The story of unions (Family Part 6)

How is it that with a separation created by the thousands of miles of ocean between where I was born and where I spent the formative and current years of my life, both of my biological parents and I somehow landed within 200 miles of each other?

They live in Portland... This is a fact for which not even my over-analytical brain could have been prepared.

Here I am expecting to pencil in an educational stop in some quaint corner of the country while on my trip of discovery and instead am left to wonder if I had ever run into them on one of my many trips north for soccer. Did I ever stop off to fill up my gas tank next to the man who gave me my chin? Was I ever eating out with one of my teams never noticing the woman looking at me quizzically, like she knew me but couldn't quite place the memory?

The fact that I grew up not 200 miles from my biological father is beyond rare, having my biological mother another 200 miles south makes it almost unbelievable. It would seem that the chances of this would be so slim; military personnel come from all parts and walks of this great country of ours, Mississippi to New York, California to Nebraska, and yet all of the parties involved in this crazy tale are lovers of its wettest two states.

I have been told I am a love baby; that even though my parents had me when they were 15, the fact that they married two years ago shows that true love prevailed.

Oh, did I forgot to mention that? Yeah...

It turns out that my parents were dating in Japan and, being 15 and in love, their relationship kindled into a spirited one ... My father's parents, being high on religion and low on faith were afraid of a repeat performance. So, immediately after I was born, they sent him stateside to live with his brother; my mom remained with her folks in Japan. They tried to date but, for hormone-ravaged 15-year-olds, holding on to a relationship is hard enough, impossible with no means of communication except the rare and expensive phone call and the inconsistency of snail mail if you throw in the vast expanse of blue between continents.

Through the time apart rumors persisted that he cheated, something he denied but her young heart wouldn't dismiss, and they broke up. But fate and a deep connection once again reunited them when she returned to Oregon at 18 to attend Willamette University. Love forgave hurt. They were to date again, an attempt at reconciliation looming, but an ex-girlfriend, sitting on his lap in a cleverly timed attempt to win him back, ruined any chance. No amount of explanation could suffice; the pains of earlier rumors burrowed too deeply for trust to have been established and so they separated once again.

Moving south she met a man who she fell for, partly, she says, "because he had boys and she missed me". They lived together, this relationship allowing her to jump straight into the motherly role she had prepared herself for with my impending birth, and she raised his four offspring as her own. Together their relationship created the older two of my half sisters.

During this same time my dad stayed up north, his self imposed exile back to Portland lasting only until he heard she had fallen in love. His heart broken form his own inability to commit he joined the Navy and shipped off for a career, the pain of his heart periodically drowned out by the bellowed orders of a life at sea. His career brought him solace, but with solace can come loneliness, and in time he met a woman and married, their union producing the youngest two of my half sisters.

Life takes funny turns, and through this whole tale, their lives and fate have seemingly been intertwined. Though apart for 30 years they shared a connection of curiosity, always wondering what the other was up to, what life was bringing them and if they were happy, neither current relationship filling the hole of lost love.

Their school in Japan was small, educating K-12 with a school population hovering at any one time around 250 students. As technology expanded the school created a website that served as a database for its students to keep in contact with each other from which she searched for him, years going by with no means of contact, until around '04 when his e-mail address suddenly appeared next to his name.

She drafted many an e-mail, page after page of life, thoughts, hopes and dreams but always hit delete, not knowing how much to divulge or to ask. Finally she put together one of simplicity - "Wonder how you are, hope life is good." - and hit send. The years melted away with his quick return correspondence and they rebuilt their fractured relationship on trust, belief and the undying knowledge that neither ever forgot the other. They dated for a few years and moved in together in Portland, marrying in August of '07.

And so my biological parents, 15 and living in Japan when they had me, are not only married, but live no more than 80 miles north of me... That is nothing more than a simple car drive and I have many in the next weeks, soccer always returning me to the City of Roses. I guess the educational stop doesn't have to be in some small corner of the country I have never seen, I guess it can be in one I know all too well...

Parenting thoughts, from the single guy

I have always wondered the difference between intelligence and smarts. Intelligence seems to be rote memory recall, the ability to recite a mathematical equation or the Gettysburg address on command, smarts more the ability to adapt, to understand the concept and the reason behind both equation and speech. I wonder which, if either, I am and have come to the conclusion that I'm not necessarily smart or intelligent, just a bit more analytical.

