I am the Universe

Today is an I am the Universe day.

I woke to a perfect blue-gold morning. It peaked around the sequoias in my yard to slip through the bedroom window. Last night I stayed up late, riding a strange rush of energy that allowed me to finally cross a few task off my to-do list. But in spite of the late hours, I woke feeling energized for the first time in days.

The view out my window

Lately I’ve been overwhelmed. So what else is new, right? My eyes are always bigger than my stomach when it comes to what I think I can devour in any given day. But during landscaping season, the feeling is particularly pronounced, because the nature of the work is so physically draining. And when I’m tired, my brain stops working. I can keep on shoveling compost like the Energizer bunny, but don’t expect me to be able to design a drip system. Writing, naturally, is completely out. Basic words elude me. The idea of stringing several thoughts together is enough to make me whine like a sleep-deprived two-year-old. Hence, I tend to do my landscaping in the summer and my writing in the winter. But this year I’ve been attempting to do it all.

Screenwriter/playwright Cynthia Whitcomb talks about the Cycle of Creativity. In it she describes three parts. Brahma is the lightening strike of inspiration that sparks your story ideas. Vishnu is the period of work, when your inspiration drives you to complete your goals. Shiva is the time of rest, of doing nothing. In America we value Brahma and Vishnu, but tend to negate Shiva. Yet we need this time of stillness to recharge our batteries so we can get that spark of inspiration for the next cycle.

In my own life, I’ve found that summer is my Shiva. Sure, I’m doing physical labor, but I’m giving my mind a break. For me, writing is a Yin experience. It’s almost meditative. I can force myself to do it on the fly, but it’s difficult, unpleasant, and generally uninspired. My landscaping, on the other hand, is very Yang. It’s a welcome relief after a winter spent expending mental energy. I’ve been beating myself up for not being able (or willing) to come home from a day of slinging compost to crank out a chapter. But my friend Barb told me yesterday that it’s perfectly okay for me to write in the winter and landscape in the summer. That’s my cycle.

So what exactly is an I am the Universe day? Several years ago I read a book by children’s author Barbara Corcoran titled I am the Universe. In it, the protagonist’s 8-year-old brother, who’s a genius, proclaims that he is the universe, and that everyone else is, too. That idea really resonated with me. I liked the thought that we are all part of everything, and everything is part of us. How empowering. How reassuring. How grounding.

Another perfect blue-gold day

Back when I was racing stock cars and would be lined up before my event—heart rate rivaling the RPMs of the car’s engine—I’d focus on the horizon and chant to myself, I am the universe. It always calmed me. But the phrase isn’t just a meditative mantra. It’s also a song of celebration, an expression of gratitude. I often find myself caught up in the splendor of a particularly stunning sunny day, feeling that kid-like, Christmas-morning delight over being granted yet another summer. And on days like this, those words come whispering back, I am the universe.  Guess what? You are, too.

Hard Work and Self-efficacy

There’s something refreshing about good old-fashioned physical labor. About knowing I can drive my body and it won’t fail me the way my creativity so often does. After a long winter of writing and submitting, my brain is tired and my will is beaten down. All I want is to work long, hard hours in someone’s yard then go home feeling worn out but successful. My customers, the neighbors and I can see the immediate results of my labor, something that doesn’t necessarily happen when you write.

Before

After

The submission process is a little like standing beside the road with your thumb out, holding a sign that says “please throw rocks at me”. You’re asking to be rejected, denied, in some cases even ridiculed.  You’re required to get back up on your horse not just once or twice, but time after time. You’re expected to keep your disappointments to yourself, because being professional is of utmost importance, and everything you say can affect your platform.

When I look at the contrast between landscaping and writing , particularly at this time of year, it’s tempting to throw myself into that easy escape. It’s such a simple equation. Work hard, get rewards. Not just money, but the satisfaction of knowing you did a job well, that people are pleased with you—even delighted. The ratio works out perfectly: the more effort you put in, the bigger reward you receive. Sometimes the desire to have life be that simple is so intense that I’m tempted to sacrifice everything for it. But there’s some small, stubborn part of me that can’t give in, that has to keep trying. It’s almost as if it isn’t up to me at all.

