrow works 24/7-so we gardeners can do what we love

Once I week, I drive to Frenchy’s Field, the nearby community garden where four other women and I planted and now tend four plots. This morning, while watering the rows of spinach, tomato plants, cabbage and cucumbers, I admitted to myself that Arundati, the sequel to Beast of Bengal, isn’t writing itself. It cries out for more of my time. I also vowed to accelerate the revision of Santa Fe on Foot-Adventures in the City Different.

That said, beginning in late June, I’ll be  posting every other Monday. In the fall, I will most likely go back to weekly posts.

Like most writers I know, however, I’m always writing. People at Frenchy’s Field tend to be congenial. There’s a hospitable air, and so even as I gardened, I harvested material for future plots or subplots.

The city watering hours are only from six to ten a.m. and four to eight p.m. When I approached the garden around nine, someone was already there, gently hosing the plots that she had adopted. She handed over the hose so I could water my territory, and we chatted. It turned out that she also was a writer. We talked briefly about our published books. She had a long bike ride ahead and I had four plots to water before the ten a.m. deadline, but it was likely, we agreed, that the garden would bring us together again.

Another encounter happened as I was locking the padlocked gate to go home. A tall man wearing a bereft expression was calling for “Roy,” the dog he’d lost just a few hours earlier. Having recently lost my adopted orange kitty Thomas Cromwell, I related to Roy’s owner, and I wanted to help.

“He was last seen right around here,” the man explained, giving me a full description of his pet, as well as a telephone number and e-mail address. I assured him that I’d pass along the description of Roy – brown, labrador mix, shy and gentle – to people I met in Frenchy’s park. It turned out that before I got to my car, I’d alerted several dog-walking people to look for Roy.

Gardening seems to go quite well with writing. It provides a quiet, thoughtful time. It can also yield rewarding interactions with total strangers. Like seeds sprouting under the earth’s surface, ideas grow and break through. I went home and wrote for the rest of the morning.

Embrace that will last a Lifetime

Tags

adoptee, adoption, blood ties, bonding, celebrating new life, grandparenting, multi-generational, newborn daughter

Guest Post by Kerry Thompson

In time for Father’s Day

I recently witnessed the birth of my first grandchild, a beautiful baby girl.  I watched my adoptive son with awe as he whispered kind and gentle words of encouragement to the mother of his child as she labored to bring new life into this world.  She handed him the gift of a daughter; tears flowed from his eyes while he held his infant close and told her, “I will never leave you and I will always protect you!”
In the next few days’ my thoughts wandered back to when I first met my son and his birth mother; she often comes to mind on these important occasions during my son’s life.  She was ill when she delivered our son; six weeks premature and very fragile.  The Social Worker who arranged the adoption called to tell me the birth mother wanted to meet and introduce me to my new son; this would be the first time I was to meet her.   I took flowers to the hospital for her, such a small gesture for the woman who had just given birth alone without family by her side.   She was beautiful, kind and grateful I would want to give her baby a home and the best I could offer.
I am still humbled by the memory of her walking down the hall to the Neo-natal unit (NICU) introducing us to the infant she would say good bye to and place him in the care of people she did not know.  I answered all her questions including what he would be named.
As I approached the window to the NICU all I could see was the top of his little blonde head; tubes and wires from the isolette were his life line to the world.  He would make small movements and I knew he was determined to make his presence known.  His birthmother and I held hands and cried together forging a bond for this little soul, our son.  Five days passed before she signed adoption rights over to our family; and I would enter the NICU to hold my son for the first time.    When I looked into my son’s eyes I saw the universe in its entire splendor, but I also saw the brave women who gave birth to him; and as I hold my granddaughter in my arms I will whisper in her ear “You are loved by those who came before you and you will never be alone”.

*********************

Kerry is from New Mexico and works in the field of child nutrition, social services

Guest blogger Kerry Thompson

and health care.  She likes to hike, quilt and spend time with family and friends.

