My friend Jill is hilarious.

As I drove home from the park where Bird and I walked this morning, I touched my heart. “You are my person,” I said.

(One thing about being deep in grief is you have people share sleep aids with you, so my dreams have been…extra.)

To be grieving and to not resist it is, in some ways, pure pleasure.

We will remember you always and forever and miss you completely.

I have done this exercise countless times in my writing groups, and what I’ve found is that time and time again the writings sounded, sometimes even more than angry or furious, cleanly honest

I guess I thought you’d live forever.

I have come to suspect that for many adopted people (well, for me), it’s easy to confuse the feeling of being alive in Self energy as anger or rage.

Yesterday I wrote a post on Instagram that said “For many adopted people, concealing how you really feel is a survival skill learned early on in the need to attract love. It later can become virtually impossible to name your feelings. How then can you know what you want or need.”

Two weeks ago I was digging my car out of the snow in Maine. Now I’m digging dirt so I can plant five different kinds of salad greens.

Much to my surprise, instead of writing a book while I was here, I found a way into the vast field of myself.

I had thought I’d come to the East Coast for two reasons I felt were connected: one was to shake myself out of a post-dad-dying torpor and the other was to write You Don’t Look Adopted, Ten Years Later.