The Profundity of Pregnancy as an Adoptee, Post-Reunion

Eleven more weeks. Approximately eleven more weeks, and our firstborn child will be here--in my arms, face to face.

My Omma and I and my Appa and I have continued to correspond via letters over the past six to seven months.

It has been almost two years since I first received the news that each of my Korean parents had emerged. Yet it still feels so surreal--so startling--so unbelievable.

It is overwhelming to try to grasp fully the depth, the meaning, the reality of the current circumstances.

There is something so profound and so indescribable about the fact that my son has already had the opportunity to connect with my Appa and Omma, before even being born, in ways that I never have. And yet indirectly, I know that what they are doing for my son, they are doing for me. Redemption at its fullest, I suppose.

My Omma has sent gifts and letters.

My Appa has mailed two giant boxes from Korea packed and bulging with clothes, socks, hats, and blankets for our son--his grandson.

This will be his first grandchild.

My Appa never had the opportunity to meet me or provide for me, and yet now, with the upcoming birth of my husband's and my son, my Appa is lavishing all that he has upon this child.

And it floods me with emotion that I cannot grasp or articulate. It is neither joy nor sorrow, but some inexplicable, incomprehensible plexus of joy and sorrow and everything in between.

I smile through my tears, and I weep through my smile.

I am simply speechless when I try to utter exactly how this experience affects me and how I try to make sense of it all.

I cannot wait to meet our son. I anticipate with eagerness the day that he will meet his American grandparents and one day his Korean grandparents. I anticipate my American parents and brothers meeting our son and being a part of his life.

And what an unfathomable moment it will be to witness my Omma embracing my son in her own arms...to see my Appa holding our son and gazing into his face--an opportunity my Appa lost with me...and yet somehow, now that we have found one another again, there is hope for absolution.

There is no doubt that this child is loved, deeply.

Although the division that remains between my families pierces me deeply, like a thorn plunged irretrievably into my side, I try to cling to the hope that endures, the hope of what may be possible.

And certainly, I want to be able to rejoice over the tiny yet profound life that will soon emerge--the one who will teach me things that I have never known.

dominoes

Two main themes that seem to be contributing to my anxiety:

I. The Why

Why did my birth mother relinquish me?

Was it that she did not want to take care of me? Or is it that she felt she could not take care of me?

If she could not take care of me, why did she feel that she could not take care of me?

Did she think she was not fit to be a mother?

Did she lack the resources? Were her circumstances at the time such that she viewed herself as incapable of caring for me sufficiently?

Could it be that the Korean culture applied certain ways of thinking that made her feel prohibited from keeping me and raising me herself?

All the above.

And they are all intertwined. Like dominoes pulled by a string.

II. The How

The language and cultural losses are profound, and are in large part, what make this reunion and post-reunion process so painful and overwhelming.

If you have ever traveled to a country with a different language and a different culture, you can relate to both the wonder and terror of being somewhere completely foreign to you.

Now to what you may not be able to relate is being in a completely foreign country among foreign people—and although you yourself are a foreigner, you are expected by the natives to be a native.

That alone is not necessarily a bad thing. Especially when the natives are warm and helpful, loving and accepting. When they understand your situation.

But what if they do not understand your situation—or do not want to understand your situation—and upon discovering that you do not speak the language they speak, you do not eat the food they eat, and you do not think the way they think, they immediately hold you in contempt with great disdain? They heap judgment, shame, and condemnation upon you. Not because you do not belong there, but because, in their eyes, you do belong there.

In appearance, you look just like they look. Therefore, you should speak just like they speak, and think just like they think, and eat just like eat. Forget the fact that you were sent away as an infant or a child. Forget the fact that you grew up completely removed from anything that even remotely alluded to their culture.

Then what?

* * *

I’m not playing a violin here.

I’m not seeking pity.

I don’t want a career as a poster child.

Understanding. I am simply striving, maybe even campaigning, for understanding.