I once read an article that described this force that won’t let you quit. It’s a quality known as self-efficacy. It’s what kept Julie Andrews going when MGM told her she wasn’t photogenic enough for film, what encouraged the Beatles to keep at it when Decca records said they “didn’t like their sound”, what inspired Michael Jordan not to quit when he was cut from his varsity team as a high school sophomore. Self-efficacy isn’t the same as self-confidence. It’s the conviction that you have what it takes to succeed in a particular activity, rather than an overall belief in yourself. This doesn’t mean you think the world will recognize your ability right off the bat, instead it means you believe that your idea, skill, or invention has merit and that somebody will eventually recognize that.

I try to remind myself that life is like a game. I can choose to have fun playing, or to be a poor sport. If, like those other long shots, I one day achieve my dreams, I don’t want to look back and see my pathway littered with self-disgust, whining, and nay-saying. I’d rather see strength, stoicism, and setting a good example for others.

The Best Month of the Year

Kerria japonica in all its splendor

There are four months I absolutely love.

July for its piercing blue skies, flowerbeds a blaze of color, and sizzle-bright days that last far into evening.

October with every hue of red, yellow, and orange turning the trees to flame.

December, because my appreciation for Christmas could shame a six-year-old.

And April.

A Japanese maple leafing out

April is pure energy. The air practically sparks with it. On cloudy days, the chartreuse of new leaves stands out electric against the somber gray of the sky.

Look at me! Look at me!

Flowering trees scream, “look at me! Look at me!”

Sweet, startling scents ambush you around every corner.

And you can almost see the plants growing, like those stop-motion films they showed back in third grade.

A redbud on the verge of blooming

Do I have a favorite month? At this moment it’s April, but come summertime, it will be July. And when the leaves begin to change, October will bump its way to the top, only to be replaced by December once the Christmas carols start playing.

The beauty of it is that I don’t have to choose.

I get to have them all.

Seven Things on Saturday

My friend Kimi said something sweet when she read my last post: “Even when you’re complaining about stuff… I am still intrigued to read whatever it is you write.” While I took it as a compliment, it also made me realize that most of that last post was complaining. So now I’d like to take a minute to pay tribute to the good things in my life.

My husband: All of us love our significant other, but how many of us can say that he or she is our best friend? Bob puts up with my ramblings, has long conversations with me regarding philosophy, politics, and spirituality, and shares my wacky sense of humor. Most importantly, he is an active participant in my writing goals. He lets me read my chapters out loud to him then offers feedback. He proof-reads things he’s already heard or read several times. He takes all my submissions to the post office for me because he understands that taking that final step is one of the most stressful parts of the process. He’s an open-minded, laid back guy who rarely gets angry and always apologizes when he messes up. I’m not trying to make him out as perfect. Like most guys, he’ll use the countertop as a trash receptacle even when there’s a perfectly good garbage can within equal distance. But when it comes to the important things, he’s got it going on.

My sweetie

My job: By fall I will be ready to hang up my hoe, but that doesn’t mean I don’t truly enjoy working in landscaping. Sure, I have to put up with the rain and cold (I HATE being cold) but the plus side is that while everyone else is stuck indoors when it’s sunny, I get to be outside soaking up the rays. Working for myself is another perk. I have control over my schedule, and I don’t have to put up with the usual workplace bureaucracy. There’s no one breathing down my neck, telling me to cut corners or hurry up. And my customers appreciate the job I do, unlike so many bosses.

Seasons: Right now we Oregonians (and most of Americans, from what I understand) are struggling to shake off a long winter. But what a glorious thing to know that spring will eventually come. Not just once, not just twice, but every year.  One of my greatest sources of hope and renewal is that this cycle exists. Just when we’re getting tired of one season, another comes along, and it’s been long enough since the last time we saw it that it feels fresh and new.

A willow providing the first hint of spring

My friends: You know who you are. The people who read my writing and offer feedback. The people who remain supportive, no matter how long the submission process takes. Those who offer me a distraction by hanging out, or conversing with me on Facebook. My blogging buddies who remind me that my words are not just disappearing into the void of cyberspace without being read. It makes life so much more interesting and fulfilling when you have encouraging people around you.

My garden: There’s nothing like working outside with plants and the earth to ground you. I love flowers, particularly in really bright colors.  Going to nurseries and discovering new plants is one of my favorite activities.

