Sitting With Sorrow

Adoption Healing (A Book Review)

There are ex-husbands and ex-wives, but there are no ex-moms, ex-dads, or ex-children.

Anonymous

            Newborn baby (photo: Barbara Tang, flickr creative commons)

Between 1940 - 1970, approximately 4 million women (in the U.S. alone) relinquished newborn babies for adoption; I was one of them. This time period is now known as The Baby Scoop Era and there has been a great deal of research on the unprecedented numbers of adoptions that took place during those years. I gave birth to a beautiful daughter on July 25, 1971 (still within the boundaries of this era, in my opinion) and wasn't allowed to hold her or touch her. The pain of the moment they took my daughter away, has echoed through the rest of my life. Tragically, when my baby was born I was only 17 and my boyfriend and I didn't understand any of the consequences of this relinquishment and subsequent adoption. It wasn't a choice, however, but more like the only thing we knew to do or were allowed to do by the adults in our world. No one told us what the consequences might be, what our rights - as parents - were, or what help we could have had in raising our child. We also had no idea of the huge consequences this act would have in our daughter's life. That's because it is rare, even today, to tell the truth about adoption: not the sugar-coated truth, the truth.

            Pregnant woman on the street, Thailand (photo: drbutoni, flickr creative commons)

Recently, I was delighted to discover the book Adoption Healing: a path to recovery written by adoptee, and therapist, Joe Soll. This book validates many of the feelings I've had over the years about the lasting pain of adoption loss. As Soll says, "Everyone involved in an adoption has many losses." The book is broken up into short, digestible chapters and Soll, a longtime counsellor, provides helpful advice at the end of each chapter for those readers who have become emotionally overwhelmed (Soll calls this "whelmed") through reading.

Each chapter also has valuable sections that contrast the Myths of adoption with the Facts. I found these sections to be particularly healing for myself and I hope they will be just as healing for adoptees.  Here are some of my favorite facts.

• Most people surrender a child to adoption because they lack the resources to do otherwise
• Birthparents (Soll is now using the more politically-correct terms first or natural mother) care forever and have great difficulty going on with their lives.
• Bonding begins before birth.
• Adopted children think about their birthmothers all the time.
• Babies suffer from the loss of their mothers.

My favorite chapter of the book, however, is the one titled, "The Respect We Never Got." In this chapter, Soll describes the many ways in which all members of the adoption triad were not treated with respect. Much of what he says in this chapter rings so true that it made me cry. As a first mother, I was treated like a criminal by most adults. Kindness was rare and after I agreed to relinquish my daughter for adoption, comfort was nonexistent. Soll uses a wonderful analogy to describe the deep truth of adoption. 

It was like a big plane crash in a field. All the mothers and babies lying there crying and the rescuers came and carried them off in different directions. When they got to the Emergency Room they dusted them off, told them they were fine and sent them on their way. The mothers went home and the babies went to new homes. All were told they were fine. The most sacred relationship in the world has now gone up in smoke. They were told that there wasn't any accident, no crash, forget about it, just get on with your lives. (Soll, p. 153)

According to Soll, "Real healing can only be done when you know where you hurt, why you hurt, and the extent of the pain." I agree. This book, although written for adoptees, is recommended for anyone who has experienced adoption loss. My only criticism is that, as with much of the literature on adoption, there is little mention of the role of the first father and the pain he experiences. Soll and a co-author have written several other books, including one specifically for mothers. Unfortunately, my local library doesn't have a copy. I will suggest that they purchase it and, if they don't, I'll buy one myself. 

Soll runs Healing Weekends in New York State Even though I live on the West Coast, I am considering going to one. If his small book is so powerful, I can only imagine what workshops would be like. From a look at his website, they must be good because I see that they fill quickly. 

Note to readers:  If you want to take a look at my other blogs, you can either follow the links here Digging Out and The Caregivers Chronicle or click on the links at the top of the page. Digging Out is a blog about getting my life in order - digging out of debt and clutter. The Caregivers Chronicle is about caregiving for my aging parents and topics that interest other caregivers. 

Just Beyond Hope - Documenting World War II Japanese Internment Camps

For those who were interned, I hope this work brings them some peace

Pia Massie, filmmaker

  Japanese family waiting to be "evacuated," Hayward, California, May 1942 (photo: Dorothea Lange, National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), Records of War Relocation Authority)

Today, the little girl in the picture above would be about 80 years old and the baby wouldn't be much younger. The mother is probably no longer alive and the baby probably has few memories of the day his/her family was forced to leave their home. The girl, however, from the look in her eyes will never forget. Her expression says everything about what it must have been like to be caught up in the frightening experience of the relocation of Japanese Americans and Japanese Canadians during World War II. It is her story - the story of people who were young during the internment - that Pia Massie has set out to tell in her new film, Just Beyond Hope. 