As I say repeatedly, this is a complex set of circumstances with multi-layered and multi-faceted experiences and emotions. It’s not as simple as, Hey, you—glad you got to go to Korea, now aren’t you glad to be able to move on with you life?

Going to Korea to meet my biological birth parents wasn’t a quick go-and-get-your-fix-and-then-return-all-better.

It’s only a few layers down or a few facets examined.

We’ve got a long way to go.

* * *

The wounds cannot begin to heal without a common language.

To quote a fellow blogger and transracial adoptee, Mei-Ling wrote in a post (not really mama), I must learn to contend that what I receive will only ever really be equal to what I am able to give.

As this pertains to language, it’s quite difficult to build a relationship with someone if you do not speak the same language.

If I can only give looks and hand gestures, that is the only depth—and that’s not very deep—to which our relationship can extend. Certainly, body language is said to comprise a large percentage of actual communication.

But in a situation like this, you can’t get to the truth with facial expressions and hand gestures. You can’t get the answers to questions of why and how.

* * *

In some ways, it would seem bliss to remain in this state of superficiality. Why should I want to delve more deeply and know what dark truths and raw emotions may linger beneath?

To be cliché, I can’t leave alone, alone.

That is simply not who I am. Some would call this weakness.

Some would say that I need to be more accepting and simply let it go and move on. You’ve had your precious reunion. You’ve met your biological mother and father. You know in general what happened. What the heck else do you need to know?

That’s like telling someone, look, you’ve been 90% cleared of cancer. You’re essentially in remission. Just go on and live your life. Don’t look back and don’t think about it. And hopefully, it won’t come back. Er, really?

Somehow, I think most would agree that such a course of inaction and passiveness won’t do in a situation like that.

Certainly to continue living one’s life to the fullest is not only advisable but healthy.

But to never go in for check-ups, to simply think that if you don’t think, you’ll be just fine is almost disturbingly laughable to most.

You have to monitor things. You have to be wise. You live. But you can’t just forget.

I can’t just forget.

That’s the thing.

And why should I feel as though I am supposed to forget? A puzzle is not complete without all the pieces. My life is not complete, I am not complete without all the pieces.

I am going to have to learn the Korean language if I ever want to have a real and mature relationship with my biological parents. That is simply the inescapable, albeit, frustrating and overwhelming truth.

* * *

You say, well, then, get cracking. Just learn the language. How hard can it be? Right? Sure.

Have you ever tried to learn a language at 34 years old—specifically, a language that uses a completely different alphabet and has a completely different structure and linguistic background, not to mention, it has traditionally been a somewhat reclusive and exclusive language because the people who use it are incredibly nationalistic and xenophobic?

Not to mention all the heavy emotional baggage and implications that this language holds for me.

It’s not like learning Spanish. Spanish uses the same alphabet as English, has a similar structure and linguistic background and most significantly, the future of my individual relationships with my biological mother, father and family does not depend on whether I perfect the Spanish language. There’s no pressure. (Ironically enough, I happen to know just enough Spanish to get by—too bad my Korean parents don’t know Spanish, eh?)

If I were comfortable with maintaining a cordial—although distant and superficial relationship—with my biological parents, the language and cultural walls wouldn’t be so distressing.

If I did not want to eventually ask the harder, deeper questions, learning the language would not hold so much consequence.

If I did not want to know who they are, where they have come from, and where they have been, then, sure, what would all this language mumbo-jumbo matter?

But that’s not my case.

That’s not my situation.

insecure

My husband asks me, What are you feeling?

I reply with my usual, I don’t know.

He reminds me that I don’t know usually means I’m afraid to say what I’m feeling, because I don’t know why I’m feeling what I’m feeling.

Insecure, I say.

That is the only word I can dig up to summarize what I have been feeling for the past week.

I feel so insecure. But I don’t know why or about what.

He and I continue to talk, but to no avail. So he says, do you want to pray?

I say half-heartedly, That’s fine. You go first.

Within minutes I am sobbing uncontrollably, and I begin to realize what the word insecure means to me.