A Farewell to Thomas Cromwell

Tags

Cats, feline companion, loss, mourning, pet adoption, unconditional love

“Cats leave paw prints in our hearts” -Anonymous

The little orange fellow who saw me through recovery from major surgery one year ago, my feline best friend, my constant domestic companion—Thomas Cromwell— left prints that will last as long as I have breath.

My literary cat enjoyed reading with me

Being an adoptee myself, I have a soft spot for orphaned cats and dogs. The universe seems to abound with pets who’ve been abandoned or who have never had a home. Thomas was six years old when my friend Barb found him living in a bookstore, temporarily taken in by the kind-hearted owners. However, the bookstore folks did not intend to keep him. They were hoping for a “forever home.” The large, muscular orange tabby been living on the streets and needed veterinarian’s care.

When I first met him, this cat’s name was Eric. At our bookstore meeting, he pounced on my lap and began purring loudly, love at first purr. My former orange kitty Norman had died at age 12 a year earlier, and I’d been cat-less for far too long. “Yes,” I said, and went through the local Felines and Friends organization to adopt this orphan. After I took him home, he seemed very content, grateful in the way that foundling pets often are. At the time, I was deeply immersed in reading HIlary Mantel’s Wolf Hall. No longer would he be “Eric.” My new cat’s charm, craftiness and intelligence led me to name him “Thomas Cromwell,” after the protagonist of Mantel’s historical novel.

My former orange kitty, Norman, was a tough act to follow, but Thomas was a natural. He needed dental work and unblocking of his kidneys, all of which I took care of. We shared many companionable hours during the few years I had him. Nothing was more cosy than “Tommaso” on my lap during a winter’s evening. When I was recovering from aortic aneurism repair last June, he literally nursed me back to health. He loved visitors and befriended anyone who came to my house. Even people who didn’t like cats seemed to like Thomas.

Thomas spent his final hours napping in the garden

Very suddenly, however, he quit eating, had to be coaxed to drink, and hardly moved at all. I called the vet’s office to say I was bringing him in on a standby basis. The vets had been out for three days for Memorial weekend. Tuesday morning arrived at last but my kitty didn’t make it through the night. At three in the morning I found Thomas Cromwell on the carpet, collapsed on his side and not breathing. It was three in the morning.

At the first light of day, as I wept, I wrapped Thomas in a small fleecy blanket, placed him in a box, and bury him in the back yard. He will be near the graves of others who’ve left paw prints in my heart.
May he rest in peace.

Gone but always remembered

May 30th-The Day my Life was Saved

Tags

adoption, appreciation, Attitude adjustment, May milestone, proofreading, surgery

This is a re-posting of May 2012′s Reflections

The surprises began in late May. Just as I was retiring from my job as elementary school librarian for Santa Fe Public Schools, I contracted an intestinal flu that resulted in multiple visits to the doctor. Blaming my “bug” on elementary school germs, I assumed that I would eventually get better. Despite antibiotics, however, I felt worse by the week. My primary care physician ordered a ct scan, and the scan revealed a seriously advanced abdominal aortic aneurism. A few days afterwards, I had surgery.