One bed in my garden

My characters: One of the most rewarding parts of writing for me is getting to know my characters. They’re real people, and that’s why I can’t simply give up on a book. I have to share these characters with the rest of the world, and I don’t care how much work that means. I will re-write as many times as it takes to get a manuscript up to snuff. And if the market isn’t ready for that book at that time, I’ll put it away and wait until it is ready. But I won’t give up.

My cats: There’s nothing like cuddling a cat to help you find your center. When they’re in such a state of bliss that they blow a mouth gasket and drool a river on your jeans, and those big kitty eyes stare up at you with adoration, you know you’re loved.  Sure they have attitude. The minute you go after them, they’ll walk behind the TV—the feline equivalent of flipping you the bird—but that’s just part of the charm. If you want total subservience, get a dog. Cats get the respect they deserve because demand to be treated as equals. There’s a lesson there.

My cat Keelan

Six Things on Sunday

The weather: So far in March we’ve had 5 days of temperatures above normal, 1 day at normal, and 16 days below normal. This has pretty much been the pattern here in Portland since our big snowstorm in December. I’m getting tired of it. The plants are getting tired of it. We’re about 2 weeks behind as far as things blooming. The thing that’s really frustrating is the local meteorologists can’t seem to predict the weather even a day in advance. Today I had to cancel a landscaping client because they were wrong again.

My blogging class: I signed up to teach a beginning blogging class through one of our local community colleges. I’ve put about 50 hours into it, between coming up with a syllabus and creating illustrated handouts. So far only one person has signed up.

Watchmen: Go see this movie if you like violence and sitting in a theater for almost three hours. It think it was well done, but it’s not my kind of movie. Still, there were some truths. The Comedian (hunky Jeffery Dean Morgan) talks about how mankind cannot escape its own violence, an evolutionary reality I’ve often fretted over. Another character asks what happened to the American Dream, only to receive the answer, “It came true.” Yup. That pretty much sums it up. Just look at the state of the economy with AIG CEOs plucking bonuses straight out of taxpayers pockets. Look at the flawed belief that the value of housing could keep going up, and that there were always greater profits to be made, bigger toys to be purchased. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist or an expert in Eastern philosophy to see the impossibility of that equation. Any system wants to maintain balance, and there’s no such thing as a perpetual motion machine.

Landscaping vs. writing: It’s that time of year again when I transition from my winter work to my summer work. Transitions are never easy. There’s always some of the old business left to attend to, and it makes it tough to get the new business done. Beyond this, I’m tired of doing what I’ve been doing for the past several months and would rather be doing the new thing. Right now I’m trying to finish the re-write of my book Driven so I can submit it and get on to the yard work. It’s been slow going, mostly because I have so many other projects to deal with. Like my soon-to-be-cancelled blogging class.

Being overextended: With all my projects, I don’t know how I’m going to find the time to get them done when the weather gets better and I’m working in people’s yards every day. In addition to preparing for the blogging class I’m re-writing Driven, organizing my high school reunion, acting as editor for the Corbett Alumni newsletter and web site, participating in SCBWI and Willamette Writers activities (as well as three critique groups), and trying to build a platform, which involves creating two web sites. Every day I wonder why I couldn’t get everything done. I don’t think it’s unrealistic. After all, I have friends who do almost that much plus work 50 hours a week and have kids.

Reading: I’ve always considered reading to be a treat. The dessert I get if I’ve managed to clean my plate. But I’m trying to convince myself that it’s actually part of my job. You’re supposed to read the kind of books you write. In addition, being familiar with other author’s works is an important part of networking. Though all that seems logical, I’m still having trouble giving myself permission. I took the first step last week when I ordered local author Sara Ryan’s books from the library.

25 Random Things About Me as a Kid

This is another one of those Facebook deals, but anyone blogging should feel free to join in.

Once you’ve been tagged, you write 25 random things facts, habits, or goals about your childhood. Afterward, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about what you were like as a kid.

1. I was adopted when I was 5 and after that I lived in a small rural town called Corbett in the Columbia River Gorge. It was an awesome place to grow up if you liked playing outdoors.

2. I worshipped my older brother, but since he was 6 years older, I was too little to tag along with him when he played in the woods.

