Adoption: Still my “Something”

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adoptee, adoption, adoption child, discover, empower, healing, separation, wounded

Note from Elaine: I continue to write adoption stories. Clara Jordan, heroine of my recent suspense novel All the Wrong Places, travels from Virginia to New Mexico hoping to locate an unknown birthmother. Instead of finding roots, she falls in love with a two-timer named Henry, a sly character who betrays her. She runs further into trouble as she searches petroglyphs for traces of a mother she’s never known. All the Wrong Places is available from http://www.pocolpress.com or from Amazon. My novel-in-progress, Clara and the Hand of Ganesha, takes our protagonist to the shore temple of Mahabalipuram in Tamil Nadu, India. Participating in NaNoWriMo, I plan to finish the first draft this month. Stay tuned!

 

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It’s been said that trauma is not a mystery, that it attaches itself to you in a way that’s hard to undo. My story, as related in The Goodbye Baby, offers living proof. Being an adoptee has added melodrama to my life, created a passion for writing, and ultimately inspired me to take off the masks and to discover who I really am.

Though I was fortunate enough to land in an adoptive family who loved and cherished me, it could not make up for losing that first “mother connection.” My birth mother and I said goodbye before I started first grade, and I waited 38 years for her to come back into my life. I was deeply wounded by the separation.

My struggles have been with feeling abandoned, isolated, and rejected. I’ve worried for years that I will be misunderstood and that I’m simply not good enough- as a daughter, a friend, a partner, a mother, or even as a human being.

With my infant son in Greece

Because of being adopted, I felt small and insignificant. Probably because adoption wasn’t something my family discussed, my negative assumptions became deeply embedded. Throughout my adult years, I accomplished a great deal, but in my mind, I was never admirable. Harmful pangs of inadequacy took root and shaped my outlook, my decisions, my disastrous romantic choices.  Until I re-read my diaries, I never realized that I myself had invented the self-damaging myth.

How did I deal with my adoption-induced complexes? My adoptive parents had to raise a delinquent teenager who drank excessively, stayed out too late and attracted bad boyfriends. As I grew older, I tended to be an over-achiever: running nine marathons to lower my finishing time, yet always “keeping score” and endlessly coming up short.

Thirty years ago, when I first started to write about my adoption, the title of my book was Reunions. My plan was to meet both my biological parents and write about finding the missing puzzle pieces. I met my original parents, but the reunions were not what I hoped for.  The pieces were in place but the puzzle remained. Only writing The Goodbye Baby completed the picture.

After both sets of parents died, I found that looking into the past gave me the wisdom to see where I’d been and how to go forward.

 

 

********

What my adoption has taught me is that the world reflects my inner reality, that my happiness or unhappiness depend on my actions and not on outside forces. I’ve learned that it is never too late to make a fresh start.

I have always known I would be a writer. In the summer of 1962, I wrote in my diary,

“Some of this frantic recording is wasted energy. How can I have a future as a writer?…I need to find something to say.”

The theme of adoption is that “something.”

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Join Elaine on alternate Mondays for reflections on adoption and sneak previews of her newest novel, Clara and the Hand of Ganesha.

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To Thine Own Self Be True

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, daughter, empower, healing, Holidays, national adoption awareness month, national adoption month, separation, writing

How can you be true to yourself if you grew up not being allowed to know who you are?

‘This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. – Polonius in William Shakespeare’s  “Hamlet”

As an adoptee, hiding behind the mask of being “normal,” of masquerading as the “real” daughter, I could never live my life authentically. Early on, I assumed that there was something shameful about not being born to my mom and dad. The best way to behave was to strive for perfection in everything.
No matter how I tried, however, it was never enough. In lieu of facts, my imagination took over. I was competing with that other daughter that my parents couldn’t have: A ghost of a girl who looked like my adoptive parents and resembled them in ways that I simply could not. I had to make them proud, to prove myself.