I love to analyze, to see the layers of the question or the problem rather than just the simplicity of the surface. The joke is that I am deeper than a riverbed after a drought but I've always known that I have seen the world differently than most people.

All around me it seems as though people are worried only about what they see directly in front of them, the problem at hand and its affects on them and them alone. They often lose sight of, or purposefully overlook, everything else, pretending to not recognize or plainly forgetting its existence.

I honestly cannot grasp how anyone is unable to understand the depth of decisions. It seems as though empathy, the ability to place oneself in another's shoes, is a lost art. Perhaps it is the day and age, our brains bombarded by a societal mainstream of self indulgence, that takes our focus from community and places it squarely on status.

I watch too many parents try to befriend their children instead of reprimand them, as if the child's opinion of the parent is more important than the parent's opinion of the child. I see parents who are trying to keep up with their kids, that desire to be "cool" pushing them to go so far as to even borrow their kid's clothes.

I have no problem with parents asking their kids for assistance with fashion, I have seen far too many white calf socks with Birkenstocks to know that parents are often incapable or oblivious to anything but comfort, but wish it would stop when parents find themselves dressing for the kid's friends rather than their own.

Or perhaps that is the larger problem, maybe the High School dynamic has carried over into adulthood. It's almost as if we grew up in job and responsibility but still care to judge and please based upon some out-of-whack hierarchical scale where status still reflects value.

I know that growing old sucks, that time speeds up exponentially with every passing birthday, but I wish we would stop trying to hold on to our youth so tightly, to stop judging one another on how smooth our skin is and rather judge based upon how wise our words are. But we have always valued youth, as if to embrace it gives us one more chance to vicariously relive ours.

We all have the ability to affect the world, we do every day with every decision we make. Parents have a unique position in that they are the ones most capable of teaching a child, their interactions shaping the values and perspectives of that child on a daily basis. Perhaps, instead of trying to be a peer, parents should more readily embrace their role model status.

I sent a letter to Oprah today... (Family Part 5)

I cannot count the number of times people have told me that this whole situation, my bio parents finding me after 34 years, is made for a movie...

I have talked with my bio parents and two of my half sisters and it seems that we all agree that this is such a crazy story that we may as well make something from it. On my trip, one of my main goals is to write a book a book about my life and this journey, Laura has been attempting to do so from her perspective as well, and in talking with Ashleigh, we have decided to collaborate on a screen play, as she is a film major and loves the idea of tinkering around with a story.

I logged onto the Oprah website tonight and looked under the "Be on the show" and was directed to a "Tell us your story" page that was filled with a variety of topics ranging from makeovers to health, sex to decorating, and struggled to find the right topic for this story. In looking under the "Friends and family" the "Has FACEBOOK changed your life?" header popped out at me. Seeings how Facebook has been the primary means of communication between my bio family and myself (I have not yet talked in person with any of my half sisters) that seemed to be the most appropriate.

I quickly filled out the form, butterflies rising slightly at the fearful thought of having to sit on the same couch Tom Cruise professed his girlish love for Kate on, and struggled with the concept of 2000 CHARACTERS versus words. Finally figuring out that they did not want to read a novel I sent:

34 years ago, in Osaka, Japan, my parents of 15 gave birth to me and, knowing the difficulty and struggle of trying to raise a child as children themselves, gave me up for adoption. I lived in Japan for a year and was then taken back to the US (being born on a Naval base, American in both blood and naturalization). My bio parents tried dating but fate intervened and they went their separate ways, living their lives apart for 30 years when, unbeknownst to me, they reconnected a few years ago and got married in '07. They had been searching for me for while and, as of two weeks ago Wed, they found me. Facebook is our primary means of communication....

I do not know what direction this story will take, I expect it will die off quietly, but I am curious to see what is thought about it. I have never been one to take risks, but am finding that recently I am more open to the possibility. I wonder how or if this risk will reward...

Greed in Sports

At what point in time did we lose sight of the fact that to be a professional athlete meant that you were lucky enough to earn a living playing the same childhood games almost every American grew up on? Getting paid to do so was once an honor, not a means to a guest spot on MTV's Cribs.

Much in the same way society has let greed con the average family of three into "needing" a house built for seven has it created a world of guaranteed money and athletes who think $25 million a year is a slap in the face. In a day and age where we all know someone affected by the recession, ourselves or our friends no longer able to make house payments or place an adequate meal on the dinner table, we still allow in place a system that enables athletes to hold out, to tell us that a salary 50 times greater than our own is not adequate or fair.