As I recovered from my surgical event, I proofed galleys for The Goodbye Baby

May 30th at 6 a.m. at Christus St. Vincent’s Hospital: Flanked by my tall sons (who’d flown in from distant locales), I entered the surgery center, was soon a gurney and being wheeled into the operating theater. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. To say that I was concerned would be an understatement. It this was to be the end, I worried, I had yet to finish editing my new book The Goodbye Baby-A Diary about Adoption. Yes, I focused on my book rather than thinking that I might not live through the very serious operation.
The anesthesia took over, and I was OUT. Working for several hours, the brilliant surgical duo Doctors Poseidon Varvitsiotis and Gerald Weinstein replaced my defective aortic section with a dacron stint, sutured it in place, and sewed me back together. My next moment of consciousness was in the Intensive Care Unit, where I would spend the next two and ½ days. Despite exhaustion and a morphine-induced stupor, I was amazed and grateful. My life had been saved!
After six days at Christus St. Vincent’s, I was allowed to go home. Friends rallied, a different pal spending the night in my guest room for a couple weeks, just to make sure I was OK. For a month, I was very feeble and could get about only with the help of a walker. It was a chore to eat, to dress, to do anything at all.
Following doctor’s orders, I took a siesta every afternoon. Some days I just rested; others, I actually slept. When I was at last able, I took a daily half-hour walk outdoors. Along with resting and walking, I edited, proofreading the final galleys of The Goodbye Baby-A Diary about Adoption. At last it was done: the day I received final approval from my publisher, I improved 100 per cent.
So, the operation is history. If all continues to go well, I will not need a check-up until a year from now. My doctor advised me to slow down, to continue taking a daily rest, and to take better care of myself. I’d made that decision as well. Though it didn’t have any obvious connection to the aortic aneurism, I am no longer on perpetual overdrive. The operation and ensuing month of recovery made me realize that, in the big picture, it does not matter if I meet personal deadlines exactly as I’d envisioned.
Thus begins “the new normal,” and it feels wonderful.

P.S. Hard to believe that a year has passed. May 30th will always be my personal date to celebrate BEING ALIVE! May 30, 2012

May 30th allowed me the gift of seeing my beloved ones grow and thrive!

Blue Monday or Serenity in San Diego

Tags

adoptee, adoption, Getting away, healing, Relaxation, San Diego, Travel

The road going nowhere in particular

“Wherever you go, you take yourself with you” goes the saying. After arriving for a short vacation in one of my favorite cities, San Diego, I was therefore not surprised that “Edgar” had brought himself along for the ride. He, or “it” if you prefer, had packed himself in the depths of my ginormous suitcase, amongst the slacks, tops, electronics, books, walking shoes and books. Egad, can’t I go anywhere to escape from that demon?
To understand Edgar, you need to know that I am a “recovering” adoptee. My original mother relinquished me when I was five. Even though I grew up with wonderful adoptive parents, I’ve struggled for years to come to terms with being adopted. I wish I could announce in a loud voice that I’ve succeeded in getting over my adoption issues. The best I can offer, however, is to say confidently that I am making progress.
This change of scene, however, has been more beneficial than weeks of therapy. San Diego’s magic begins to take effect the moment I arrive. The adjectives that come to mind: salubrious, sensational, scenic. Add to that another ingredient: simplicity. There is something quite wonderful about running away from home. Life can be pared down to an easier pace.
My host family goes to work or school every weekday at 7 a.m., so on this slightly overcast Spring morning, I leave for a two-hour walk to and from a nearby coffee shop. I’ve been visiting this San Diego neighborhood for the better part of the last decade and traveling the same route, to the java cafe. First it was “It’s a Grind,” which went out of business. Then it became “Sweetest Buzz.” But this time, there is no coffee shop. Where the “Buzz” should have been loomed a completely empty retail space. A “For Lease” sign was taped on the window. A sad, empty storefront occupied the place I’d spent memorable hours composing on my laptop and sipping lattes.
Had the expedition fallen flat, or was there something else awaiting me? Instead of going home right away, I decide to check out the park near my host family’s house. Walking a couple miles back to the neighborhood, I sit and enjoy a serenade of songbirds, the ambiance of healthy young trees, a verdant carpet of green grass.
The park itself is a marvel. When I first saw it years ago, it looked unpromising, even hopeless. Today, the community outdoor space is filled with children swinging, sliding, digging in the sandbox. Parents visit with one another. Laughter from a toss ball game sounds across the field. An elderly man is marching along the sidewalk, stopping at each circuit workout to do pushups or pullups or a balance beam.
The day isn’t complete, however, until I take a hike on the nearby former dairy road. It’s a road I’ve walked before. One of the city’s many walking paths, it branches off from a busy thoroughfare and loops back into a small canyon. Thistle, purple flowers, and feathery plumed bushes brighten a brown and sage terrain. Ahead of me, a large bird, strutting in a quail-like fashion, walks across my path. Other than it, I am alone. The sun intensifies, but just in time a gentle breeze picks up.
Of course, being a grandmother/writer and retired from a regular career means that life should be simpler anyway. That’s not how it works, however. When I’m at home, a million projects shout out: “clean me,” “organize me,” “declutter me.” Right here, in sunny, wonderful San Diego, the only thing I have to declutter is my mind. Accepting victory, I acknowledge that I’ve once again I dueled the evil Edgar. On this gloriously sunny Monday, mine is the victory.

