When I was in junior high in Jefferson City, THE PLACE to be on wintry Friday nights was the local ice rink. I'd tiny-step out onto the ice, ankles stiff as boards, arms out to my side to aid in balance. I took lessons, but I was never able to master the pigeon toed stop, much less the more impressive quickly-turn-both-feet-in-the-same-direction, accompanied with an equally impressive spray of ice. No, the only way I could stop was to run into the metal bars along the outer perimeter of the rink. It's a wonder my shins aren't permanently bruised.
I used to stand along the fence, one hand behind my back, very firmly gripping the bar, gazing at that beautiful little patch of center ice. It was reserved for those advanced skaters who could do figure eights and spins and jumps, all without falling on their bums.
I've come to accept that my body, lithe or otherwise, is not meant to be pushed to those types of physical limits. As long as I've got the Olympics (and Bob Costas sans pink eye) I'm good.
7. World Peace...Humanity, since its inception, has been warring against itself pretty much non-stop. I'm pretty sure that there's never, ever been a day when there hasn't been some kind of conflict going on in the world. Having a degree in history you'd think I'd know this unequivocally, and be able to back it up with a boatload of dates and details, but you'd be wrong. But I'm pretty sure I'm right. However, with my highly honed diplomatic skills and thorough understanding of world politics, I think I've determined the root cause of all conflict (that's more than a bit of sarcasm, dear readers...).
Arrogance.
Everybody thinks their **** doesn't stink. My country is older than yours is. My leaders are smarter than your leaders. My belief system is better than your belief system. My rights supersede your rights. My gun is bigger than your gun. My color of skin is more palatable than the color of your skin. My side of the track is prettier than your side of the track.
Enough already.
No belief - no matter how righteous or true or defensible - makes it okay to kill other people just because they happen to disagree on the issue in question. I've had enough intolerance to last hundreds of lifetimes. Everybody just needs to hold hands with their enemy until the anger has subsided. I know it's a simplistic solution. I know it's more complicated than that.
But does it have to be?
6. Meet My Birth Mother...I've known I am adopted since I've been able to know stuff. They gave me all the information they had about my birth mother...name, where I was born, the circumstances that led to her decision to drive to St. Louis the day after I was born and leave me at the St. Louis Children's Home. It's always been with me.
Sure, I wondered from time to time what she was doing, if I had siblings...the normal stuff. If my mom and dad hadn't been such awesome parents, I might have been tempted to try and find her. But back then pre-internet - there wasn't a lot I could do on my own. And Magnum, P.I. lived too far away.
It wasn't until my own daughter, Kate, was born that I realized the magnitude of my birth mother's decision. I realized how brave she was and how hard it must have been. And I realized what a blessing she had given me. About that time my parents gave me my adoption papers. They didn't really contain any more information than I already knew, so I tucked them away in our safety deposit box, knowing that if I really wanted to, I could pursue it. From time to time, I'd search for her online, but never got a hit.
About seven years ago, I Googled her name again. The first thing that popped up was an obituary. I read it, heart pounding. It was her. All the facts I knew about her lined up. Her name (Teresa Anne; when my parents picked me up in St. Louis, my name was Teresa). Where she went to school. What church she attended. She'd died just a couple of years ago.
As I read, I was able to cobble together a bit of her life's history. Her birthday was just a few days after mine. She was twenty-three when I was born, the same age I was when I had Kate. I have a half sister. Two sons died in infancy. She spent her life as a teacher and hospital administrator.
The name of the officiating pastor at her funeral was listed in the write-up, so I sent him an email. He responded rather quickly, saying that he's only been at the church a short time and my birth mother was in a nursing home, so he didn't know her very well. He put me in touch with the church secretary, who'd known Anne her entire life.
We started a marvelous email correspondence and I got to know more and more about Anne. She sang in the choir (alto, same as me). She crocheted (I used to cross stitch). My half sister was born eighteen months after I was born. She and her ex-husband had remained on friendly terms (I'm not sure if he's my birth father or not; my birth certificate has my mom and dad listed as the parents). She died of emphysema (so glad I quit smoking in the 80's). The church secretary became a touchstone to Anne. One day, two packages arrived on my doorstep. One contained a few old church pictorial directories. I know I must have held my breath as I thumbed back to the "W's." All these years I imagined that there was someone who looked a lot like me wandering the planet. We didn't look at all alike.
The second package took my breath away. It was a crocheted wall hanging sampler. Made by my birth mother's hands. The church secretary had purchased it several years earlier at a hospital bazaar where Anne worked. It hangs in our bathroom and I see it every day.
And I think, "You made the right decision, Anne." Bless your heart.
Next time...the list is finished
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