Peak fall colors adorn the trees outside as I sit quietly at my friend’s kitchen table. Tom’s out for a run, and I await the arrival of my little sister for one of our infrequent get-togethers. Three weeks of travel are almost complete: Nevada, California, New Mexico, and now, Minnesota. In the days to come, I will see my father, siblings, and BFF, but at the moment, my mind remains fixated on the last few days: we’ve just spent the weekend with Michael’s adoptive family and friends to honor ten years since Michael died.
All the usual phrases made their way into our conversations, with “I can’t believe it’s been so long” being the most prominent. And yes, it has been ten years, but parts of me feel like decades have passed. This feeling stems (I think) from having grown so much since his passing. Learning to take responsibility for my actions, emerging from the adoption fog, and discovering that life and all that it entails exists on a continuum, where more than one thing can be true at once.
My growth manifests most frequently as calmness, or stillness, in body and mind, but it is neither easy nor constant. In the past ten years, I experienced more angst and pain than ever before. Perhaps this is the key: that I have FELT, and, therefore, I have GROWN.
I didn’t cry as I stood next to Michael’s gravestone. The Candace of yesterday would have berated herself mercilessly for this lack of demonstrative emotion. Instead, I was resigned. Why resignation? I guess because I learned something new during the Concerned United Birthparents Annual Retreat in California, which we’d attended the weekend before visiting Michael. Always an emotional torrent, I have yet to process all that transpired while at the Retreat, but the big takeaway: Michael has passed, but I’ve been living as though I would one day have a relationship with him.
Let me explain.
I spent the years of reunion with Michael searching for ways to connect to him because I desperately hoped to be a regular part of his life, maybe even fill a mother-figure role. I scoured the internet for mention of him and his family; I stalked his Facebook and Myspace pages. I looked for any information that might help me relate to him. But this year, I rammed into a mountain of anger. My mind screamed that I was on the outside looking in and always will be. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back, so why subject myself to stories that only bring sorrow for not having been there?
Fortunately, Tom listened patiently while I railed against the unfairness of it all. He let me vent this latest round of regret, resentment, and sadness until I could see that for me to listen to their stories helps keep Michael alive. And for me to bear witness, no matter how painful, is a kindness I can – and should – grant.
And we had a beautiful weekend together. They shared memories and photographs, love and kindness, and we even created new memories with Michael, but I will save those for a different post.
I hope the coming season welcomes you warmly. As I return to Denali – where temperatures hover below freezing and snow already covers the ground – the crisp days of winter contain a creative electric current I am eager to tap into. On my agenda first is the completion of the audiobook edition of Goodbye Again. Ever the DIY-ers, Tom transformed the storage/bedroom into a recording studio before we left on this trip. I’ve recorded the content, and we now move on to editing. For those of you who enjoy listening to books read by the author, please watch for future posts regarding publication and availability.
Until next time…
Peace
Candace
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