The author is reminded that “all who wander are not lost”

Backyard Reverie

Tags

Agave, Bark beetles, Contemplation, Drought, Gardening, labyrinth, Relaxation

Once again, I’ve “re-purposed” my back yard. If that sounds strange, allow me to explain. Here in the Southwest, Anasazi Indians (literally “the Ancient Ones”) preceded the Hispanic and Caucasians who followed. After years of populating what is now northern New Mexico, the native people vanished, most likely driven from their dwellings because they had no water. Fast forward to NOW. A drought, seemingly like that of the 1200s, has returned to plague us. Environmental ways of coping with the new dry times have advanced, but they are not moving fast enough.

The Century Plant towering over my backyard

Like other people in my town, I do what I can to help the situation, to conserve water and vote for environmentally helpful legislation. But having done that, I just want to enjoy what is. As the weather turns nice, I spend more and more time in my back yard, and as I putter about, I recall the yard’s different stages of being.
As I reflect on the yard and my journey of healing from adoption wounds, documented in The Goodbye Baby, I find parallels. Why the newly philosophical mode? Maybe I have finally calmed down enough about being adopted to enjoy and appreciate being here now. No longer agonizing over the fact that my grounds cannot be the way they used to be, I review the yard, remembering its former guises.
In the 1970s, there was a miniature forest of piñon, so dense that you couldn’t see more than a few feet. When there were trees, it was easier to grow things. I planted and tended a large vegetable garden. Aided by moderate watering, Nature provided abundant rain to help it thrive.
Fast forward a couple decades. The vegetable garden was long gone when a drought and subsequent bark beetle invasion decimated the piñon, taking 70 trees in all. There were bare spaces where shady groves previously existed. Weeds, that apparently scoff at the desirable plants’ need for water, thrived.
Mourning the loss of shade, I wandered about. My mission, an impossible one, was eliminating weeds. Anything that bloomed, whether or not it was officially a pest, was promoted to the status of “wildflower.” In addition to this anti-weed campaign, I listened to birds and gazed at clouds.
Part of my ongoing restoration of the back yard was building a seven-circuit labyrinth. So, in addition to weeding, I added labyrinth walking. Ambling, sauntering, trudging or lightly treading, I circuited the spiral path in—to center—and back out. I’ve continued to walk the spiral path for eight years. The labyrinth provides an important respite, a chance to simply be.
Beyond the labyrinth, I’d planted a blue-tipped agave plant from Mexico originally but purchased at a local nursery. It was perfect for the newly rock-scaped back yard. The hearty agave lived in the soil unobtrusively, pleasingly and attractively. No water was required other than what nature provided.
Words can hardly describe my surprise when I discovered that my agave seemed to have gone wild. A stalk was growing up out of the center at the rate of three to five inches a day!
Miracle or monster? I checked with the nursery and was told that the agave was actually a Century Plant and that it could grow up to 15 feet tall, would bloom and then die. I could cut the stalk down, thus saving the plant or I could simply witness the saga. I named it “Ferdinand” and witnessed the skyward trajectory until it was 15 feet tall. After that, it dried up and started to wither. I left it standing for another season. Finally, however, Ferdinand toppled over and the fellow agave plants, as if in sympathy, shriveled and died.
The agaves are all gone now but in their stead I’ve installed a cold frame garden plot and compost bin. Just as I’ve grown into a new iteration of my life, so has my yard. My reverie brought with it a message: A metaphor for life itself, or more likely just a “postcard from the yard.”