* * *

We are in the fragile beginnings of a reunion process.

In some ways the word insecure is an understatement.

Initially, the word insecure refers to how unsure I currently feel about who I am and where I belong. It refers to how fragile and delicate this all feels.

But ultimately, it refers to this gnawing and implacable sense that I have placed myself in a position in which I could potentially lose everything.

I could end up with less than what I had with which to begin. I could end up losing those whom I love.

I could end up with nothing and no one.

* * *

Not only do I fear the possibility that my Omma and Appa could suddenly decide to renege and back out, but I also fear that I am endangering my relationship with my Mom and Dad.

I fear that this process is simply too painful and too hurtful for all four parents, and that consequently they will begin to pull away from me—that they will decide this is too much, and subsequently, snatch their hearts from me and flee.

I fear that I will lose all four parents—and be left with no one.

* * *

Some would attempt to comfort me by saying these fears are irrational and foolish.

That’s why I appreciate my husband. He does not know how to lie. He must tell the truth.

He tells me that although there are very real risks and fears involved, we can always hope. It is never wrong to hope, or to love.

* * *

I knew the risks involved in searching for my biological parents.

I had seven years to consider all the possible scenarios for a reunion.

I would be deceiving myself to say that the fears I experience are invalid. They’re quite real.

I would be deceiving myself to say that it is not possible that my Omma and Appa could one day decide that they would prefer to sever contact.

I would be in denial to tell myself that the introduction of my biological parents into my life has not created tension, awkwardness, and uncertainty in my relationships with my Mom and Dad.

We’re not dealing with fairy tales here. We’re dealing with real life involving real human beings—all with our own flaws, fears, and imperfections.

All I can do is hope and pray and fight to love all four of my parents with truth and honesty—in the same way that a mother can love all her children. She may develop a unique relationship with each child, yet her ability to love each just as much as the other is not compromised in doing so.

Why can the reverse not be true? That I could love each parent just as much as the other in the midst of inherent differences and dynamics? Why not? I have a different relationship with my Mom than I do with my Dad, but I love them just the same.

* * *

Yet I must surrender to the truth that I cannot control how people will respond and react to what is happening. I can only guide my own heart.

I cannot control whether my Omma or Appa will choose to remain in contact with me. I cannot control whether my Mom and Dad will open their hearts to my biological parents. I cannot control what each involved person will choose to do.

I can only choose what I will do.

I choose love.

And I only hope that such a choice, even with all the risks involved, will triumph in the end.

in Korea

This is going to be very brief...we're short on time these days and constantly on the go...

But we are in Korea. I have met each birth parent.

We are currently in Pusan and leaving for Gyeongju today. We'll be on our way to Daegu the day after tomorrow and then back to Seoul.

Each meeting with each birth parent was of course emotional and overwhelming but beautiful and wonderful.

I'm spending more time with my birth mother today. My birth father wants to take our whole tour group out for dinner.

I can't wait to describe the outfit he was wearing for our first meeting...

I wish I could write more...but I've got to get going...

Thank you for all of your support.

I have so much to say...

one Degree of Separation

I.

So, back in a previous post, "holy Moley: An Update," I mentioned that the woman who works here in America for Dillon International as the Director of Korea Adoptions was visiting Korea last week?

I just received an email this morning.

She met with my birth father face to face.

They talked with one another. It seems in depth.

They also took some photographs of and with my birth father after the meeting.

I felt elated, shaky, restless as I read the email and gazed at the photos.

Butterflies are still fluttering in my head and gut.

II.

Something that I suspected was also confirmed--my birth father's wife and children know NOTHING about me.

He wants to tell them eventually. He said that he thinks his son will be understanding, but he is less confident about how his wife and daughter will respond.

III.

A deluge of indescribable emotion inundates me, of course. I can't even identify its various currents and directions right now. I just know that it is washing over me.

It feels simultaneously pleasant and ominous. The way I used to feel when I was a little girl swimming out in the open ocean off the shores of the Philippine Islands.