3. When I was really young I was always asking questions, which drove my mom nuts, so she bought me The Curiosity Book.

4. Mom used to bribe me with books to get me to pick berries at Kirby’s berry fields.

5. When I was 5 years old I had a mystical experience under a blueberry bush. I didn’t know how to vocalize what had happened, so I told my mom, “I don’t know where I am.” She got mad at me for screwing around.

6. I decided I wanted to be a writer at the age of eight when a relative gave us a cassette tape recorder. I used it to dictate stories.

7. I was a total geek who thought about things that made other kids roll their eyes. In fifth grade I was always in trouble with my teacher because I was reading instead of working on my math or social studies.

8. In spite of my aspirations, I didn’t start writing until I was 13. I gave it a good try at the age of 10 or 11, setting up my “office” at the desk in the living room with a cup of orange Kool-aid “coffee”.  But the ideas didn’t flow.

9. The first book I wrote was about a young girl and her telepathic cat named Charlie who got abducted by aliens. I didn’t know you had to start a new paragraph every time a different character spoke, so it was all one big chunk of text. I still feel gratitude toward our middle school librarian, Mrs. Garrison, for teaching me how to do it right.

10. I was an outcast in school but a leader among the younger neighborhood kids.

11. I liked to build forts in the woods. Really cool forts out of tree branches, pallets, scrap lumber, old blankets, and anything else that was available. Once a couple of friends and I made a sentry tower by hacking the inside out of an old cedar stump that was still standing.

12. We often created tunnels through snowberry bushes and blackberry vines that opened into secret rooms. One had a creek flowing through it.

13. I was obsessed with water and my greatest dream was to have a creek or pond on my property. The neighbor kids and I spent hours damming up  creeks on other people’s property and tracking them back to their source.

14. Throwing pine cones at cars was another favorite pastime. There’s nothing quite so satisfying as hitting a moving target. I still feel the thrill of victory when I remember the sound of a Doug fir cone smacking against somebody’s sedan. Pine cone fights were fun, too, but they usually disintegrated into dirt clod fights, which led to trouble.

15. I liked to lead my friends Ernie and Bobby in secret missions where we crawled around under their trailer carrying orange vitamin C “cyanide pills” so we could do ourselves in if the enemy caught us.

16. Ernie and Bobby had a hayloft with lots of cool stuff stored in it. It was one of our favorite places to play. We threw mattresses out the big window then ran through the loft and jumped out onto them. Another trick was to make long fishing lines out of strung-together paper clips and use them to try to hook stuff we’d thrown outside. Yeah, we were pretty destructive, but the sad thing was their parents didn’t care.

17. Another favorite place was the big, upright hollow trunk of a burned-out cedar tree. You had to crawl through a little opening to get to the inside. We kept a tackle box full of candles, matches, and old birthday cards inside so we could start campfires.

18. When I was seven, Ernie and Bobby’s mom had a baby, Angela, whom my mom became obsessed with (in fact, Mom was the one who named her). Naturally, I hated the kid until someone else’s baby came along to replace Angela when she was about 8. At that point I realized that Angela wasn’t the problem, just a pawn in the game. Later her dad married my mom and she became my little sister. Through my last couple years of high school, the two of us formed a strong bond, and now Angela’s the person I respect the most in my family.

17. I didn’t watch much TV as a kid, just Saturday morning cartoons, holiday specials, and the occasional Gilligan’s Island or Batman rerun. It was more fun to be outside.

18. The summer I was 11 I went crazy over the movie Star Wars. When I went into 6^th grade that fall I got a crush on the new kid, Jim, who also loved the movie. We spend all our free time drawing X-wing fighters.

19. After reading My Side of the Mountain I wanted to try my hand at living in the wilderness. I got a book about edible plants and came up with a plan to live off the land. I chickened out at the last minute because my mother had me convinced that if you ran away it would go on your Permanent Record and you’d never get into college.

20. Even though I was basically a good kid who did what I was told, got decent grades, and didn’t do anything truly delinquent, I was punished more often than my older brother and sister because I couldn’t control my smart mouth.