Elaine Pinkerton dreaming away the afternoon

Are We Famished for Family?

Tags

adoption, Adoption recovery, Family Ties, Relatves, roots

Grammie Elaine is thrilled at the new arrival

In a recent issue of Psychology Today, Stephen Betchen, Ph.D., contributed an article titled “Why Adoptees Need to Find Their Biological Parents.” He states that adult adoptees “just seem to have an internalized nomadic notion that we don’t belong anywhere in particular. Even when we do settle somewhere we often work our asses off to prove our worthiness — just in case anyone gets any ideas about putting us back up for adoption.”

He further points out that many adopted children feel that “they need to embark on a biological search even if they had a positive experience with their adopted parents.”

Betchen, himself an adoptee, hit the nail on the head for this particular “lost daughter.” I had a very positive experience with my adoptive parents, but it’s also true that the urge to have blood relatives, DNA-related family, has always gnawed away in the back of my mind. As an adoptee growing up in the fifties, I longed for blood relatives. There were cousins, aunts and uncles related to my adoptive parents and I saw them at every holiday, but somehow – despite the outward festivities – I never really felt that I belonged.

The niece who came to dinner

Betty Jean Lifton described the adoptee’s sense of distance aptly when she said that that for every adoptee, there is a ghost: the child that the adoptive parents might have had. For the five-year-old me, there was the shadow of the original parents at those early childhood family gatherings. The ghosts are ignored at great peril. This is what I have learned and have come to acknowledge.

That’s why, when a biologically-related niece recently entered my life, I was overjoyed. Kathy, who’d been sending me Christmas cards, came to my town for a couple days. Finally, we met in person. The daughter of my thrice-married birthfather’s second wife, she is warm, loving and generous. She and her husband took me out to dinner the first night of their visit. The second and last night, they came to my house for banana splits that we had fun assembling. It’s almost embarrassing to admit how thrilled I was to be “Aunt Elaine,” how happy I was to have found another root of my biological family tree.

It is important to cherish relatives who are connected to us by blood lines, who share our DNA and who have the same family roots. As an adoptee with two grown sons and three grandchildren who live too far away to see often, I have felt at times famished for family. My parents, all four of them, have passed away. But now, I have a niece, and she is a treasure.

Love Letter Straight from the Heart

Tags

adoption, CBI Theater, Gratitude, Letters, Love, reunion, WWII

White roses were my mom’s favorite flower

My adoption history begins with a 1930s love story, that of my adoptive parents Richard and Reva Beard. They’d been teenage sweethearts in Findlay, Ohio, they married in 1937, and they put off starting their family until my father-to-be earned his doctorate from Ohio State University.

For six years, while Richard earned his PhD in clinical psychology, Reva taught elementary school. When it turned out that they were not able to have children, they decided to adopt. The outbreak of World War II, however, further delayed the formation of a family.

Richard wrote about Calcutta, life at the 142nd General Hospital and missing “home, wife, and love”

Richard was drafted and sent to India. He served as a clinical psychologist in charge of a neuropsychiatric ward at the 142nd General Hospital in Calcutta, part of the China-Burma-India theater of the WWII. For 18 months, my future adoptive parents were separated by 6,000 months. My mother-to-be lived at home with her parents in Findlay, Ohio. She continued to teach school and inquired into adopting a baby. Without a dad in the home, however, adoption proved impossible.

Reva waited at home for the war to end

Devoted to one another for a lifetime, Richard and Reva exchanged letters every day of their wartime separation. Sometimes they alluded to adopting a child; Always they reaffirmed their strong love and devotion for one another. My divorced birth mother attended college where Richard was a guidance counselor. As far as I can tell, she asked him to help her by taking my brother and me. I was five and my brother nearly two.

Years later as I read through my parents’ wartime letters, I was moved and inspired by the depth of their love.