I would take in a deep breath and pull myself under to peer into the pristine and brimming ocean water. I could feel my body drifting and would have to tread to hold my place.

The majesty of it all captivated me with such beauty and marvel.

And yet a gnawing unease would run through my body as I felt the vastness of the uncertain and bizarre ocean waters pressing in against me.

I would have to jerk my head above water before it overtook me.

And although even then, it still felt as though something was sucking at my heels, there was also something wildly adventurous and addicting about the thrill of imagined danger and the endless mystery of a deep, dark unknown.

IV.

Except now, it is not imagined. And there is no jerking my head above the water.

I have thrown myself in, if not be overtaken, then at least to no longer dread drifting and floating out into those uncertain and bizarre waters sucking at my heels.

V.

In May, the Director will be visiting Korea again. During that time, she plans to meet with my birth mother face to face.

VI.

Like I said in the previous post--although we're at only one degree of separation now, it at times feels as though the separation remains a vast chasm, while at other times, it feels all too close.

Nonetheless, those who were once lost and estranged from one another are now being given opportunity to draw near and to overcome that which may still, at times, seem insurmountable yet does not fail to give the hope of healing and reconciliation.

his Letters

I.

Near the end of February, I received the first letters written to me by my birth father.

He wrote four letters and a couple of poems. The four letters included a letter to me, to my husband, to my American father and mother, and to my three brothers.

I have received the translations of the letters written to me, my husband, and my three brothers. I am still waiting on the translations of the letter to my parents and the poems.

II.

His letters are startling and heart-wrenching in their candor and emotion.

I hesitate to share their content, because I do not want to plaster his heart all over the internet that all the world may gawk and gape. I want to protect his tenderness and his pain.

In a previous post entitled "her First Words," I share a few pieces from my birth mother's letters to me. Her words are also poignant and full of emotion.

But there is something about my birth father's letters that strike me with such a vulnerability and rawness, that is quite different from the mood of my birth mother's letters, that I dare not share even a word of their content.

Rather, I will share my experience of his letters.

III.

I have discovered that he and I have quite a bit in common, at least superficially.

I have written poetry from a very young age. My birth father says he loves to write poetry. And as I mentioned above, he sent two poems that he wrote along with his letters. He also told Mrs. Kim that he is working on a long poem specifically for me.

He wrote that he enjoys swimming, riding bikes, skiing, soccer, movies, and art. He was an amateur boxer in high school and also did Taekwondo. During my youth, I dabbled in soccer, tennis, track, cross country, swimming, etc. I love snow skiing and movies. And I just like being physically active in general. I can't sit still for too long.

Oddly enough, I owned a punching bag in my twenties during which I took kickboxing classes. I'm tiny and weigh about a buck o'five. But, man, could I wail on that thing like a squirrel shredding a bag of peanuts, if you know what I mean. I eventually had to give up my punching bag, because it got kind of ridiculous trying to lug that thing around every time I moved to a new residence. I still miss it, though.

(And I am ashamed to confess that not only do I own a Billy Blanks "Tae Bo" DVD, but that I also still work out to it! Just a disclaimer: Tae Bo is nothing like Taekwondo, and I realize it is shameful that the name "Tae Bo" even attempts to make the comparison between kickboxing and Taekwondo. But it does involve a lot of kicking and punching, and I have to say it sure is a good work out!)

And I'm not going to lie...when I was younger, I would often close the door to my bedroom and stand in front of the mirror, kicking and chopping as though I knew martial arts. As though I could feel it coursing through my body.

Laugh out loud at me. It's okay. I want you to laugh--it's pretty funny.

IV.

Also, the fact that he has owned a Harley motorcycle for 18 years is bizarre and more than a little uncanny to me.

I have always had a covert obsession with motorcycles, and particularly Harely Davidson motorcycles.

Well, it has never been a secret to my husband. But it is not something that I necessarily broadcast to everyone I know, well, that is until now. I don't know why.