The average league minimum for the top three Professional sports is $375,000 a year. That means that the lowest paid player on an active roster is paid $1,041 every day of the year. How anyone can justify that this is somehow not enough is to show how far society's values have shifted.

All I ask is that we make it so a family of four can once again afford to bond over the shared power of a common interest by lowering salaries and taking away guaranteed money. It will take massive overhauls, one's that will anger the Capitalists to their core but, if the average American is being forced to keep a keen eye on their pocketbook, maybe the role models for America's youth should be made to as well.

Ink on the body

I have, for the past six years of my life, gone back and forth over the debate of tattooing my body. Would I be doing it because I wanted it, the tat's design and symbolism speaking to me irregardless of anyone else's influence, or was I contemplating it for the sole purpose of joining the mainstream, to ink my body in some defiance of normalcy, to add a touch of toughness to my nice guy exterior? The debate has raged, ever flipping between the yes and the no, various arguments for both making their cases heard in an attempt to win the judgment of my mind.

I have always known what I wanted my first tattoo to be, サッカー, katakana writing for soccer, as the combination of a birth in a Japanese hospital and a life surrounded by the world's game made sense. As often as I wanted to go out and get it, it wasn't until my dad's death a year and a half ago that I ever truly seriously considered bearing the pain. Couple that with the current events of my life, bio parents finding me and another heartbreaking relationship failure, and decision making has become easier, the knowledge that my current state of affairs leaves me wanting more guiding my way.

I knew that the katakana tattoo would have no significance or serve as any adequate reminder of the impact that my father's life had on me. In trying to find a meaningful symbol I stumbled upon the idea of our Donaldson family crest and was able to gain an antiquated, clean and obviously treasured copy from my uncle shortly after dad's passing. This original version must have been 70 years old, its artwork and design speaking to a time far more quaint and traditional than anything seen today.

I had never seen the family's crest and was impressed with the content, a shield painted with various symbols of different meanings. Emblazoned in the middle of the shield was a two headed eagle signifying power and protection, the eagle harboring a ship of hope in its chest dead center. An open hand signifying faith and sincerity adorned the upper left of the shield as a knight's helmet of wisdom with a hand grasping tightly to a dagger rose just above the shield. The only real downer were the flowing banners, but they could be lost in the modernization.

I tucked the paper safely in a folder and took it to a couple of tattoo artists in town, hoping one of them would be able to come up with a design more current and less archaic. I stopped off first at Scared Art, a tattoo parlor right across the street from OSU that shares a space with various bars and a Hawaiian restaurant loved for it's blahah portions of sweet shoyu chicken.

Walking in I felt the judgment come down fast from artists and patrons alike. Somehow I looked out of place, a guy wanting a tat without the angst necessary, a clean cut patron in a seedy parlor. I sat down and waited 30 minutes, one of the artists finally asking if I needed something, as if I just came in to peruse their lovely selection of periodicals instead of needing anything this business could offer.

Matt, the artist finally astute enough to grasp the money earning potential, looked at the crest with intrigue and carefully made a copy telling me that it would take him a week or so to come up with a mock up, my explanation of modernizing the version seen on the copy seemingly finding its way to understanding in his mind. He told me the cost would be between $120 and $130, a fair price for something of its magnitude.

While waiting on Matt I decided to look into another parlor in town and went to High Priestess. I found it odd that a clean cut town like Corvallis had more than one tattoo parlor, but the college kids and their post adolescent angst obviously offset any overabundance of corporate mentalities. High Priestess was vastly different from Sacred Art, set to almost entice populations from both college dorms and office cubicles, clean and neat but with artists who obviously breathed their work, sleeves of tats and piercings galore on all.

The receptionist, a cute 21 year old named Aubrie, was less artist and more of a beginning canvas, her arms laced with cute little tats, a bunny hopping right above her right wrist the most obvious. She told me that her tat artist was at lunch so I killed time in the corner looking over the three ring binders full of tat examples and slowly understood why there were so many meaningless tattoos floating around on so many soulless wannabes, the desire to just get a tat outweighing any serious judgment.

Marci, the tattoo artist, a woman of about 35, covered in a full front of tattoos and piercings that would take hours and numerous wrenches to get through airport security, came in 15 minutes later and set to feeling me out, wondering why this clean cut, middle aged guy was seeking a tat. Showing her my family's crest I tried to talk her through what I was looking for but she seemed to genuinely struggle to grasp what I wanted, though I think this was more due to her hope of adding cost rather than any lack of intelligence. She quoted me $200-$300, a price I balked at wondering why her vision was twice that of Matt's.