Here is one of my favorite Richard and Reva epistles:

Calcutta, India
May 29, 1945
Dearest Reva,
You asked why I had white roses delivered to you on May 16. It was a sentimental and romantic gesture in which the traditional meaning of the colors of flowers was invoked. But to my way of thinking I could as well offer a white rose upon the altar of my love for you each day. Purity is as much a lovely characteristic of your being today as it was the first time I touched your hand in 1930. By some miracle, your contact with life—with me— has not coarsened you. I reflect upon you and me in the car under the moonlight, in the front room listening to “Moon River,” and in the bed we have shared, I am aware that I have approached you each time as a man who knows his love for the first glorious union of body and soul

How much our separation has meant to me I dare not put on paper. Perhaps, just before I sail for home, I may try. But rather by far that I be permitted to demonstrate in a real way what I mean. You will not have to cling to me, you are me.

Perhaps in all this I am idealizing, but I think not. this low, weary year has given me time to consider many things, the significance of which has been blurred in the past. Clearcut, sharp and pure, etched against the certificate of our union as a palm tree silhouettes against the blue of a late Indian evening, is the world-crashing, world-engulfing, between-you-and-me eternal fact: I am so glad that you married me.

Goodnight, precious Ritter. I’ll help moisten that pillow soon, from which I have so often seen your large brown lovely eyes watching me. They are looking down on me now, Reva.

In devotion,
Dick

I’ve recounted my adoptive parents’ story in From Calcutta with Love-The WWII Letters of Richard and Reva Beard. Their love for each other became a gift of love for me.

Goodbye, Mickey Mouse

Tags

Creativity, Decluttering, Diaries, Liberation, memoir, Purge, Simplifying, Streamlining, Stuff

Things are in the saddle and ride mankind, said Ralph Waldo Emerson…

Stacked up for the Garage Sale of the Century

*Use it or LOSE it.
*LESS is MORE.
*Empty is BEAUTIFUL.

I have decided to get serious about re-purposing my old friend Mickey Mouse. I’m also getting rid of Minnie and a host of other stuffed toys. You guessed it, I’m de-cluttering.

A good friend was having trouble selling the family home. She’d already bought a small, perfect condo and needed to make the old, now-too-big house more attractive. She had multiple garage sales, sold and gave away more than half of what she owned. The family home started looking more beautiful. In a few weeks, furnished only sparsely, it sold.

After 38 years spent living in the same home, I started been buying books about simplifying. I’ve purchased containers for organizing and drawn up schedules for downsizing. I’m perpetually “gearing up” to purge, but instead of ridding myself of disorderly possessions, I spend too many hours keeping track of them.

Truth be told, all the organizational tools undermined me. Purchasing wondrous bins, cute cubes, file cases and photo boxes ended up creating – guess what! – more clutter. But this tyranny of things is exhausting and I’m not going to take it anymore.

Writing my adoption memoir The Goodbye Baby-A Diary about Adoption gave me the reality check I needed. It was so liberating to review four decades of past emotional “baggage” and then burning the diaries themselves, I realized that my too-much-stuff problem could also be tackled. The late diaries went up in smoke, and that gave me courage. It was OK to get rid of something that had once been precious. In publishing my “diary book,” I’d saved the essence of those journals, which was all I needed: First the diaries, then the house and everything in it. There was no turning back.

I’m not selling my house,  but I was so inspired by my friend’s example, I vowed to halt this unhealthy servitude to stuff. Point one: the home office. I’m sad to report that after eight hours of dredging, I have yet to reach bottom. Only myself to blame, however. A serious office supply addiction ended up burdening me with envelopes enough to run a third world country for a year, pens and pencils that filled five shoe boxes, reams of white paper, hundreds of partially-used spiral notebooks, and three-ringed binders enough for a every grade of a school in Nepal.

Nothing to do but soldier on! I now look at STUFF as an enemy that smothers me, crowds me, muffles my creativity and keeps me from writing. I’m getting used to the beauty of EMPTY. A drawer with nothing in it. A closet with just a few hangers.