21. The summer between 8^th grade and high school my neighbor, Carey, invited me to go to Vacation Bible School with him. When we broke up into groups, and I went with the high school kids, I sat at the back of the room because I didn’t know any of them. One boy told me to come sit with him and his friends, but I thought they were setting me up to look like a fool, so I resisted. Finally, I figured out that he was just being nice, but I still believed that he wouldn’t have offered the invitation if he’d known who I was.

22. My best friend in high school was a boy named Damon who consistently gave me a hard time, but also was the best listener in the world. We spent the classes we took together passing notes. I still have them.

23. In high school I was junior counselor for the Outdoor School program, which took 6^th graders into the country for a week to teach them about the environment. Through this experience, I learned that I was not completely irresponsible and selfish, which was a total surprise to me.

24. My junior year I participated in Girls State and learned that I had leadership skills and that I wasn’t naturally unlikable—another great shocker.

25. It took me a lot longer to grow up than it took most kids, which I got teased for, but to this day I think I had more fun.

Pondering the Tao

The Tao that can be named is not the eternal Tao. The name that can be named is not the eternal name. ~Tao te Ching #1

Does this ring true within you? I understand it in an ephemeral sort of way, sensing rather than processing. It’s a breeze against my skin, not a geometrical proof.  To me it means that we can’t accurately identify and label the things that give life its greatest value. I see this in that way I see those pictures with a double image. It is a vase, or two faces? Of course by explaining it, I negate it, because I’m striving to define it with this crude tool we call language. I guess that’s what writers are compelled to do.

I remember a poetry class back in that magical time in my early 20s when the world was still fresh. We read The Red Wheelbarrow by William Carlos Williams.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Do you feel it? Careful now, don’t ruin it with analysis.

8th Grade Hell: a Bullying Incident

After I wrote my adoption post a couple of weeks ago I started thinking over my other memories on the subject. I came up with one that’s more about bullying than adoption. It was the culminating event in a long series of incidents. Looking back I can see that many of my beliefs about what people thought of me in high school spring from this encounter. That sad thing is, so much of what I assumed to be true wasn’t, but after experiences  like this, I wasn’t willing to take the risks necessary to learn that. I believed I was hated and shunned by most of my classmates, so that became my reality, even though many kids had no more malice for me than I had for them, and some of the bullies were only trying to avoid being singled out themselves. When you’re 14 you don’t have the perspective to see outside of your own experience.

I wrestled over changing the names and ultimately decided to do it. Not because these people could sue me, or because they deserve the anonymity, but because it felt wrong, almost like a form of revenge, to include them.

8^th Grade Hell

I sit at the back of my 8^th grade Language Arts class hearing laughter up front where a big knot of kids pulls in tight to discuss A Separate Peace. I don’t join them. I’m not welcome, so I huddle out of the way in my Goodwill clothes and my glasses that have the earpieces held on with black electrical tape.

Lexi Smith is up there. My best friend and worst enemy. On our “friend” days we sneak money out of her dad’s 5-gallon bottle of coins, which is so heavy it takes both of us to tip it. We ride to Dave’s Country Market on her motorcycle, keeping mostly to the fields, except for one quarter-mile stretch where we brave the Scenic Highway. Though we stick to the edge of the road, outside the white line, somehow that never fools cops into thinking we’re obeying the law.

On “enemy” days Lexi calls me Space Freak because ever since I saw Star Wars I’ve been crazy about science fiction and astronomy.

Up by the white board the laughter gets rowdier. There’s something malignant in it, and I strain to hear, eyes locked on the book I’m supposed to be reading. I know from experience that this kind of snickering means its time to hide or run. Lexi’s voice weaves in and out of the laughter. I catch a snippet of words that sound familiar, and then a whole sentence. Shame and outrage flare up, bigger than a supernova. My journal!

I leap up, charge to the front of the room, snatch the pages from Lexi’s hands. Her face is one big, nasty grin. Laughter swells around me, raucous now, because I’m making a scene. Kids like this feed off the energy of an emotional reaction the way a star feeds off hydrogen and helium. I attack Lexi, wanting to slap that mocking look off her face, and then the teacher is there, pulling us apart. Where has he been all this time? He’s supposed to be my friend! How could he let them do this?

