voices cracking
broken hearts choking
throats with tears caught
in rivers flowing to a cold ocean
of grief and incidental healing
for exterminated babies
mothers, elders...
distant family, curious strangers
grandchildren of Nazis
all visit Auschwitz
to consume their own sorrow
to greet their own humanity
calling out the names
of those murdered
pledges of peace
summoning tikkun olam
a Zen priest, rabbis
Christians, an imam
the grey light falls
like wretched snow
on this gathering
the ember of essential flame
original nature, emergent Love
carries joy even here
to nourish spirits trapped in ashes
clamoring for release
Saturday, January 18, 2020
Tuesday, January 7, 2020
Monday, January 6, 2020
Homing Signal, the Birth
When 22 years old, I returned to the agency that had handled my adoption.
At the Jewish Children’s Bureau, I was given a page and a half of “non-identifying” information about my birth parents, and the circumstance around my birth. I was eligible for this information in Ohio because I was over 21. It had taken a year for me to get to it, due to poor health.
My father had been a college student in New York. He traveled to Cleveland in 1965 with a friend from Cleveland on their holiday vacation. Clevelanders reading this might puzzle at the juxtaposition of their hometown with the word “vacation”. Nevertheless, this is where he met my mother, a high school girl.
They dated for a short while, but they did not remain together. When I was conceived, the decision was made for my mother to carry me to term, and then put me up for adoption. She stayed in an unwed mother’s home until my birth, on September 9th, 1966. I imagine her experience must have been awful, having to go through the pain of child-carrying and childbirth, and then, having no means to support her baby, relinquishing him. I also imagine I was awash in the chemicals and the energy of depression and anxiety during my entire gestation.
At the Jewish Children’s Bureau, I was given a page and a half of “non-identifying” information about my birth parents, and the circumstance around my birth. I was eligible for this information in Ohio because I was over 21. It had taken a year for me to get to it, due to poor health.
My father had been a college student in New York. He traveled to Cleveland in 1965 with a friend from Cleveland on their holiday vacation. Clevelanders reading this might puzzle at the juxtaposition of their hometown with the word “vacation”. Nevertheless, this is where he met my mother, a high school girl.
They dated for a short while, but they did not remain together. When I was conceived, the decision was made for my mother to carry me to term, and then put me up for adoption. She stayed in an unwed mother’s home until my birth, on September 9th, 1966. I imagine her experience must have been awful, having to go through the pain of child-carrying and childbirth, and then, having no means to support her baby, relinquishing him. I also imagine I was awash in the chemicals and the energy of depression and anxiety during my entire gestation.
Saturday, January 4, 2020
Homing Signal, the Conversation
“I have two thoughts about this,” Tom said, “It’s fascinating, an incredible story. And the second is – that’s life.”
My best friend from high school and I met for breakfast on Christmas Eve day. I told him about the circumstances surrounding my birth, my being given up for adoption, and finding my birth parents at age 22.
He asked what had prompted me to seek them out.
“Nothing outside of me. It came from inside, like a homing signal. I had to find them.”
And yet it hadn’t been an obsession. More of an adventure.
I asked him if he’d seen the movie, “A.I”, a Steven Spielberg film, directed by Stanley Kubrick.
“Is this the one? There’s a scene at the end, a boy android has been frozen for centuries. When he is brought out of stasis, he encounters a future race of androids. Humanity has long since been extinct. And then he is granted a wish, anything he can think of. He says, ‘I want a day with my mother.’”
It was an earlier scene I was thinking of, I tell my friend. The boy-android finds his creator, the human engineer who designed him.
Long story short, at 22, I was looking for my creator.
My best friend from high school and I met for breakfast on Christmas Eve day. I told him about the circumstances surrounding my birth, my being given up for adoption, and finding my birth parents at age 22.
He asked what had prompted me to seek them out.
“Nothing outside of me. It came from inside, like a homing signal. I had to find them.”
And yet it hadn’t been an obsession. More of an adventure.
I asked him if he’d seen the movie, “A.I”, a Steven Spielberg film, directed by Stanley Kubrick.
“Is this the one? There’s a scene at the end, a boy android has been frozen for centuries. When he is brought out of stasis, he encounters a future race of androids. Humanity has long since been extinct. And then he is granted a wish, anything he can think of. He says, ‘I want a day with my mother.’”
It was an earlier scene I was thinking of, I tell my friend. The boy-android finds his creator, the human engineer who designed him.
Long story short, at 22, I was looking for my creator.
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