Japanese farmer waiting to be relocated, Woodland, California. photo: Dorothea Lange, NARA

Just Beyond Hope weaves together the stories of three very different women: Mine Okubo, a Japanese artist who was interned at a camp in California; Margaret Sage a Canadian woman who worked at Tashme, the internment camp located "just beyond Hope," about 200 kilometers from Vancouver, and renowned photographer Dorothea Lange who took hundreds of moving photographs documenting the internment camps. When Massie began actively working on the film - she had been thinking about the topic for 30 years - she was surprised to discover that even after more than 60 years, survivors were still reluctant to speak about their experiences. As Massie told writer, Kenji Maeda, in an interview in The Bulletin: A Journal of Japanese Canadian Community, History + Culture. "It was stunning to realize how taboo the stories were to speak about; how much emotional freight they still carried. This, if anything, spurred me on more to connect with the elders that had lived it and let them set down some of the pain they they had been carrying."  

    Tashme Internment Camp, near Hope, B.C. photo: www.discovernikeii.org 

My husband and I went to the World Premiere of Just Beyond Hope last Saturday at Vancouver's DOXA Documentary Film Festival. I'm delighted that Massie didn't let people's reluctance to speak stop her from producing this beautiful film. Just Beyond Hope is an "experimental" documentary, as Massie referred to it after the screening. The film blends footage of photographs from Dorothea Lange and other photographers, with shots of the landscape and ocean of the West Coast of British Columbia, contrasted with shots of the harsher landscape of the internment camp. Narrators read excerpts from the letters that Canadian Margaret Sage's wrote while working at Tashme, and excerpts from Okubo's book, Citizen 13660. The excerpts from Okubo's book are read, somewhat ironically, by an "aunt" (actually cousin) that Massie discovered while researching the film. Massie's aunt, now in her 80s, was more than willing to read from Okubo's book, but was reluctant to tell her own story. Interwoven with the three main stories are snippets of Massie's own family history. 

Woman, Hayward, California; posters on wall list the names of families to be relocated; photo: Dorothea Lange, NARA. 

The film was both a challenging and moving experience. There were so many layers of information and overlapping voices in the film, that I need to watch it again - maybe more than once. There were also layers of language, particularly untranslated Japanese, that enriched the film. One of the most surprising things I discovered while watching the film was the story of how Japanese Canadians were deported to Japan. Apparently, they were given a choice of moving east of the Rockies or going to Japan. Although, the factual details don't all come through in the film, Canada clearly didn't come off much better than the U.S. when it came to their treatment of Japanese Canadians during World War II. 

Another aspect of the film that I loved was the way in which Massie wove the voice of white social worker, Margaret Sage, into the story. Sage's voice added to the film's texture and provided a subtle way to show the heartbreak of the deportations and separation of families. I loved the film. It provides an intimate look at the experiences of relocation and internment from the viewpoint of a member of the Japanese Canadian community. I highly recommend the film and urge you to see it, if you have a chance.  

For Further Reading, Watching, Looking

When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka

    A novel that documents the story of a Japanese family from Berkeley during the war years. Short and emotionally subtle with marvelous details. 

Impounded: Dorothea Lange and the Censored Images of Japanese American Internment

A fascinating book about how Lange's "impounded" photographs were finally released. 

War Relocation Authority Photographs

Almost 8,000 photographs taken by photographers including Dorothea Lange, Russell Lee, Japanese photographer Hikaru Iwasaki and many others. A treat for the eyes, mind, and heart. Be careful, however, or you can be sucked into the vortex of these beautiful photographs and spend hours clicking through photo after photo. 

And for quite a different film about one survivor of an internment camp, check out the clip from The Cats of Mirikitani below. 

 

Note to readers:  If you want to take a look at my other blogs, you can either follow the links here Digging Out and The Caregivers Chronicle or click on the links at the top of the page. Digging Out is a blog about getting my life in order - digging out of debt and clutter. The Caregivers Chronicle is about caregiving for my aging parents and topics that interest other caregivers.

The joy of singing

God respects me when I work, but He loves me when I sing.

Rabindranath Tagore

              Girls singing in Bangalore, India (photo: Sabarish Raghupathy, flickr creative commons)

This Thursday (May 10) I performed in my second choir concert in less than a year. Like the December (2011) concert this one included our choir, Home Cookin', and our choir director's other choir: Harmony Mountain. The venue was a small brown Anglican church nestled in a quiet side street in North Vancouver. The audience wasn't quite as large as the previous concert, but it was large enough to make it exciting and to appreciate the fact that we weren't just singing for ourselves. In fact, we were singing for both the audience and to benefit The Stephen Lewis Foundation, an organization that  supports people living with AIDS in Africa, the families of those who have died of the disease, and grandparents who are raising AIDS orphans. That fact made me feel good. But, to be honest, singing with my choir in front of an audience would have made me feel good even if we weren't supporting a worthy cause. (It's great that we were, but it isn't a necessary part of the process.)  

