The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began, 
though the voices around you
kept shouting 
their bad advice--
though the whole house 
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug 
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do, 
though the wind pried
with it's stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night, 
and the road full of fallen 
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds, 
and there was a new voice
which you slowly 
recognized as your own, 
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Just Starting Out

I have just one photo of myself as a newborn, a blanket bundled wrinkly thing, eyes closed, fingers curled.  And I have a hard time looking at this lone image.  I wonder about who took the photo, where I was, and who fed and cared for me.  It's a mystery.  But by the time I was several weeks old, my new parents had come to retrieve me from my foster parents.  That day, another photo was taken:  my mother, beehived and beautiful, staring triumphantly at the camera while cradling me tightly.  My grandmother's profile as she stared wondrously at the prize in my mother's arms.  And the father I barely knew looking excited and out of place.  For a long time, this was the earliest photo I had of myself.  This was the image that I would return to again and again, as if it alone could somehow reveal the answers of where I had come from, who I was born to, and why I had been given away.

It wasn't until later, as an adult, when I embarked on a search for my birth parents that the earlier photograph was discovered in my SS file.  The image frightened me:  this vulnerable and innocent self, relinquished from one mother but not yet matched with another.  So alone.  What happened to me in those first six weeks of life? 

I have started this blog to share my story of the pain and legacy of adoption with other adult adoptees, and to offer a story of hope and healing.  While the story of my adoption is not all that uncommon, reuniting with my birth mother and developing a loving, lasting relationship with her is unusual.  I've learned through my research that most mothers who have given up children for adoption suffer tremendous guilt and pain, while the adoptees themselves harbor deep anger and resentment.  Overcoming these powerful emotions has been an unfolding process which has ultimately brought me closer to myself and those who love me.

I will take my time telling my story, as I hope you get to know and understand the obstacles that I had to overcome to get to this place.  Occasionally, I may find it necessary to go back and edit what I've written to provide better clarity, but I look forward to your comments.