*          *          *

We’re in the conference room in the library seated around a long table. Me, my teacher, the principal, and the whole Language Arts class.  I feel hopeful, because someone’s finally doing something, and humiliated, because everyone’s staring at me.  Deep down I know that this is only going to make things worse.

“She asks for it!” Tony Davis says, and it a way it’s true. I call him Tony “Davidson”, because he’s wigged out about Harleys.  But the difference between my insults and theirs is that I never start it. I only fight back, and I tell the principal so.

Tony knows he messed up. He goes for a distraction. “Back in first grade my mom told me I had to be nice to her because she’s adopted.”

My skin flashes cold and my gut crumples on itself like a wad of paper. No one’s made a secret of my adoption, but I didn’t know people were talking about it, making me into some pathetic Orphan Annie.

“But I’m tired of it,” Tony rages. “She’s a freak!”

That’s true, too. I make up little astronomy quizzes for our Language Arts teacher, who’s a grown-up, closet space freak, or maybe just pretends to be because he feels sorry for me. Every night I pray that God will let me see a UFO, because I want aliens to abduct me, and I’d go willingly, no matter how weird they looked.

The principal talks, the teacher talks, the kids mostly sit there wishing they were someplace else, except a few like Tony, who keep blaming it on me.

In the end, nothing is resolved. The bell rings. We get up to go. I walk out of the room, head down, wishing I was dead, and knowing that nothing will ever change.

Love: It’s Better Than a Sharp Stick in the Eye

Before I delve into my Valentine’s Day post, I’d like to take a moment to honor my state’s sesquicentennial. Happy 150^th birthday, Oregon! You don’t look a day over 4.5 billion.

And now, our featured attraction!

Just about three years ago my boyfriend and I began planning our nuptials. We wanted a party that everyone would remember as the best wedding they’d ever been to. No formal attire, no gifts, just a big, happy bash. We decided to have an outdoor wedding at my brother’s property in Estacada. In lieu of gifts several people were asked to bring a cake of their choice. Humor, naturally, would have to play a large role in the affair.

First, we sent out invitations that were made to look like the form a person would fill out when ordering their invitations from the printer. Bob filled all these in by hand.

Then we wrote our own vows:

Do you, Bob, take Lisa to be your lawfully wedded wife

in obsessive obstinacy and in rare moments of blissful peace,

to adopt each of her current and future cats as your own,

and to listen to endless revisions of her damned book,

until you roll off to that great wrecking yard in the sky?

Do you, Lisa, take Bob to be your lawfully wedded husband

in moments of whimsy or when more laid-back than a cat in a coma,

no matter how many times he tells you to take your feet off the dashboard,

fails to replace the toilet paper, or bumps his movies to the top of the NetFlix queue?

The ceremony was a big hit, though a few of our older, more traditional friends did find it a little perplexing.

After we exchanged vows, the band began playing. The bass player was a good friend of ours and also our Snap-on dealer. I’d been practicing a song with them for weeks, The Ballad of Thunder Road by Robert Mitchum, and was nervous about singing it. But to add to my jitters, I’d decided to give a speech to explain something that had happened to me a few days before the wedding. Something that was so pathetic it was funny: A black eye.

First, I’d like to thank all of you for coming way out here today to help Bob and I celebrate this truly earthshaking occasion.  And, of course for bringing the food.

I guess some of you are wondering about the black eye.  Well, you can stop giving my husband that look.  He had nothing to do with it.

What it was, actually, was the proverbial sharp stick in the eye.  Literally.  Monday I came half an inch from having a very, very bad day.  Any day you don’t lose an eye is a glorious day indeed.  And I’m gonna try to remember that the next time I blow up the engine in my car.

It could have been worse. I could have been the pirate bride, today, with an eye patch.

“Lisa, do you take Bob to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“Arrrrr!”

What happened was that I was doing some yard work.  I bent over to water a plant and poked myself with a bamboo stake.  And people used to tell me that racing was dangerous.  Stock car racing has nothing on landscaping.  Heck, I rolled a car and didn’t come out of it looking this bad.

It’s no big deal, really, other than it happened five days before my wedding.  Wedding.  Now there’s a scary thought.  Who would’ve guessed that either Bob or I would ever get married?

A friend of mine sent me this card.  “Heard you were getting married.  Missed the report on hell freezing over.”  You laugh, but my family knows it’s true.  They didn’t think they’d ever see this day.