Though I hesitated I knew I wanted a tat and so I lay down a $40 deposit as an act of faith and told her I needed to see her vision for the crest first before I could make a decision. I also wanted to buy some time so I could check the work's heraldy to see what was expendable should her vision be worth a fraction of her ego's cost. She was caught off guard when I explained why I thought her price was high, my business sense of looking elsewhere throwing her for a loop. Being unsure of her vision and design we agreed that if I did not want the crest I could apply my deposit to the katakana, a tat I was sure of.

I was asked to come in that Fri to look at her design and let her know which I would want etched on for life, as the crest would take a three hour time slot and the katakana only an hour and she wanted to free her schedule should I choose the smaller of the the two. But last week was a crazy one of new families and I completely lost track of the days and my thoughts so I went in on the following Wed to see the mock up, hoping she would not be too pissed at my forgetful nature. She showed me the mock-up and, as I had feared, she did very little in terms of modernization or change of design so I decided on the katakana, thus freeing her schedule, and knew I would be back the following day to get myself inked.

Thursday rolled along like any other day, no feeling of nerves or trepidation, just a sense of psuedo-excitement (I say pseudo because after all that is happened in the last few years excitement is nothing more than slight change in perspective). After class I ran home to relief myself, wanting the comfort of my own trusted toilet over the cracked seats of McAlexander Fieldhouse, and to change socks, my feet reeking from the soles of indoor shoes soaked from years of sweaty use.

I was enjoying the brief respite when I happened to look at my appointment paper and noticed that I was scheduled for 12:15 instead of 12:30. Frantic to not be late (never good to piss off a woman with a needle) I hopped into my car and drove like the Wolf from Pulp Fiction, bumping De La Soul the whole way, my mind on life and the future instead of life's past for once.

Arriving a couple of minutes late I ran into Marcie headed out the door on a smoke break. I quickly showed her the artwork and was told to wait inside, that she would be back in a couple of minutes. Inside I couldn't help but notice how many kids came and went, the allure of adulthood and the freedom to do to their bodies the things their parents plead against while their friends egg them on drawing them in droves.

To my surprise, as I was sitting on the black leather couch thinking about the next hour, I was surprised to hear my name, a voice of surprise and excitement elicited from a girl I met recently but am always excited to see as her beauty, intelligence and natural ease elicit in me the desire to suddenly lose a decade from my life. She bounced over to me in her soccer shorts and gray sweatshirt, here in support of a friend getting her first belly button piercing. We chatted for a bit about life and soccer until the inevitable question of my purpose in a place such as this was uttered from her lips. Not quite knowing what her response would be I showed her the design and where I was putting it and she seemed intrigued, like this was out of character for me. She asked if I had any others and, in that moment, I wished my body was adorned with art and I could have teasingly told her that I couldn't show them to her for fear of her reaction.

My youthful wishes left with her friend, a kind goodbye following her out the door. A couple of minutes reality settled back in as Marci returned from her smoke break and began the preparations for my tat. After a few minutes she called me back to her office to talk placement. Once agreed upon she shaved my right leg just above my calf line and applied sanitation soap and asked my to lay down on my stomach as the tat work was about to begin.

I will admit that for a brief instant the idea of what was about to transpire hit and my nerves crashed, my fear of needles gripping my mind, but they quickly vanished as I recalled my reasons and resolution. Marci got to work and there was very little pain causing me to wonder why people always talked of the adrenaline rush. Only a couple of times did the needle feel like a million bees stinging the same spot at once but it never got to the point of panic or pained yelps. Ten minutes later it was over.

Based upon her $300 quote for the crest I had expected to be paying close to $100 but I was told the cost would be $60, $20 more than my down payment. I guess that getting to know your tattoo artist was a definite benefit.

My ability to relate to and give her advice for achieving her fitness goals while easing her mind's concerns that her experiences in raising her young boys was somehow abnormal put her at ease. I looked in the mirror at a simple, meaningful tat and knew that it would not be the last, I had at least one more whose significance far outweighed this one. I think this one was just the test, to see if I could withstand the pain, to see whether the experience was for me and not for for some ideal I feared I was not reaching.