At age five, I had (symbolically) been “born again.” That old life was just a warm up and I was supposed to forget about it. Never ask about those first parents. Don’t think about those years before being “rescued.” If I wasn’t successful in my role, I could be sent back to careless people who never should have been foster parents. Maybe it was fear that kept me from pressing for answers about my first years.

That said, I had wonderful adoptive parents. They helped me accomplish and excel

Being true to myself meant writing more books!

in many ways. Striving is not necessarily a bad thing. I did well academically, worked at age 16 to save money for college and graduate school, embraced writing at an early age as what I really wanted to do. My ambition was boundless. In many ways, that has served me well.

The downside is that I never “arrived.” Instead of being able to savor my successes, I kept raising the bar. Only now can I relax and quit being an overachiever.

Do I have advice to those who cannot accept their adoption? I can offer only some thoughts I would like to share. Knowing ones parents certainly has value, but if that knowledge must be incomplete or even missing, SEARCH FOR WHO YOU REALLY ARE.

If possible, avoid people who sap your energy. Vow to do something good for yourself every day, even a small act. Try a week of being your own best friend., and see if you start feeling better, especially about being an adoptee!

This above all: to thine own self be true
Read more by clicking here! 

My Diary is my Best Friend

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adoptee, adoption, adoption child, best friend, blended families, diary, discover, empower, family, my story, national adoption month, separation, wounded

After being adopted by a college professor and his wife, I received a diary for Christmas. It was a gift that changed my life. Because my new family avoided discussing or even mentioning “adoption,” I felt that  I could be authentic only in my daily journal writing.

From the first five-year diary with a lock and key, 1950s style, to the blank books I fill today, I record exuberant or dismal thoughts,  poetic or melancholy reflections, and events both quotidian and dramatic. My happiest moments, the dark nights of my soul, commentary on family, the weather, current events —all of it is grist for the mill. Book after book, the diaries run like a turbulent river through my six decades.

Eight years ago I read through journals from my past and wrote a memoir about growing up adopted.

Who would ever read all these written chronicles after I was gone? Unable to answer that question, I appointed Elaine as reader. What my diaries said about me was that I really did not like myself. Throughout school years, I judged nearly everything that happened as not measuring up.

Some examples from 1956:

April 5—I felt sort of depressed and inferior at school today.

April 27—School dance. I had flowers on my headband and a pretty blue formal. The dance was a big disappointment. I had a miserable time.

May 26—Went to cheerleading practice. I’m not very good and I know I won’t be chosen.

In 1960, I wrote that February was a particularly low month. I was arguing with my parents and fighting bitterly with my brother.

In 1961, my situation had gone from bad to worse. An entry dated June 10: “Upsetting evening with the family. Because I failed to give a message to Daddy, my brother almost got lost or something and it was all my fault. Daddy couldn’t find him. Everyone got mad at me. Mother was furious—very enraged. What a horrible night. I hate family life.

Marriage seemed to offer an escape, so by 1966 I had become the wife of Jack, my college sweetheart. However, I took my unhappiness with me. As demonstrated in these entries from 1977, my sense of abandonment had intensified:

January 1—Jack stayed glued to TV football. Nothing the children or I did made a dent. He watched without pause from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. I felt very angry, helpless. And yet, I was too exhausted to pursue a constructive discussion.

January 5—I hate being alone in the house. I feel desperate when there is a blank wall of non-communication. I hate the feeling that I can bleed inwardly, that I can be melted by despair, and Jack doesn’t notice, doesn’t see, doesn’t care.

January 9—Jack and I had another non-conversation, very unproductive. I am filled with anger and despair. I would like to wake up single.

Three years later, I was single but with two young sons. What followed, as reported in more written chronicles, were more failed relationships. My unhappiness lay within; I was afraid the become close to a partner. My original mother’s departure taught me that if you love someone, he or she will leave you.