I think, perhaps, because I knew I could never actually own one. And at least for me, when I really, deeply want something but know that I can't have it, I don't really like to talk about it.

Years ago, I remember stopping at a Harley Davidson Store during a road trip with my friend, Melinda. I bought this long-sleeved black t-shirt with the words "Harley Davidson" written across the chest in silvery-gray letters above a row of rhinestones.

Over the years it got stretched out and grew too big for me, so I let it go. Only now, how I wish I had held onto it!

I used to work with a lady who owned a purple Harley sportser. Man, I loved that thing. She used to humor me and take me for rides on it after work. I couldn't help but laugh from pure, utter enjoyment as we'd cruise through the backroads and countryside.

I know motorcycles are like speeding coffins. But I can't help but love them!

When I discovered what an aficionado my birth father is of motorcycles, and particularly Harley's, I about peed in my pants. Obviously, I LOVE motorcycles. I practically drool every time I see one or hear one. I just like speed.

But perhaps it's just as equally attributed to the fact I grew up with my American father who was not unfamiliar with the "need for speed." He was a naval aviator, aka Navy jet pilot, for over thirty years. That can instill a love of speedy objects in just about anyone. ;)

And also, my brother, Greg and my Uncle Larry had motorcycles for a short while when I was growing up. In fact, I have a scar on my knee from a burn I got from the exhaust pipe when my Uncle took me for a ride on his bike when I was a little girl. And a few times here and there, my brother Greg took me to soccer practice or picked me up from school on his bike when I was a teenager.

Good memories. Good foundation for developing a love of motorcycles.

V.

My birth father also drinks a lot of coffee. Another obsession of mine.

However, years ago, I decided to ween myself off, because I was starting to bleed coffee. That's when I knew I had a problem. So now I just moderate my intake. But anytime I smell coffee, I go a little crazy. And any time I'm over at a friend's house, and he or she happens to offer me coffee, well, I just have to say "Yes, sure, I'd love some."

Coffee and motorcycles. Those are my vices.

And now they are vices that connect me with my birth father.

Smile.

VI.

But those are the superficial things he wrote in his letter to me. The deeper things, the emotional things are what simultaneously warm and break my heart.

His words humble me.

His pain, his guilt saturate his every word. It is as though I can hear his heart splitting. I can almost taste his suffering and touch his pain.

There are particular phrases that he wrote, which for now I will not repeat, that bring me to tears and endear me to him with a depth of compassion and longing that I did not know I could feel for him. I want to comfort him and embrace him and tell him that everything is going to be okay.

And I would hope that if I were to utter such words that they would be true.

VII.

Some day, I hope. That everything. Will be okay.

his First Words

This is just a post to let everyone know that I have received the first set of letters from my birth father! I have also discovered that he loves to write poetry--he sent a few poems along with the letters.

For those of you who know me well, I love to read and write poetry. The first poem I have record of, I wrote when I was ten...(I have some of my more "recent" poetry posted here on this blog in the section entitled "Poetry by Melissa").

Needless to say (but I feel the need to say it anyway), the discovery that my birth father loves to write poetry made my heart smile and jump. This journey never ceases to shock and amaze me.

I am waiting on the letters and poems to be translated...it could take weeks.

I am trying to embrace patience and gratitude in the mean time, although in all honesty the waiting makes me crazy. It is at times a sad reminder of what I have lost, and yet simultaneously a portal to new hope and healing.

I'll be posting excerpts from his letters and poems once I receive the translations...

But I look forward to learning their content. It is my understanding that he never had the chance to see me or meet me, but only knew that I had been born and relinquished before he could ever see my face or utter a word to me.

So when I set my eyes upon these written words, they are not only the first words I am receiving from him, but they are also the first words he is giving to me after a lifetime of never having had the chance to say a simple hello.

Here is the poem I wrote when I was ten:

Flowers make me think of peace because when the wind blows at them they don't try to fight back. When winter comes flowers wrinkle up and just disappear but they die happily because they know that another flower like it will come and take it's place and make everyone happy. When people come and take flowers away from their home they don't cry or try to do something bad. They just think of peace and say in their mind I'll make this person think of peace, love, and happiness.

