Unorthodox and Unhinged

Tales of a Manic Christian


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 Who Am I Really? A “Rebecca on Reunion” Podcast

Here, in my firstborn daughter’s own voice,  is Rebecca telling the story of our reunion.   Who Am I Really? is a project of Damon Davis: a series of very personal podcasts about the life journey of an adoptee and their search for reunion. Rebecca’s is Episode 18:What I Gained Through Reunion Is Context.

Listening to Rebecca’s voice, I definitely hear Joani. And I hear my daughter Colleen’s voice, too. Maybe even my niece, Lauren’s, as well. Not just the timbre of our voices resonates but how we all string words together. We use the same verbal punctuation. It is uncanny.

And Rebecca’s description of reunion dovetails incredibly with biomom’s. No coordination involved. Just DNA. Incredibly delightful.

So take a listen to Rebecca and let her fill you in on Who She Really Is!


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Dirt Therapy, the 3rd

 

Easter, this year, began for me at Christmas Tide.

Sunday evening, December 11th, my phone rang. It was my baby brother Joseph on the line. “Are you sitting down?” he asks me. “Joani, we have never talked about this. Do you remember in 1972 when you were pregnant and gave a child up for adoption?” Dumbfounded, I literally respond,  “Yes, Joseph, of course, I do.”Well, she found me,” he says. “Through a DNA test on Ancestry.com, she found me.

The birth of a child to a teenage mother is a familiar story at Christmas. But the family trauma that resulted from my personal story, I had long buried.  And these forty-five year old memories resurrected a trembling seventeen year old child.

The very next day, December 12th, scared to death, I called my newfound child.  It was the best Christmas present I have ever been given. Her name is Rebecca.

We have spent the past four months condensing more than four decades, and without going into the details, I am happy to declare that all is good, very good. And if you like, you can catch up here: Scarlet Letter, No MoreThe “Nua” Normal“Knock the Unicorn Off the Cloud”

And resurrection has brought reunion.

It is remarkable how deeply Rebecca and I resemble one another: our personalities, our intellectual curiosity, our spiritual bent, our sense of humor. Not only our way of speaking but what we say. People have confused my writing for hers and her writing for mine. It is uncanny. It is remarkable. Rebecca says that distance reinforced her DNA. It was a form of rebellion, she says.

I do like the sound of that, though I am not sure exactly what it means.

Needless to say, this has been an incredibly healing experience.

I tremble no more.

Sprouted from the same soil,  Rebecca and I, our selves, our souls, and our bodies are intertwined.

So this Easter is all the sweeter:

Now the green blade riseth!  indeed!

So it seems very apropos to post Dirt Therapy once again.

A post that includes an anecdote about Jacob, Rebecca’s newly discovered little brother and a snapshot of my mother, the grandmother Rebecca never knew.

So, here we go…

Once upon an Eastertide, a little boy came home singing the Pete Seeger song: “Inch by inch, row by row, Lord, please help my garden grow”. At school the little boy, along with his class, had planted bean seeds in jelly jars. Each day they tended their little glass gardens, checking the moist dark earth. Some of the children drowned their seeds with love. While others, their seeds withered from neglect. While others, theirs actually and miraculously sprouted and grew.

Tiny green shoots poked their heads into the fluorescent light. Slender green vines wound around the inside of the jars.

And then one day — the little boy proudly brought his home and set it down on the kitchen table. His mom asked, “Okay, my little sweet potato, what’s this?” And the little boy replied:

”That’s Jesus, mom. That’s Jesus in a jar.”

It wasn’t exactly “Now the green blade riseth” but it was sweet indeed. That sweet little boy was my son Jacob (now 29 years old!). Sadly the little Jesus vine did not survive very long — but don’t blame Jacob. Sadly, you see, plants often came home to my house to die.

Even though I quite ironically once worked at plant store called “Great Plants Alive” most of the plants that crossed my threshold sadly met an untimely death.

And back in the day when I still had a backyard, I was quite happy to just let Mother Earth be my gardener. So whatever grew — grew –and whatever withered – withered. My yard was a little city patch of green. And since I had no green thumb, this was my rule:

If it’s green let it grow.

My lawn was covered with crab grass, wild violets, clover, and dandelions. The fence was covered with tangled honeysuckle vines, ghetto pines, a struggling maple tree, and poison ivy. Plastic baseball bats and dead tennis balls dotted my lawn. A sad little wagon and outgrown bicycles littered the grass.

Occasionally I would attempt to tame this wilding place with my lawn mower and a weed whacker. But much more often, I would retreat and recline in a plastic chair on the patio to read a good book.

If it’s green let it grow.

My manic-depressive mom, Mary Lou was quite the gardener. While I have been blessed with her bipolar brain, God did not see to bestow upon me her green thumb. And hers was very green indeed.

