Zen and the Art of Frying Pan Baseball

Transcendence, to change, to go beyond intended use, to function on a higher plane of reality, a thing experienced but not spoken of. A ten dollar word, and at least a million dollar philosophy. A concept that has meant many different things at many different times.

In one Hindu tradition transcendence is seen as obtaining a state beyond the material, where one is not bound to the cycles of rebirth. Mistakes are not repeated over and over again. It is in this context that I believe that an ordinary frying pan transcended it’s use yesterday in Utah.

Three teenage girls used the frying pan as means of escape from a maternity home. The use of violence was the only way they could see a way out of their situation. They had been sent to the home by parents who wished to hide them from their friends and community. It was the only way they could see their way out of the situation. The people who ran the home’s motives are unknown to me, but I’m sure they saw the home as the only solution for both the girls and the parents.

They are all blind.

There is clearly an elephant they cannot see.

The elephant is adoption. It seems that many truly cannot see it, and some that can refuse to acknowledge it’s presence.

It’s right there in front of you.


Small Town Girl

I live in a very small town in the Mid-west.  It’s one of those places where everybody knows everybody else’s business.  Pretty much everybody here knows I’m adopted.  Strangely enough, they all seem to think it was a good match, at least between me and my b-dad.

I read something written by an adoptive parent last week about how she felt that enviroment made the genes of adopted children express themselves differently than they would if the child was raised by b-parents.  It made me snicker.  Then wonder.

It came to me as so many of these things in life do, completely from left field.

My trashy neighbor, who seems to own the world’s most extensive collection of junky old Toyota pick-ups, must be beginning to construct a building to hold his treasures. From my living room window you can see little orange flags laid out for a foundation.  This building is less than welcome by me, but’s that’s a different story.  The flags got me thinking about something.

My b-dad owns a grocery store in my little town.  He built it in 1967.  It was the first supermarket in town.  He did well with it, much to the displeasure of a chain store that had a building on the town square.  My b-dad got word that the chain w=store was considering building a new store.  They were looking at a piece of land just south of our store.

One day when Dad came home for lunch, funny how Dad’s used to come home for lunch-a more simple time, I guess, he loaded up me and Mom in the store truck.  In the truck he had a bundle of thoser orange flags and the blueprints from our house.  We went out to the peice of land that the chain store was considering buying, Dad had purchased an option on the land that morning.  Dad, Mom and I put the flags around the property, an entrance from the highway, parking lot, and a big ass building were marked out.

Then Dad got out the house plans, set them on the hood of the truck.   He called us over and pointed at the flags, gesturing like this would be here and that would be there.  Mom and I thought he had lost his mind, we had just built that house, and he was talking about a grocery store.

We didn’t know that the chain store manager drove by the lot we were standing on everyday on his way back from his lunch hour.  The chain store manager didn’t know that we were looking at house blueprints.

Plans for the new chain store came to an end.

That sounds exactly like something I would do.  Nature or nurture?  I wonder.

I also wonder if it was wrong of me to move a couple of my neighbors little flags about six inches?

The Audacity of Grief

I’m not sure I can afford the audacity of grief. Anger is cheaper.

Grief is big and elaborate, it requires much investment, and tending of that investment. It’s like a 401K with separate accounts. Some must be invest conservatively in order to have enough to get you through the rest of your years. By the time you reach the middle of life, you know you will have much use for grief. Sometime you stopped having to be fitted for bridesmaid dresses and found yourself in need of sober suits. They don’t come cheap, and you start asking yourself if you need more wardrobe options to wear to grieving occasions. You don’t know how long this will go on, and if you’ll even stay the same size.

Some of your grief must also be invested in higher yield riskier instruments, you need to make this pay while you can. You’re got to build it up fast in order to have enough to let it take care of itself when you just don’t have the strength to work at it anymore. It is more likely that you will become disabled, than die young. Also, the bigger the grief nest egg, the more comfortably you’ll be able to do it. If you get lucky you might even be able to spend you grieving twilight years somewhere warm and sunny. You could also need constant care in your grieving, you want to be able to do it somewhere nice, with scheduled activities, good food, and a caring staff. You don’t want to end up grieving on the welfare state.