Note: I did not edit or correct for grammatical errors to maintain authenticity :) I'd also like to note that in the original document, I drew along the margins a picture of a flower "Dieing in peace" and a picture of a flower "Alive again in Peace." I do not remember very well writing this poem, but on the back of the paper is written "Melissa Chatham Rm. #9 Mr. Rodgers." Anyhow, I just thought it was a fun document to dig up and read again...

more Photos & the chance to Choose..

(I have removed the photos for sake of privacy)

I.

Here are two more photos of my birth parents! This photo of my birth mother appears as though it may have been taken at a shrine somewhere in Korea; it also appears to be more recent than the first one I posted--so it may be more representative of what she looks like currently.

And boy, you gotta love this photo of my birth father on his Harley wearing the full getup to match! The first time I saw this photo I smiled and laughed out loud. I love it!

I posted the photo of myself (with my lovely friend) to show the similarities in my birth father's and my facial structure...although the poor resolution makes it less obvious. I most definitely have my birth father's cheekbones and jaw line, even a little of his smile...A friend of mine commented that I seem to have my birth father's "lower face" and my birth mother's "upper face." I think that's a fair assessment...

II.

I have one more photo of my birth mother and three more photos of my birth father...although, I don't know whether I will be posting all of them...There is a part of me that hesitates. I think perhaps it is the part of me that wants to keep them to myself. The part of me that wants to continue to revel in this time as long as it may last...

I do not mean to be selfish...but there is something about putting it all out there that makes me feel as though I am in some way diminishing from its significance and preciousness. And I also think a part of me feels protective, defensive, sensitive? Does this make sense?

III.

And yet there is still a part of me that wants to share this incredible happening with the world...because regardless of the difficulties and turmoil that await, regardless of the long-term outcome, it is truly inspirational and rousing , at least it is to me...

This whole event, this indescribable journey feels very similar to the time that my husband proposed to me.

We both knew that marriage is no light matter. We knew that entering into marriage with one another would change our lives forever. We knew that difficulty and hardship would come and that marriage is so much more than mush-gushy feelings and romantic escapades.

But of course, when he proposed, there was no way that I could keep the news to myself!

And even though we both were in touch with the harsher realities of marriage, those realities did not obscure the absolute joy and thrill of getting married, of devoting our lives to one another as long as we both shall live.

Even knowing that hard times would come, even knowing that we would drive one another insane, we still chose wholeheartedly to take the leap! And we are both so thrilled and happy that we did.

Of course, our marriage is not perfect. But it is completely worth it--worth the hard work and the sacrifices. The benefits far outweigh any inconveniences or turmoil that we encounter as we go through life together.

IV.

In the same way, now that my birth parents have surfaced and are alive and well, I cannot keep it to myself! My heart and mind feel as though they are bursting...

Even though I know the road to reunion will be full of obstacles and hardship, difficulty and misunderstandings, unanticipated twists and roadblocks, I cannot proceed in any other way than with all my heart and all the hope and love that I have to offer...

Perhaps I am a fool in this way. But I am not a naive fool. I suppose I am an educated fool...despite the logic and knowledge I know, despite the naysayers and doubters within my own mind and without, I can only run into the storm bracing myself as I hope to emerge on the other side better for having taken such a risk...

In some ways I have always been drawn to peril and danger, whether physical or emotional...

I think in part I am compelled to do this, because I know that ultimately, this is my choice. I am choosing this path. And with the capacity to make such a choice also comes a sense of inexplicable freedom and power in having the ability to choose.

Whatever may come, whatever consequences or difficulty may follow, I will know that I got myself into this predicament. I will have no one else to blame but myself. And in that, I am more than willing to take responsibility and face whatever fate awaits.

V.

I am overwhelmed with gratitude and hope as my eyes fill with tears to finally have such an option. To finally have such a journey to face...and certainly, I can be confident that no residue of regret will remain once I have come to the end of this journey, to the other side of this tempest...

