(first published Jan 2011)
…and your are blithely reading a blog post, when BAM!! Adoption smacks you in the face. Does this happen to other people? The post isn’t about adoption. But to me it is.
Ann’s posts always stir me deep, so it’s not a far fall to find me thinking of my own deep things…
Her post is about creativity. She says:
Yes, I am coming. I am coming for the prayers, for the page turning of the printed stories and yes, the stories of your roots, of the time before you were born, when you were still a future star and that place in the night sky was black, still waiting for you. (Do all children love to slide their hands down their roots again, again, remembering whence they’ve come? “Tell us that story again when…” )
Yes, isn’t it natural to want to dig down into your roots? But the closed adoptlings can only slide so far down as their own toes. Do you know how scary it is when you end at yourself? When if you kept going down there’d be nothing but empty space? It’s amazing but that “empty space” feels just like the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. If I’m as far as I get, then it’s all up to me, isn’t it.
What kills me now, also, is that my dear, precious children’s stories only go so far as bumbling me too. Five times more weight on me. Five times more sadness that they don’t know what I don’t know either.
The rest of Ann’s beautiful post talks of how we all want to be artists when we are young. To create. I suppose I wanted that too. Those dreams die hard. My adoptive parents were artists – art school, paid for their artwork, the whole nine yards. But I am not of their genes, their talent only went so far as my brother. Sensitive little ol’ me could never measure up. I stopped trying, but I never stopped caring, never stopped wanting to create.
My stories can’t be told. My creativity stifled.
I feel crushed, and just want to sleep.