When I was growing up, my mother could lash out like lightning just as easily as she could erupt in joy. Her highs and lows were beyond her control, tamed only by a regular shot of bourbon, a little lithium, and the occasional session with Dr. Freud. My beloved mom did the best she could.

And she did her very best in the garden.EA11B186-69B7-45E1-8E52-41A174207E9A

Mary Lou was totally at home in her rock garden. She relished her trips to the local greenhouses and she spared no expense at the nursery.

The back of the station wagon would be overloaded with peat moss and potting soil, flats of flowers, hydrangeas and azaleas, and a shrub or two — or three.

The lawn would be littered with empty plastic pots, as she dug down deep in the dirt planting geraniums, petunias, and marigolds. I have a snapshot of her doing just this. Her sun kissed skin is freckled and bronze; her auburn hair peaks out from her kerchief; and golden hoops dangle from her ears. Gorgeous.

Resplendent and radiant, digging in the dirt, all is right with her soul.

Digging in the dirt is therapy.

Sowing seeds is therapy.

Fertilizing the soil is therapy.

Watering the ground is therapy.

Gardening is therapy.

Dirt therapy.

Wordless, holistic, holy, hopeful, dirty therapy.

My mother’s daughter, namely me, no longer has a backyard. But I do have a little balcony. And each Eastertide I plant my little English garden in half a dozen clay pots. I am partial to bright colors: Shasta daises; hibiscus; and geraniums. I am partial to plants of the forgiving kind, the kind that forgive me if I don’t water them as often as I should.

A little Miracle Grow, a little sunshine, a little dirt, and all is right with my soul. At least for a little while.

In the beginning, the Creator walked in the cool of the wet garden at the time of the evening breeze. God made us out of the dirt of the garden. God made us out of the dirt of paradise.

And so in all the deaths we die — both large and small — we return to the Garden. We go down into the dirt like seeds forgotten and buried in the dark earth.

So as we are in the beginning, we are in the end. The Alpha is also the Omega.

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary of Magdala, came to the garden and she saw that the stone was rolled away. And there stood the Gardener, the same Gardener who had walked at the time of the evening breeze. Mary did not know him until he called her by name. And then she knew. Here stands the very tiller, the very tender, the very lover of my soul.

Now the green blade riseth.

Dirt therapy.

JoaniSign


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“Knock the Unicorn Off the Cloud”

From Rebecca, my new found firstborn daughter, in her own words:

What happens when the people that you MOST want to talk about your life and adoption with are also the people who might be the most confused and hurt by what you have to say? What do you do when your loaded, intense and central-to-life story is also someone else’s….but from a completely different perspective? How do you handle the unremembered (but very much present) pain of separation when most people expect you to just be “fine and grateful”? How do you reunite with people who are all at once your closest relatives and at the same time complete strangers?

I dont know the answers to any of these questions. But I am trying to figure it out. By living it.

In times of great trauma (like war) children get torn asunder from their parents and their families. Sometimes, children are sent to live with other people to keep them safe from battle torn areas. Families in these situations perhaps spend years being apart, not knowing about the wellbeing of those they are separated from. When these families reunite, it is a clear cut story of wonderful reunification and a return to familial wholeness.

When families are apart because of adoption, there is an expectation that loss and separation are not felt in the same way as the war torn family. The original trauma that caused the need for adoption is not acknowledged, and the loss for both parents and child is not recognized. Somehow, this trauma which caused a need for separation and the subsequent loss and pain is not seen as valid or even present. If it is present, then something must be wrong that has absolutely nothing to do with being adopted or having relinquished a child. These feelings should all be washed away with a pervading feeling of being “grateful”, “making the ultimate sacrifice”, “moving on” and “growing in someone’s heart, not their belly”. While these sentiments are likely well intended, and meant to put adoption in its most positive light, it also has a dismissive quality that does not allow for the true complexity that is relinquishment, adoption and reunion.

Just because my name was changed on a birth certificate, and because I was handed to a childless couple who wanted nothing but a child of their own at 1 month old does not mean I did not experience a loss. A lifetime of wondering, and trying to interpret myself through a mirror that did not properly reflect my unique self as inherited by DNA set me up for perhaps never being able to fully be a part of any family. I always feared I would never have a complete sense of self, and never fully belong. Anywhere.