My home away from home, van style (Trip Part 2)

I know that the mind works in weird ways, our eyes wired to only see what we want to see, often missing what is often right in front of us, but I have never noticed how many VW Vanagons there were in Corvallis until I started my search for one. I had heard from many people of their mythical "collector" status and my various on-line searches through the annals of the ethernet proved to be confirming my worst fear, that I would be driving a van Fixed Or Repaired Daily rather than a trustworthy Volkswagen. Time was running out and the option and cost of flying to Mississippi to check out a rig sight unseen seemed out of the question. It turns out I was wrong, there were currently four for sale within twenty miles of my house here in Corvallis, all I had to do was open my eyes.

I had been searching for a Volkswagen Vanagon for a while, my attempt at free sponsorship denied by VW in a nice, yet empty form letter, "every day we receive e-mails of this sort, how do we decide who to help and who not to? So we tell all no". This sounds to me like a tremendous cop out, expected I guess from a company in the midst of the largest recession and lowest sales seen within the industry ever.

Thankfully my newly found vision turned up a Vanagon on Circle Blvd, a maroon '91 Carat with a rebuilt engine and a drive train fully under warranty for 6 months (both a must with Vanagons, as their engines tend to need a rebuild around 160,000 miles, and this one was trucking along with 182,000) but the cost was seemingly too high for a car 17 years old. Something about it drew me in, so much so that its owner, Alex, a tall ex-hippie trying hard to shed his youthful stubble while maintaining his love of organics probably grew tired of my endless questions and attempts at a lower price. Though the $7,000 cost was high, I knew that the car's resale value was not in question and the fold down bed and MP3 player stereo seemed perfect for my trip.



I came close many times to buying it, the decision turning over and over in my head, but lost all interest when I started looking at VW's Westfalia editions. Once I saw the Westy's pop up camper top that creates a twin bed from a seemingly empty space and the twin burner stove, sink and small fridge that would allow for coffee and frying pan sandwiches on foggy early mornings I was hooked. The whole set up reminds me of a dorm room on wheels, the van's interior even coming equipped with a desk to write on, all I would need is to rig a 12V converter off of a spare battery and the traveling home would be complete.

I looked at an '88 Westy out on 53rd, a beautiful gray van whose 20 years of age went unnoticed under a glossy coat of original paint. This particular van's sale was made necessary by a divorce created from an academic lifestyle rich in education but lacking in communication. As much as I loved the car, its $12,000 price tag was far above my reach and the thought of adding fire to an the already tense relationship between a battling couple quickly negated my interest.

I was beginning to lose hope, my fears of being forced to sacrifice quality or open my pocketbook wider than my means allowed loomed over me when I found it, my wheeled home away from home that was to become my refuge. I found my bed, kitchen, work desk and daily recliner all conveniently rolled into one, necessities needed for the three month travel across this vast and unknown nation I am leaving on in less than a month.

I found my future home in Albany, this cream and red box on wheels. It is a bit old, but it runs straight and tight and is in great shape for a vehicle created during a time when phones were rotary and rabbit ears didn't just apply to animals. On my test drive I was hooked as the joyful smile never left my lips as I rolled along the open back roads of Albany.

It took a few days, days filled with test drives and mechanics far more versed in the inner workings of aging autos before I agreed to commit, my mind thinking of the possible problems while my heart was screaming "buy" "buy". I bought the van from a nice Vietnamese man, Tuan, a motivated seller forced to part with a garage full of toys in order to make house payments, the victim of an economy that no longer allows lifestyles of excess.



He was asking $3,500, a high price for a vehicle 27 years old with rust and a whiny fuel pump, but these Westys are so highly sought after that I could probably put 30,000 miles on it during the trip and still resell it for over $5000. My only hesitation was the same battle that had been raging in me for years, a fear of commitment. If I bought this van there would be no going back, the open road would be my canvas, but the journey would be all mine and there would be no one to blame, to rely on, or to criticize except myself...

Thankfully I listened to my heart and bought my van. As fearful as I am about this trip, the daily thoughts of quiet, peaceful nights spent listening to the voices of the country and days of an endless but exciting journey of self reflection remind me of its importance. I am thankful my eyes were opened enough to see what was in front of me.

Nature/nuture (Family Part 4)

I was warned to not go into this with any expectations, that no matter how simple they were, to have them meant to leave myself open to disappointment. The problem is, with something this big, how could you NOT? I mean seriously, my whole life I have had sporadic moments of "whats", those moments in time where I would wonder how life could have been different, moments created as products of bitter arguments with my parents or from glimpses of shared facial features in complete strangers walking through the mall. I wondered what my biological parents looked like, what they were doing with their lives, who they were and how they thought.

