spontaneous birthings
head fluff when illuminated can reveal some very special thingsArchive for adoption
standing in place
You know it’s love when you feel a constant tug at your throat and you want to run. Fast.
A friend once told me about a book (was it Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goleman?) in which was discussed the human nature of “fight or flight” and that all of our relationships are fundamentally built on either our instincts to stay and wrestle with our emotions, or run to protect our vulnerable hearts.
For me, my opening statement isn’t too far off from the truth. I’ve often wondered if I could understand the pure meaning of love – loving unselfishly, without needing anything in return or more specifically, without a guarantee that the love could be taken away or transformed into something less than extraordinary; giving love constantly without fear of how it will be received; loving without questioning whether or not the other person doubts it.
As an adopted person, I cannot help but to question love in its truest state. It’s an innate struggle that, thankfully, has been loosening its grip. I am only now, at 27 almost 28, years old, understanding what love is. And I am questioning it less.
If anything, this love has helped me to be more receptive of the people and events in my life – to be more present in the minute-to-minute happenings, to be more forgiving of myself and my (temporary) insecurities, to allow myself to enjoy each moment and give of myself fully to another person.
Sometimes I am caught by surprise that I’ve found love. I am so glad my instinct tells me to stay and nourish the immense joy I’ve found with my special someone. For once, I am perfectly happy standing in place.
morning kindness
One of the happiest moments for me is to witness an act of kindness. I was at the bus stop trying my best to be patient, and across the street where lies a Korean-owned (you can tell by the name) mechanic shop, out walked an Asian man (the owner?) all bundled up in dark clothing that mechanics always wear, cradling something in his hands. A small group of birds were chipping away at the salt on the driveway. The man threw them food and the birds scuttled about happily. It makes me smile to see people take care of the earth’s animals.
Sometimes I get caught up in the superficial characteristics of a moment. When I saw the man feed the birds (he fed them twice by the way, as if he felt sorry for some birds too slow to grab a morsel), I thought, “See, that’s Asian people for you – taking care of the vulnerable.” In an early post, when I first started blogging, I discussed my observed mannerisms of Asian people. Maybe it’s my being adopted that increases my fascination towards a people with whom I share a face but none of the culture and language. Maybe it’s the emphasis of race that saturates the American experience in general.
I felt like I shared something with that man feeding the birds. My observations of him somehow became linked to his intent of kindess, the way my heart warmed thinking of the birds relieved to find food on a cold day was like an extension of that man’s heart.
meaningful head fluff
I visited Kim & Bill, and adorable-precious-deliciously-cute little Lani this past weekend. Whenever I do so, I often find myself thinking about being adopted. It’s a frequent topic between my sister and me, and now whenever I hold Lani, I wonder how it was when I was as small as she. Who held me? Did someone try and make me giggle and laugh?
I never desired to find my birthparents. I held the resolve that it wasn’t possible since there was no information about me and where I came from and to whom I belonged. And besides, I have a family.
One night this weekend I dreamt that I was in an old apartment. A bunch of children, around 10-16 years old, ran through the halls trying to find their room. The room that had information about their birthparents. I found mine, and in it was a letter saved for me. It was from an aunt. I think it was in Korean, but I don’t remember. I don’t think I even knew what it said. It was thrilling enough that something was actually left behind for me. I had access to a bit of my birth history.
I ran to find Kim. She held up something ornate, very beautiful, but I don’t recall what it was. I think it was from her grandmother, but the details are vague. We were both so happy.
I haven’t had a dream about birthparents or Korea or anything from my infancy since I was in Korea, or the first year or so I was in the States. It really surprised me that I had dreamt this at all. Perhaps my openness to learning about my past and the country in which I breathed my first breath invited the dream. I do want to go back to visit the orphanage and see where I came from. I know now that I have to do this for myself. Because I want to go back. Because it’s all a part of me.
Generation Lazy
In the continuum of generations, I float somewhere between Generation X and Generation Y. Born in 1980, but having arrived in the United States in 1985, I quickly immersed into a culture of Sunday morning cartoons, VH1 and MTV videos, and in due time, the world wide web. I’m like the Older sister in the Generation Y of web-heads. When I was 7 or 8, I played with dolls, and did strange things that only kids would find fun – like collect all the acorns on the front lawn simply for the sake of…who knows what. I created things by hand – lego houses, battery-operated machines that had wheels or plastic buoy-type things that would make them brrrrrrr in the bathtub. And I (gasp) read a lot.When my parents got Internet, somewhere between 1990 – 1992, I didn’t understand what it was. Back then it was a grown-up thing. I didn’t know what was grown-up about it, but I just knew it wasn’t for kids. For my report on leaves, and the different species of bear (2 very important subjects for a 4th and 5th grader), I used the encyclopedia for information and content. There was no Wikipedia then.For a true Generation Y-er, the encyclopedia is obsolete and has been replaced by a shiny Mac or PC screen and the numerous (and often invaluable) websites that contain the keyword of choice. Wikipedia offers alternative names for the post-Generation X-ers – the Net Generation or the Google Generation. I have definitely gained quick membership to the Google Generation (google is now part of our everyday vernacular, but that is a whole new discussion), but would not want to be identified as such. It sounds slothful, mindless, and completely uninterested about what’s actually happening in the world.All that being said, regardless if I’m more Generation X or Generation Y, I am reminded that I do belong to a group of twenty-somethings perhaps more aptly named Generation Lazy. Call us web-savy; call us the Google Generation; call us the Now Generation; call us the Generation of Me’s; call us I-pod Crazies. The fact is simple. My generation is definitely more lazy than that of my parents. We want things when we want them, without doing anything (but to click buttons), and we want it now.
I like to think I’m not that bad. I am a hard worker. I pay my bills. I still read (gasp) books. But I am an avid googler, and I am quickly reminded of whose generation I belong.
True story:
Every morning, I come into my office, turn on my computer, then fill my Starbucks coffee mug with 1 cup French Roast and 1 cup Hazlenut decaf, return to my desk and start the day.
True conversation:
Me, to a coworker: “Good morning.”
Coworker: “Oh you can go first. I know it takes you a while to fill your mug.” Emphasis on “your”.
Me: “I don’t have it this morning. It’s sitting at home in the dishwasher. I’ll have to come back for my 2nd cup.” I say it in a tone that’s very close to complaining.
Coworker: “You know, Kristen. You can wash it by hand.” I look at her. “I’m serious.” I continue to look at her. Then it hits me.
Me: “Oh!” I say, “I didn’t even think of that!”
If my brain automatically associates dishwashing by my inserting dishes into a dishwasher, then I shamefully admit that I am part of Generation Lazy.
At least I wash my pots and pans – what’s now, the old fashioned way.