You could even invest in commodities. Speculating on grief contracts. Will greif demand be higher next hurricane season in the south? Will grief come in short supply due to a lighter than usual civl unrest season in South America or Africa? Should you bet on it? It’s risky, but the rewards can be high.

I can’t even afford to buy into this right now. I have my grief contribution at it’s lowest level. I’m not even taking full advantage from my full vestment by order of being an adoptee. I need ready cash reserves for anger.

Anger is cheap and I can buy it anywhere. In fact, I can get it wholesale. There is something to be said for buying anger on the open market, it drives the world. It get things done. It even feels good. Sure, it’s addictive, but it fuels the fire.

And I can quit any time I want.

Happy-ass Adoptees

I hate happy-ass adoptees. If I hear how special they are because they were “chosen” one more time, I’m going to explode.

They can take their “I’m so special because I was wanted more than bio kids.” and shove it.

As for the attitude some of these happy asses seem to have about only adoptees that had awful childhoods being disatified with their situation, I’d like to invite them to take a swim in Lake Fuck.

I’m just sick to shit of hearing it.

To think someone would have the audacity to tell a firstmom who has searched for her near middle aged child to forget about contacting her directly because the a-mom didn’t want her to, I say screw off. This firstmom at least deserves to hear that her birth-daughter doesn’t want contact directly. If for no other reason than she was brave enough to seek her daughter out. That takes a fair amount of guts and she at least deserves to hear her daughters voice for her troubles.

The very disrespectfulness of suggesting a reunion shouldn’t even be attempted because Miss Happy-Ass wouldn’t want one enrages me.

We aren’t all like you.

Grow the fuck up.

I probably shouldn’t post this, but I’m going to anyway.

I spoke with a strong lady last night.  I like her very much, we have a lot in common.  We’ve been down some of the same roads.

In speaking with her and others involved in adoption, I’m always struck not so much by the similarities, but our reactions to them.  I’m beginning to detect patterns somewhat like the stages of grief.

It seems that many of us start out as the happy adoptee, we cannot fathom what these angry people are saying. What do they mean by declaring adoption as something like slavery?  Our parents loved us didn’t they?  We were cared for.

Then we come up against everybody from the government to our families and friends treating us like the eternal child when we complain about the lack of information available to us.  At first we wonder why the hell they are so mad at us for just wanting to know what everybody else does.  Then it occurs to us they don’t think we deserve to know these things, we should just be grateful that someone adopted us.  This is where the anger starts.

We aren’t really mad a these people, we are mad at something much bigger.  We start to sense what we are up against.  It seems that the institutions and people who should help us are instead putting up every roadblock possible to finding answers.  It dawns on us that those angry adoptees might just have a legitimate reason for their anger, but we aren’t quite there yet.

So we take on the system, with varying degrees of sucess.  Some of us find what we are looking for, some don’t.  The funny thing is, from that point, it doesn’t seem to matter.  Those who are disappointed stay mad, those who aren’t stay mad too.  Knowing what you missed is every bit as maddening as not knowing.

No matter which road life takes us on, we end up in the same place.  All roads lead to anger.

What’s the next stop on the road?  I honestly don’t know.

I’m stil mad.

I hope there is reslution for every single one of us, all I know is many of us are walking together now.

Down To Business

Now that I’m over the stress of the move, let’s move on.

I’m still trying to figure out how much of the shit I go through is about adoption, and how much isn’t.  I’m not sure there is any way to tell.

It is said that we are all much more complicated than we seem to others.  I do believe that, but why does it seem that everybody’s more adjusted than me?  By this I don’t mean the brave everything’s alrght face that everybody puts on, I mean, how is they can say what they are with such authority.  They say..

I’m the mother of three, that’s what I am.


I’m an artist, that’s what I am.


I’m a IT person, that’s what I am.



How are they so convinced that’s what they are?

I have no idea what I really am.

Just how do you come to this decision?  I’m too many things.  I’d need a book.

Am I overcomplicating things?