Must sign off now, as the bed is loaded up with a mountain of junk that has to be labeled before removal to the garage sale department. Otherwise, no sleep tonight…

Dueling with Demons

Tags

abandonment, adoptee, adoption, memoir, positive thinking, private demons, self-esteem

In her book The Primal Wound, Nancy Verrier discusses the invisible injuries of

Edgar represents the dark side- fear of eternal abandonment/ Photos by Beth Stephens

adoption. No matter how nurturing the adoptive parents, the adopted child feels the pangs of what seemed like abandonment. Because of my post-WWII closed adoption, I’ve harbored “separation wounds” for many years.
In my case, the thinking has gone like this: “If you love someone, he (or she) will abandon you.” First, my birthmother, then the men in my life. The symbolic bad boyfriend of my entire life is a disagreeable character I call Edgar.
I met this DEMON when we were both young, he stayed with me during two marriages, and he hovered over me when, between two marriages, I dated reasonable, basically good men. Edgar managed to ruin everything. Herewith, an excerpt from The Goodbye Baby-A Diary about Adoption…

Whenever I think I have finally been healed from the wounds of adoption, life serves up a reminder that I am not. It is the opposite of “looking through rose-colored glasses.” When one looks through the glasses of being adopted, everyday events are reminders of loss, betrayal, or abandonment. Through reading all my diaries, I became very aware of the unremitting prevalence of “adoption bruises.”
There are metaphors I find helpful in understanding the wounds of my adoption, including disease and death at sea. When troubled by having grown up as an adopted child, I let insecurity and self-doubt take root. Reason eludes me. I have given that negative emotional state a name—Edgar. Like burning flames, Edgar is fueled by his own energy. Like fire, he feeds on everything, which he transforms into negative thoughts about my past, present, future. Edgar is a demonic artist who paints the world in stark tones of black and gray. Like a disease, Edgar undermines my physical well-being. Edgar lurks, waiting to arise when I am feeling healthy and balanced. When my spirit starts to wane, he is poised for the kill.
Edgar is always keeping score. His message to me: To be considered worthy of living, I have to prove myself “good” every day. If I do not, I might, metaphorically speaking, be sent to an orphanage. Never mind that I lived in foster care for only the first few years of my life. No matter that I should be well over the feelings of abandonment from that difficult beginning.
Fire burns everything in its path. Self-destructive memories add to Edgar’s growing

Fighting the demon: a do-it-yourself project!

stockpile of ammunition. Edgar thrives on drama and misfortune, not just mine, but the world’s. As a disease, the dormant, carcinogenic Edgar lurks until a failure or dashed hope comes along. Given this rocky life journey, the arrival of fresh calamity does not take long. Disappointment appears and then malaise sets in, a pervasive feeling of things being awry. My stomach feels queasy, my shoulders ache, and my limbs are leaden. “Uh oh. Here’s Edgar,” I think to myself.
There is the Death at Sea Edgar. I am managing to feel on top of things, treading water or perhaps just swimming along. As in the movie “Jaws,” a painful memory or a nagging doubt comes bubbling up to the surface and threatens to devour me. Though it looks like a shark, it is just a blow-up plastic, pretend monster. Unlike a toy, it is powerful and aggressive. The higher it rises, the larger and stronger it becomes. In order not to drown, I must punch down the Shark Edgar, beating him into submission so he will sink beneath the waves. But being Edgar, he keeps rising up.
The best solution for the Disease or Death at Sea Edgar is to walk my labyrinth, to meditate, or to take a short hike in the hills near my home. Action and movement allow me to change gears, to keep from going down “the slippery slide.”
This circuitous path led to liberation, and the ability to begin the second part of my life. Ultimately, this path yielded resolution to the enigma of my own personal labyrinth.
The adoptee paradox: How to acquire the skill to beat down the blues, the sadness that never completely vanishes? Taking arms against one’s adoption issues requires vigilance, determination, and maybe even resignation. Ultimately, I had to accept Edgar, “adopting” him as the ugly monster that will never be tamed but must be kept in his place. That way, we can both live.