Fast forward to the 1990s,  some twenty years later. As I re-read my diaries, I realized that I had assured the failure of any prospective romances or partnerships. What the younger me taught the older me is to beware of assumptions. The idea that I could never be good enough tainted even the sweetest successes and accomplishments. In so many ways, I was my own worst enemy.

My negative interpretations so overwhelmed me that at last, I had to look them in the face, recognize them for what they were, and decide that I was not a robot. No one was making me think the self-depreciating thoughts.

—————

The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries depicts my journey from victim to heroine of my own life. It is a book that offers hope not only to adult adoptees trying to heal adoption-imposed injuries, but to parents who are dealing with the invisible wounds of their adopted children. It is the kind of book that would have helped me when I was growing up adopted. Since that book didn’t exist, I wrote it myself. 

Adoption is both a curse and a blessing. My memoir chronicles a journey from doubt to acceptance.

Adoption Wrapped in a Pretty Bow

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, blended families, Christmas, diary, discover, empower, family, friends, healing, Holidays, national adoption awareness month, national adoption month

Note from Elaine: I have two books coming out in 2016!: the “remodeled” Santa Fe on Foot and a suspense novel, All the Wrong Places. Because of current writing demands, therefore, my blogging has temporarily taken a back seat. Hope you enjoy this republished but timely message. Wishing all adoptees an especially fulfilling holiday!

For Adoptees, the holidays can be tough. Not only for young adopted children, but  also for adult adoptees. During Christmas and Hannukah season, we are supposed to be happy, filled with joy, relishing family reunions. Tis “the season to be jolly,” fa-la-la-la-la-ing” as we frantically strive to find the perfect gift for every last person on the list.

As described in my memoir, The Goodbye Baby: Adoptee Diaries, I was five when my birth mom relinquished me. For all of November—National Adoption Awareness Month—I’ve focussed on my own adoption. It’s been an awakening, and not always a happy one. Though striving mightily to make this a good holiday for my own grown children and their families, I suffer from an all too familiar ache of incompleteness. We adult adoptees can become “orphans” all over again.

I’ve lost all my parents, both biological and adoptive. My birth parents: They could not have raised me and my brother, and yet I would have liked to have known them earlier in life. When I finally met them, it was too late for us to really form a relationship. Those wonderful people, the mom and dad who raised me: I feel an even keener sense of emptiness at their deaths.

To better explain why the holidays present this adoptee with a sense of deprivation, allow me to quote from The Goodbye Baby:

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ABOUT EDGAR

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.”

Elaine’s tribute to her Adoptive Parents

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 stockpile of ammunition. Edgar thrives on drama and misfortune, not just mine, but the world’s… 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.”

If only Christmas were a holiday one could celebrate quietly and thoughtfully, I would be happier. That is not going to happen, so I’ve taken responsibility for making this season rich and fulfilling.

Loss, want, privation and melancholy are NOT what I want to give myself for Christmas.

I am taking the holidays as a time to deepen and renew friendships. Every day I will focus on self-care, spending time in nature, drinking more water and beginning each day with a morning stretch and hug. As a friend recommended, I will stretch my arms and legs, sit up and notice that I am breathing. For three or four breaths, I will simply pay attention, breathing in and breathing out. I will give myself a hug, saying “Good morning, Elaine, thanks for taking a minute to just be. Let today be about learning to love—myself and others”

Acknowledging my adoption as a gift

Embracing my adoption is a way of nurturing myself. This year, the holidays will be different. After putting “Edgar” into an escape-proof cage, I will wrap my adoption insights in a beautiful gift box. Knowing and accepting my adopted self is the greatest gift. When I do this, I have more to give family and friends.

***

Some questions for my readers:

Why do you personally think Adopted children find it more difficult to enjoy the Holidays?

Do you remember struggling with your own Adoption when Christmas/Thanksgiving rolled around?

Do you ever remember your parents trying to help you deal with this?

What do the Holidays mean to you?

How do you reflect on your adoption during the Holidays?

