Sometimes you don’t know what you need until you get it.

I am learning my brain, offering it forgiveness and tenderness, and it’s making all the difference.

If or when your adopted child says: “You are not my real mother.”:

The body of the infant bears being born and begins to flourish in the communion of we with the body of the mother.

This is what I see: I see a whole flood of incredibly beautiful people repeatedly banging their head against a brick wall. I see these people throwing themselves against the wall, gnashing their teeth, crying, yelling, whispering, begging, holding out money and gifts. And then, over and over again, returning to smashing their heads against this unmoving, uhearing wall.

Now I am an adult, and I would like to meet my mother in the incarnation of myself. I would like to talk to my mother as an adult and ask her questions. I would like to get to know my mother.

I have to tell you that I consider many adoptees, hold onto your hat, critically ill in one form or another.

Do you love me?

Farmer Will told me that his farm is where farmers go to get their produce.

I have to remind myself that I’m the expert on my lived experience, but as far as having a mother, being mothered, being a mother, I have to be honest: I’ve been in the weeds on this for a long time, and though I’ve grown taller, this is a place I’ve not yet conquered.

The walls in our house were made of horsehair plaster, and as I scraped away the thin flowered paper that had basically become skin to the wall, I found pink dust. So I scraped more, searching for story.

What is the sound of one hand clapping?