With one family I share a history, with the other DNA. I never knew until reunion how important and influential DNA is. Raised by linear thinkers, this circuitous brain of mine often felt improperly wired at best and damaged at its worst. My extroverted, overly expressive and impulsive self was reflected back to me as “overbearing”, “selfish” and “unable to be alone”. A good head taller than my adoptive mother, I felt “huge” and “amazon” and like an abnormal ogre. I remember a teacher telling me that my terrible posture was caused by “lack of confidence” and “laziness”. I felt misunderstood, and often inadequate. When I could not read maps and cried over simple math problems, no matter how hard I tried, it was just another proof that I “did not work to potential” (a regular quote on the math and science portions of my report cards). My love of all things religion and religious cult made me appear “flaky”, “gullible” and even “unstable” outside of my true genetic context. Imagine my shock and surprise when I found that these traits of mine that I was trying to find environmental causation for were actually already programmed into me. Out of my control. Out of my adoptive parents’ control. Heck, out of my natural family’s control. The years I spent over analyzing what should have just been assumptions….now, that is loss.

Don’t get me wrong. Not one ounce of me wishes that my life was any other way. I would not have the three children I have now and the life that I love without my adoption. But this does not make adoption a gift to me. It does not make it like a unicorn riding on a cloud. unicorn pillow i poop magicIt is real, complex, multi-layered and I will likely be trying to make heads and tails of it for the rest of my life. Adoption, my adoption, JUST IS. It is not all good, it is not all bad. It is what it is. And it sure is fun to reunite. It is exhilarating to finally see context for my features, my temperament and way of thinking. I would take gaining new siblings as an adult again and again, even with the conflicting life of an adoptee. This adventure of reunion could never have happened without the event that triggered my needing a reunion.

So, I will not try to reflect too much on what could have/should have/would have been. That ship has sailed. I am just going to enjoy it. Knock the unicorn off that cloud. I much prefer it here in the muck and depth of reality. And I am happy that what I found when I finally met my natural family was an openness and willingness to understand this paradox. The 44 year elephant in the room has finally materialized.

I realize now that placing the inflection of a question at the end of a statement an inherited trait…..my sister, biomom and I all do it….although I do it with definitively more alto style diaphragm support (thanks theater, voice training and social smoking!). So, I will refrain from making statements that don’t have room for an open ended question at the end. And most profoundly, I am grateful to finally know my family so I can get the rest of the story.

NOTE from Joani:  Stay tuned for more U&U guest posts on our shared story of reunion.

Thanks be to God.


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The “Nua” Normal

Pondering and prepping, I packed for my Saint Patrick’s Day weekend in Pownal, Vermont.

Anticipating reunion, I puzzled, Rebecca puzzled, and her children all puzzled over what to call me. 

Just who the hey am I when I step off that plane? Who am I when I reach Meeting House Farm?

Just Joani, I had decided beforehand. Well, “biomom” for Rebecca also rang true.

Colleen, my daughter and Rebecca, my new found daughter, have magnetically clicked, thick as thieves. Talking and texting , parsing and plotting they have already devised short hand code for the “new normal.”

SM – Shared mom

SWB – Sister without baggage

SD – Shared dad

That’s  all I am privy to, so far.

The usual labels and conventional titles do not capture who we are becoming for one another. Just yet. 

Just before Christmas, I had my resurrection experience with Rebecca. Once upon s time, unbeknownst  to her, ever so briefly, she was to me, baby girl Elizabeth. 

What, what, what do I call her now?

“Long lost offspring” seemed to work. I did not raise her as I did Colleen.

 But in our kinetic conversation, it became clearer who she is — my child. Carried in my belly and flesh of my flesh, deeply connected and woven together by DNA.

Yes, my beautiful child.

Rebecca texts Colleen the news of my evolving vocabulary.  Typing “child” with thumbs on tiny letters, autocorrect, spells out “chips”.

Chips! What a great name for Rebecca’s three to call me, these two decide. As in “chip off the old block”? As an acronym possibly, I propose: Crazy, Hysterical, Peacock, Super/Shared mom??

Fun, yes. I try it on but it does not quite fit. 

Before my arrival, Rebecca’s youngest, little Meir, blonde and pony tailed, asked his mom about me. But he struggled with just what to call me. “You know the NEW one,” he said.

Ah, “the new one”! I have entered into your lives as if from another world. Strange and foreign yet  at the same time remarkably familiar.

That’s exactly how it feels.

“Familiar” is a family word, you know.

So call me: Nouvelle? Nueva? Just to fancy it up a bit. But better yet, what is Irish for “the new one”? This branch of the family tree did not know they were rooted in Celtic soil.

Google says “Nua”

Honestly simple and perfectly apt. 

Together we are discovering this  “nua world”.

These last three days, this Peacock and the Dragons packed as much as we possibly could into a weekend: bookstore, library, Irish Step classes, MASS MOCA, birthday party, heated pool and hot tub, Apples to Apples, Sunday church, and beer and tacos “al pastor”. 

It was a trip of a trip with Matt and Rebecca, Bella, Jude, and Meir. Pasted already as collages into my Instagram scrapbook. Take a look here.






“The Nua normal” – just begun!