Message from a Birth Mom

Tags

adoptee, Attitude adjustment, birthmother, child adoptee, daughter, empower, Gratitude, healing, reunion, Searching

Editor’s Note: Mother’s Day has special meeting for Pat Goehe, who—after decades of waiting and wondering—finally met the daughter she’d never seen. The reunion was wonderfully rewarding, and it has greatly enriched her life. For anyone who is hesitant to seek a lost daughter or son, she recommends moving forward.

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As I started to write this piece I’m reminded of a Christmas song that begins something like “So this is Christmas and what have you done?”   That’s probably a bad version, but it is what sticks in my head.  Only now I want to say, “So this Mother’s Day,  and what have you done?”
Without question for a birth mother and the child she chose to give away, Mother’s Day is a troubling time for both.  Recently a former student of mine put on her Facebook Page, “Mother’s Day and where is mine………..”

There are times in our lives when we must consider whether to jump into the void or not.  Deciding to search for a child is just that,  a void.  There is no guarantee that the outcome will be positive or even productive.  But is it worth the jump?  Certainly one can go through life never searching, but it is Mother’s Day that tugs at our hearts.  Where is he/she?  Does she wonder about me?  Is he angry that I did the unforgivable and gave him away?  Would knowing the “why” help?  Does she look like me?  Could we be passing each other daily and not even know it?

Some of you probably have read my story of reunion.  Was it worth it?  Oh yes!  Would I do it again?  Without question.  I must confess that over the yeas if I don’t hear from her for a period of time, the voice inside of me says, “Well Pat, why should she stay in touch…you gave her away!”  But then she call or emails.  Recently I’ve learned to remind myself that those who I did raise often are lax about staying in touch as well.  Children get busy with their own lives.

Should you search for your child?  I can’t answer that for you.  Some may not want you to find them.  Some may want to take advantage of you.  You may want to take advantage of them.  So many possibilities but always a question mark.  The “abandonment issue” remains a constant problem for both mother and child and never so much as when Mother’s Day arrives each year.   As you think of all the possible outcomes along with the tremendous emotional turmoil involved, I would ask you to also think of this.  When you lay dying, will you still wonder where that child is?  Maybe now is the time to take the leap.

Pat Goehe knew that someday she would meet the daughter who was adopted out at birth

Postcards from the Ledge

Tags

adoptee, Adoption recovery, aging, Attitude adjustment, C.G. Jung, discover, empower, family, Hiking, Monte Sol in Santa Fe, Rowing, The Privilege of Aging, The Transition Network

Dear Readers, I am still writing  about adoption-related issues. For this week, however, I’m venturing into another “A” word–>AGE! Not a popular topic here in

Monte Sol gives “old as the hills” new meaning

the Blogosphere, but nonetheless, I’m tackling it.
I’m lucky enough to live right across the road from a hiker-friendly foothill of the Rocky Mountains, Sun Mountain, or as it’s dubbed by the locals, “Monte Sol.” In fact, I am just back from a morning hike with my older son, who’s here visiting for a few weeks.    That is, we started out together.  As I was rounding the last switchback before the summit’s flat viewing area, my son strolled over to me as though he’d been waiting for a bit. For him, Monte Sol was the mere beginning of a trifecta hike.
We stood at the windy overlook and briefly discussed the possibilities. Even though my son urged me to continue with him to “Monte Luna” (Moon Mountain), I told him that I was happy to master just the first peak.
“Another time for Luna, ” I suggested. That was fine with him, and he

Join me every week for reflections on adoption and life!