Wednesday night brought with it not only an e-mail received from a woman claiming to be my birth mother, but also the potential of pictures, as she was a member of the rapidly growing social network of Facebook. I read and reread the e-mail from her repeatedly, looking often at the attached picture of her and my birth father, searching for any resemblance, any glimpse of commonality, eyes, ears, nose, something, anything, but couldn't find one. Was there something I was missing? Here they were, my parents, the people whose genetic soup had created my existence and I could not see any physical similarity between us. Had nurture truly taken that big of a course, or were genetics as varied as they say, that some kids don't look a lot like either parent?

My initial thought was of a switch at birth, that somehow the hospital had accidentally mistaken me for another newborn. Being a man of probabilities, it soon dawned on me that the hospital workers were surely more careful than that, besides, how many American male newborns could there have been in a Japanese hospital in Osaka in 1975?

Finding her on Facebook, with a picture of the two of them at an age close to when I was born, was a trippy feeling to be sure. I searched again for subtle clues in the facial features of youth and again there was nothing, in fact I recall thinking to myself that my buddy Mark Doughtery looked more like them than I did.

I spent twenty minutes drafting a reply, searching for what to say and how to say it. For me, a man of many, many words, the fact that it took me twenty minutes reminded me of how soupish my brain had become. So I just went with simplicity, "nice to hear from you, hope all is well, don't have any pictures so here is a friend request as I found you on Facebook."

A few minutes after sending the e-mail I logged on to Facebook to check a message, knowing full well that there was a friend request floating somewhere off in the ether but that the probability of receiving a response that night was slim. Little did I realize that she was waiting by her computer, as anxious and ready for contact as a mother would be who has been waiting to see her child for the first time in 34 years.

There it was, a little red "1" icon in the lower right corner of my home page, letting me know that I had a notification, that something on my profile had changed. I clicked on the icon and up popped the note that Laura Ann Fiske Moore had accepted my friend request.

Remember that word trippy....?

To know that I now had absolute contact with the lady claiming to be my birth mother, that she had access to my profile and could check me out, to see who I was and what I looked like was so surreal. Would I disappoint, would she judge, would she be okay with what she saw?

I was just starting to look at her pictures and profile (as the road goes both ways and I had access to her life as well) when up popped a Facebook chat window from Laura Fiske. My bio mother was saying hello....

God, I cannot even begin to describe the emotion, I think that they all ran together so much that I felt like I had none, that my body had hit a state of numbness. I wrote hello back and, for the next two hours, proceeded to ask and answer questions from a woman I never knew but who was obviously ecstatic to have found me. To her credit, with as excited as she was and how much I am sure she wanted to say and ask, she was incredibly sweet about it, always reminding me that if any of this was too much she would completely understand. We talked a little about how I was, how I felt about all of this and the topic soon switched to her and her family.

My entire life, from the moment I noticed that the black hair that grew atop my brother's head was vastly different from any other hair I had ever seen in my family and from the time I noticed that upon docking at a marina I was off like a shot, asking every boat's captain if I could board to ask questions of people I had never met while my brother was content to find an empty stretch of dock where he could catch dinner, had I wondered if I had any biological siblings. Was there anyone out there that looked like, talked like and acted like I did?

I have watched and been a part of so many families in my lifetime (I seem to have a knack for integrating myself into other people's lives) that I wondered if I was missing something. Why were the interactions between most siblings so different than mine, would any sisters or brothers who shared my biological make-up act and interact differently with me than Peter did?

Facebook is a marvel...

Turns out I do have siblings... Four of them, all half sisters, two from her first marriage and two from his. It also turns out that they, at least the two on my bio mom's side, have known about me since they were able to understand what the word brother meant. I was told how excited they were to meet me, how they had been calling me Johnathon for years and how they wanted so much to meet me.

How could they be excited? They had never met me; what if I were some serial killer, some angry Republican, some lost soul looking for money? One of them even created a Facebook account that evening solely because she had heard that I was found...

Can you imagine my thoughts, my feelings at this time? I couldn't then and still cannot fully gather them into an understandable experience. Somewhere between nervousness and excitement my mind had shut down. Slowly it seems to be making sense; as I gain more knowledge, open myself up more to the opportunity, my mind is slowing its reel, I am once again less dizzy from the world's spin.