But here I am. And you know what my first impression of marriage is?  It’s better than a sharp stick in the eye.

Well, I know you people want to go sample all that food, but before I let you get to it I have just one more story to tell…

Hit it, boys!

(segue into The Ballad of Thunder Road)

After people hit the refreshments table (catered by Costco), our minister lead the crowd in the hokey pokey, and then it was time to cut the cakes. There were many of them—red velvet, German chocolate, lemon—and our official, very non-traditional, American Chocolate Cake from Costco. For our bride and groom figures we used tiny replicas of Lightning McQueen and Sally Porsche from the movie Cars.

"And they lived happily ever after"

Rather than feeding each other cake, Bob and I plucked our automotive representatives from the top and licked the frosting off each other’s undercarriages.

Starting our own tradition

It was a perfect day, a perfect wedding, and even the little kids had fun.

The Realities of Being Adopted

When you’re adopted, you lose certain rights. The right to a real birth certificate. The right to blood relatives. The right to the truth about your entry into the world. The right to your medical history. The system is designed to protect the privacy of the birth parents and the feelings of the adoptive parents, even at the expense of the health of the child.

I realize that adoption laws are in the process of changing, but the fact remains that adult adoptees have to go through extra steps and pay additional expenses to achieve the same rights as those who aren’t adopted. Applying for a passport is just one example. The “proof of citizenship” requirement is a birth certificate filed within one year of birth. But at the time of adoption, these records are sealed and a new certificate is issued in the adoptive parents’ names.  This means that people adopted later in life need to supplement their birth certificate with items such as records from a family Bible or a signed statement from someone witnessing the birth. These things may be impossible to obtain in cases where the adoptive family is no longer in contact with the birth parents and the state is protecting the their privacy. Maybe provisions are made for adoptees, but if so, they aren’t listed on the passport application. Regardless, extra steps have to be taken. Steps that others don’t have to mess with.

It’s not like I have some misguided notion that the world ought to be fair. All I have to do is look at recent local changes in drivers’ licensing to see that it isn’t. Numerous women in Oregon have been forced to pay hundreds, even thousands, of dollars and invest countless hours in creating a paper trail to prove they are who they say they are. Men, who don’t change their names at marriage, have been spared all this. No, life isn’t fair, and I don’t expect it to be. But I still find it annoying, partly because it touches off emotions that are better left buried.

I first saw my adoption certificate at the age of 10 when I needed to show proof of who I was to the school in order play soccer. (God knows there were armies of 5^th grade terrorists back in the 70s just looking to wreak havoc on the country.) I questioned my mother about the fact that my birth parents weren’t listed on the document. She told me they weren’t listed on my birth certificate, either—that when a child is adopted, the adoptive parents are added in the place of the birth parents.

The idea stunned me. How could the government change history like that? Didn’t they know that real was real? My mother couldn’t see my point about the facts being altered. “Of course I’m your real mom!” she said, letting me know that her feelings were what mattered, and I had no right to my outrage against the state of Oregon or my utter shock at the idea that the government could tell lies and get away with it. As adults we all know the government adjusts the facts as it sees fit, but when you’re 10 that concept rocks your faith in reality.

Though my adoption occurred when I was five and was technically considered “open”, I rarely got to see my birth mom until I became an adult.  This was because my adoptive mother looked at my ongoing need for my birth mom as evidence that I didn’t love her enough.  The name “mom” was reserved only for my adoptive mother, and I was told that I should call my birth mom “Aunt Dani”. I learned to stop asking about her because it hurt my new mom’s feelings. And in my house, hurting Mom ’s feelings was the worst sin you could commit.

Not having a real birth certificate, not having access to my blood relatives or even the truth, made me feel like a second-class citizen, cut off from “normal” kids who had baby books and a family history that included their presence. Even as a kid I took pride in being my own unique self, but on some issues you don’t want to be different. You want to feel a connection, a sense of community with the rest of the world.

All this comes up when I run into situations where I need a birth certificate.  It’s not a huge deal, but it reminds me that once again I have to take time away from my real work to fight for things that I shouldn’t have to fight for.  It rams home that fallacy that somehow I’m not the same as everyone else, and that I don’t have the rights that they do.