took off down into the rocky gulch that led to another steep ascent. He disappeared into the pinon-lined canyon while I ambled solo down Monte Sol. I’d walked at top speed going up. Going down, I took time to enjoy views and reflect on the difference between our generations.
I do not feel “old,” but I am now older than I could ever have imagined being. Because I’m enjoying what Swiss psychotherapist C. G. Jung called the “afternoon” of life, it seems that my powers of adaptation have increased even as physical capabilities have diminished. When I was half my age, I ran marathons. Now I walk up Monte Sol, and that is enough.
Everyone we know—including ourselves— will someday be old-ER, or even (gasp) really OLD.  It’s not really cause for lament but rather for celebration. A reminder: not everyone reaches the “privilege of aging,” to quote the title of my friend Patricia Shapiro’s excellent book (The Privilege of Aging: Portraits of Twelve Jewish Women).
Perhaps because I have grown more accepting of my adoptee status, life seems to be offering many opportunities to reflect on this phenomenon of growing older.
I can’t help but notice that some friends who are considerably younger than I am are passing away, and it hurts. Each loss of a friend or loved one nibbles away, reminders of mortality.
Recently I attended an excellent discussion group hosted by The Transition Network. It comprised women, some of whom were in their fifties, others in their 60s and 70s.  The evening began with a writing session during which we were to imagine ourselves at age 80. After writing for 20 minutes, we shared our thoughts.
Nearly everyone in the group imagined themselves as healthy and mentally active. Other visions of being eighty included always learning and challenging the mind, being a good friend and having friends of all ages, making the choice to be happy, being unafraid of the advancing numbers.
One woman shared her experience of being on a rowing team in college, training every day no matter what the weather was up to. Most days of rowing training, she said, ranged from pleasant to difficult but some were nearly impossible. She related the challenges of rowing on days when wind howled and rain pelted, and she recalled the words of her coach. “Just keep rowing — no matter what.”
Be it gently rowing down the stream, toiling upstream, or just rowing through, perseverance and adaptation are keys to enjoying life’s passages. In dealing with both adoption and aging, it is best to simply “Row, row, row your boat…”

Adopting an Attitude of Hope

Tags

adoptee, Adoption recovery, diary, empower, Gratitude, healing, struggles, wounded

“You see, you cannot draw lines and compartments, and refuse to budge beyond them. Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping-stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair.” – The Proofreader, a minor character in A Fine Balance

Rohintan Mistry, in his novel A Fine Balance, presents an epic tale that takes the reader from India’s independence in 1947 to the Emergency of the 1970s. It is one of the most absorbing (and heartbreaking) novels I’ve ever read; In many ways, the book’s characters and themes remind me that grappling with the invisible wounds of adoption is a life-long process.  It is one thing to recognize negative assumptions about being adopted and quite another to truly free oneself of their sting. In other words, the shackles may be gone but the scars remain.
Those of you who’ve followed my posts are familiar with the master-underminer I’ve named “Edgar,” that uninvited but ever-present demon of self-doubt who is always on the prowl for ways to squash ones spirit. It does little good to repeat the cliche “Look at the half full and not the half empty glass.” Edgar wants us to feel small, unworthy, and marginalized. After all, he harps, we were given away by our first parents, so obviously we were not good enough to keep.
This troublesome idea—”not good enough”— is one of Edgar’s favorite weapons. We, the adopted ones, may try to pretend that being adopted fades in importance. We did not choose to be raised by other than our original parents. A tangled web of emotions surround a child being separated from the first mother and father, transferred to an adoptive family or single parent. All of this happened before we had words or the maturity to understand. The emotions of others involved were implanted in us, even when we were in the womb. Add to that the feelings we had in our earliest years about the “transfer.” This history is Edgar’s playground.
Can we ever escape the ripple effect of adoption—the fears and fantasies, the doubts, assumptions and longing? We cannot. It it is folly to pretend otherwise. Therein lies the conundrum. The events happened. We need to acknowledge them but constantly transcend their draining effect.
My fireplace has been busy this winter.  I am burning the last journal pages that went into The Goodbye Baby-A Diary about Adoption. Even though “it” isn’t done with me, I’m done with the old wounded self-image. My diary-reading “archeological dig” revealed a deep pit of unresolved angst. Each day I strive to “take the best and leave the rest.”
Along with lesson number one is a more important thought: We have the freedom to choose hope over despair. Recently, my birthday brought home a reminder: We don’t have forever. In my remaining years on the planet, I’ve resolved to take a symbolic road to the bright side. Though it may be a fine balance, we always have a choice.