I feel as though my life is being given back to me...that I am receiving a second chance...the very opportunity to choose--the opportunity, that before I could even speak, eluded my existence...

Finding my birth parents certainly is not and will never be the answer to all my problems. It is not the cure.

But certainly, it is a significant and gargantuan missing piece that has been retrieved, recovered--excavated from the deep.

And when such a piece is uncovered, the power and meaning of all the history and knowledge, all the answers to the unknowns that it allows itself to offer cannot be denied. At least, I will not be one to deny it and all that is has to give. I will seize it with all my being!

To quote the words of my birth mother written to me in her first letter to me..."I feel like I own the world!"

I know that I will not always feel this way...but to live in the moment is what I choose today.

First two photos of my birth mother & birth father

(I have deleted the photos for sake of privacy)

So, here are the first photos of my birth father and birth mother! This is absolutely unbelievable. I cannot even begin to communicate the depth of emotion and the intensity of this time in my life...the gravity of this event is most difficult from which to emerge...

The photo of my birth father was probably taken at least 10 to 15 years ago. He is in his fifties now. The photo of me next to his photo was taken probably about 6 or 7 years ago. But I thought it was a good photo for comparison.

The photo of me placed next to the photo of my birth mother is also a good one for comparison. Obviously, this photo of me was taken years and years ago (go bangs!)...actually about two decades ago, when I was fourteen. But it's one of two photos of me that I managed to dig up in which I have at least a slight resemblance to my birth mother.

Overall, in my opinion, I look much more like my birth father... especially now as an adult. But at least in the photo of me as a teenager, my eyes and nose somewhat resemble my birth mother's. But I definitely have my birth father's facial structure--jawline, chin, cheekbones...and wait until you see one of the other photos I have of him...our resemblance to one another is very apparent in that photo...

I will be posting more photos in the days to come...Be on the lookout...especially for the one with my birth father on his Harley and in the getup to match!

These days, I often feel like I am watching a movie unfold...only to remind myself that, no, actually, this is my life unfolding...no fiction involved...just pure, unadulterated reality...reality never tasted so, well, let's just say, rich and complex...

A Fool's Winter & Her Tree: Still Searching, Still Waiting...

My heart grows weary, longing for someone who may not exist. Longing to find someone who may not want to be found.

Am I a fool? Of course, I am. I would never deny such an observation.

But dare I ponder that not all foolishness is unproductive or detrimental. It is often those who are willing to appear as fools in the eyes of the doubtful who stumble their way into the most astonishing and enlightening discoveries.

To utilize cliché, it has been said that one should not be afraid to go out on a limb, for that is where the fruit is.

Unless, you happen to venture out onto that limb in the dead of winter.

Then, you just might freeze to death, and find nothing within your grip to show for it.

This is my winter, right now. And this may be my winter always.

This limb out onto which I have crawled may never bear fruit. This tree may forever dwell in the bitter shadows of winter.

So, what shall I do?

Do I build a house here in this cold and barren tree? Or do I cut it down?

As we all tend to discover as life goes on, a middle ground usually finds its way beneath our feet. It is often a bit rougher and a bit more jagged than we anticipate.

Yet such terrain galvanizes the strengthening of our hearts and minds.

I will not uproot this tree just yet. And certainly, I am a fool, but not fool enough to build a house in it.

For now, I suppose I will make the rocky trek to visit this tree from time to time. I will water it and tend to it. I will wait and hope. Perhaps one day, its winter will come to an end, and I will find a tiny bud on the very tip of a limb reaching closest to the sky.

And when I gaze upon that tiny bud, I will imagine all the promise it holds—the promise to bloom with new magnificence. The promise to finally give itself up to bear the heralded fruit.

Just as I now climb into this tree, as barren as it is, and cling to its stark and naked limbs, with the same hope and imagination that one day this tree will smite the winter and awaken its dormant verdure and radiance to give forth all the fruit that one can savor.