Adoptees must weave a new self-narrative out of the fragments of what was, what might have been, and what is.
Betty Jean Lifton
The early morning sun squeezes in through the sides of the blind on the bedroom window. On schedule, after a sweet thunder-storm late yesterday afternoon that brought hubby and granddaughter in from outside, the weather has turned.
I’ve been riding The Weather Network site for weeks, hoping summer would make a stellar showing on the Canadian prairies in this coming week.
This afternoon we head out, from a sporty weekend in Calgary, toward the first stop on, what I’ve started calling in my mind, the LLF vacation. LLF. Long Lost Family.
This adopted girl, with prairie in her DNA, has been anticipating this connecting and reconnecting trip for ages—a lifetime in a sense.
First stop later today: an early dinner with two of my sisters. These women were surprised (and rightly so) when I showed up on the scene a number of years ago. I’ve met them face-to-face only once. This evening we’ll dine together, catch up, and I’ll be in quiet awe at being with blood-related family members.
It’s such a simple thing. It’s also a big and complicated thing.
In all of us there is a hunger, marrow deep, to know our heritage—to know who we are and where we came from. Without this enriching knowledge, there is a hollow yearning. No matter what our attainments in life, there is still a vacuum, an emptiness, and the most disquieting loneliness.