Stay tuned for more posts that offer an adoptee point of view.

What do YOU think? /The Adoption Conundrum

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, best friend, blended families, celebrity adoption, david smolin, discover, empower, human trafficking, international adoption, national adoption awareness month, national adoption month, separation, wounded

International adoption: The transaction involves fees and money so whether it a private or agency adoption, it resembles a commercial or market The danger of international adoption being tied to human trafficking cannot be ignored. — David Smolin

Village girl in Rajasthan

NOTE from Elaine:

During part of the upcoming holidays, I’ll be sharing formerly-published posts. Thanks for staying tuned!

Though my birthfather Giovanni Cecchini was Italian-born, I began life in America. After WWII ended, a college professor and his wife adopted me and my brother, giving us love, stability, and advantages that my birthmother knew she could not provide. I tell this story in my memoir The Goodbye Baby: A Diary about Adoption.

When touring India a few years ago, I saw firsthand the plight of gaunt, ragged street children.  Begging in stilted English, they followed us relentlessly through the streets of New Delhi. I felt deep compassion for these small boys and girls. I wanted to help them, but their need was too deep. A few rupees might stave off hunger, but homes were what they needed.

Perhaps they were not all orphans, but clearly  they were not being nurtured by parents. They lacked families, but it seemed unlikely they would find them in their native land. What if they were adoptable? Could international adoption provide an answer? Each country has its own policy about international adoption, and there are many hoops for prospective adoptive parents to jump through. Sometimes it takes years to satisfy legal requirements, and the barriers can be insurmountable.

International adoption, I am learning, is fraught with debate. 

Here, briefly, I present some of my research about the potential dark side of international adoption…

Orphan boys at Jaipur Children’s Aid

Author David Smolin, in a paper published online by Valparaiso University, presents both sides of international adoptions. Smolin asks “When is intercountry adoption a form of child trafficking?” and comments that “the answer is surprisingly obscure.”

Smolin points out that in international adoptions, the majority of children are transferred from poor to rich countries, “stripping children of their national identity, native culture and language.” On the other hand, he continues, if international adoptions are universally banned, there will be more of the world’s millions of orphans abandoned, killed, left in dismal orphanages or living on the streets.

Journalist Bryce Corbett, in The Australian Women’s Weekly, interviews Leith and Rob Harding and their adopted daughter Zed, originally from Ethiopia. A photo of the beautiful 18-year-old Zed and her adoptive parents radiates happiness and love.

Me (Elaine) at Fatehpur Sikri, India

Zed, studying nursing at Queensland University of Technology, says “I am so blessed to have everything I have in my life…Every day, I thank God that I am here and not in Ethiopia. That I wake up in a warm bed and not on the side of the road. If I had been left in Ethiopia, I most likely would have died on the side of the road without anyone even knowing who I am.”

The article cites a recent press release announcing Ethopia’s attorney-general’s decree: a halt to all future adoptions of Ethiopian children into Australia. In sharp contrast to the Harding family is the couple, Bronwyn and Scott McNamara, who have waited eight years with high hopes of adopting a child from Ethopia. They are in their fifties. The magazine article includes a photo of the McNamaras, arms entwined and looking heartbroken.

Bronwyn laments, “All we have ever wanted is to have a family and the concept of providing a home for children already in need seemed a more rational approach…now the Ethiopia Program is closed…we are in shock, we are grieving. Our whole future has been annihilated by this.”

Me (Elaine) leaving India. Promise, those suitcases are not all mine.

The prediction for international adoption, claims author Smolin, is bleak: Because it operates as a market in human beings, he says, unless reforms are made, intercountry adoption will eventually be abolished.”

A ban on all international adoptions? Will this come to pass? Should it? This needs to be talked about!

Being Adopted Meant Being Rescued

Tags

adoptee, adoption, adoption child, blended families, diary, discover, empower, family, my story, national adoption month, New Mexico, orphans, parents, separation, struggles, wounded

Note to readers: My website was born a year ago this month, and this post was my first. I’m recovering from dental surgery—a bit under the weather— so rather than a Blog-less Monday, I decided to re-publish. Please forgive the redundancy!

A popular definition:

“Adoption offers a solution for children who, for whatever reason, cannot grow up with their biological parents. Adoption can be the answer for infertile parents.”

I was adopted at age five.

For me, being adopted was being rescued from a bad situation.

Me (Elaine) with my birth mother, Velma.

Born to an ill-matched couple during the final years of WWII, you might say I was a “Goodbye Baby.” My birth mother, abandoned by her sailor husband, was not capable of mothering two young children. She did what adult children have done in every era when there is no place else to go: she went back to live with her parents. From staying with her husband’s family in Massachusetts, she fled to her home state of Iowa. Her idea was to earn her teaching credentials and somehow make her own way in the world.

There was no day care back then. As much as my birth mother could not abide Giovanni Cecchini’s family, neither could she stand living with her austere German family. She enrolled in college and my brother and I were shuffled about, staying first with abusive “cousins” and then in foster care. When my future adoptive parents came along, my life changed for the better. Instead of being a burden, I was now a chosen daughter. I was born again!

The dreary past, however, stayed within me. In the years after WWII, there was much to get beyond. My adoptive parents mistakenly believed that if they didn’t talk about the abuse I’d suffered and the instability of my birth mother.

I would stop wondering about the past. The opposite happened. In lieu of facts, I invented. Why was I adopted and not one of the “real” children”? How could I find answers?

Enter my diaries: Personal journals, four decades of small books filled with written accounts of every day of my life from 1950-1980. I started reading about the past to learn how being adopted had become such an emotional burden, how it had become a dark shadow tainting my formative years. The journey took me to unexpected enlightenment.

Now my attitude toward adoption is far broader and more inclusive. I’m able to adopt a new attitude, to adopt the deer that come to my back yard every day to feed on apples fallen from my prolific backyard tree. Above all, I have literally “adopted” Elaine. I came to the same conclusion as Oscar Wilde: “Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.”

Adopted or not, isn’t life’s journey about becoming oneself?

An Elephant never Forgets

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adoptee, empower, healing, labyrinth walking, Memory, my story, struggles

We are not elephants! The beauty of being human is that we, unlike animals, have the marvelous

“Nature’s great masterpiece, an elephant.”-John Donne

ability to transcend memories. We are capable of “rising above.” We can and do remember negative events in our lives, realize that they are what happened in the past, and revitalize ourselves. Through conscious efforts, we accomplish this in spite of what happened when we were five or ten, seventeen, twenty-five or thirty. For those of us shaped by adoption, I believe this is especially true.

Theologian Eugene H. Peterson, in his book Answering God, says “Memory is not an orientation to the past; it is vigorously present tense, selecting out of the storehouse of the past, retrieving and arranging images and insights, and then hammering them together for use in the present moment.”
The operative word in Peterson’s definition is “selecting.” We are neither elephants nor robots. No one is making us think our thoughts, and once we decide to take control of the “monkey mind,” it is possible to switch internal channels. Going for a walk, being in nature, talking with a friend or confidante are ways to reset the emotions.
Building a labyrinth in my back yard, a spiral walking path, was my key to healing. Available 24/7, the labyrinth provides an opportunity to gain insight, to calm the mind and find answers. It empowers me, as an adult adoptee, to reflect, take responsibility,

The Labyrinth dates back 6,000 years.

and to become accountable.

As a human, albeit a human shaped by adoption, I can both remember and select.

Memories: My plan is to “keep the best and ditch the rest.”

“Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn’t you—all the expectations, all the beliefs—and becoming who you are.”
-Rachel Naomi Remen