Singing is a human universal. People of all ages from every culture in the world sing when they're happy, when they're sad, and when they're sad and want to be happy. Singing is a gift, especially for those who are recovering from trauma and grief. It releases the heart strings and lets us breathe again and connects us to our own breath and to those who are singing beside us. Our choir is a pretty informal one and we sing what our director calls "roots and folk" music, which is a good description of what we do. On Thursday, our program included a folky song from Newfoundland, a gospel song that is the basis for the well known civil rights song, "Keep Your Eyes on the Prize," a Georgian folk song (from Georgia, Russia) and a nice mix of singer-songwriter stuff. We had soloists, quartets - one of which I was in - trios and duets. We were accompanied by piano, a small bluegrass band, and nothing - i.e. a cappella. All of it was a blast. The other choir was a real treat too. They did music that ranged from the gospel song, Angel Band, to songs by Joe Cocker and Sting.  (Women singing, photo: Rusty Stewart. flickr creative commons)

                Man singing, photo: Tobias Leeger, flickr creative commons

For me, singing has been a large part of my healing journey. I'm not the only one who is using this practice. Here is a moving story about an Iraqi War veteran who has returned to singing to save his life: not metaphorically, but literally. He made three suicide attempts before rediscovering the joy of singing that he had practiced as a young man. Haitians living in New York City have also been using singing to heal from the grief and trauma of the Haitian Earthquake of 2010. I think singing has such a powerful healing affect because it's based in a different part of our brain than spoken speech. I know this is hard to believe, but I've read about it and witnessed it with my own eyes. In fact, singing therapy is being used to teach stroke survivors how to speak again. One of the most moving performances I've ever witnessed was the veteran blues and jazz singer Sippie Wallace singing after she had had a stroke. Sippie couldn't walk or talk and had to be helped onto the stage. But, boy, could she sing. She opened her mouth and a beautiful sound came out. I've never forgotten watching this small old woman, recovering from a stroke, sing with such huge joy.  (Singing above, one of the members of The Connections Zulu Choir, photo: Andrew, flickr creative commons)

 

 In the video below, Sippie was younger, pre-stroke. 

s. 

 

What healing practices do you use that bring you joy and feed your heart? I'd love to hear about them. 

May 8 - Red Cross Day

There is no better exercise for your heart, than reaching down and helping to lift someone up.

Bernard Meltzer 

Girl in Haiti who lost her leg in the earthquake, the Red Cross/Red Crescent provided her with counselling to deal with psychological trauma (photo: Olav Saltbones, IFRC, flickr creative commons)

May 8 is World Red Cross Day, which recognizes the birthday of Jean Henri (Henry) Dunant, the founder of the International Red Cross. 2012 is the 184th anniversary of Dunant's birth. Dunant established the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) in 1863 and the first Geneva Convention in 1864 was based on his ideas. Dunant received the first Nobel Peace Prize in 1901 for this important work. Why write a post about the Red Cross on a blog about trauma and PTSD, you may ask? Because Red Cross volunteers respond to disasters of all kinds, from "natural" disasters like earthquakes to man-made disasters like war. The quality of the Red Cross response to any particular human disaster can make a great deal of difference to the lives of those caught in traumatic events and may even prevent the development of PTSD for some people. 

Originally, the Red Cross was started to deal with the trauma of war. The founder of the American Red Cross, Clara Barton, worked as a nurse in the American Civil War and later successfully lobbied the U.S. government to support the International Red Cross. The Red Cross also had a large presence in World War I, with many people, including American writer Ernest Hemingway, working as Red Cross ambulance drivers. Most of us also associate the Red Cross with responses to such recent disasters as the earthquakes in Haiti and Japan and other natural disasters around the world. (photo: helping a wounded soldier into an ambulance, circa 1918, National Library of Scotland collections)

 

However, this post isn't intended to provide a history of the Red Cross. I'm sure there are plenty of other resources that do a great job of that. I'm more interested in reflecting here on how this international organization has facilitated people helping each other under the most horrific conditions. There are almost 100 million (yes, million) Red Cross volunteers in countries around the world. Without such an organization, I'm sure that people would still help each other. However, under extreme conditions it would be difficult to do this on an ad hoc basis, all by yourself or with your neighbors. If you were trying to help in a war zone, for example, without the "red cross," you'd obviously risk being shot or killed. The Red Cross's reputation wasn't built overnight and the Red Cross, as with any group of people, undoubtedly has its flaws. Nonetheless, without it, people caught up in terrible situations would face even worse trauma. And even though the Red Cross couldn't stop the genocide in Rwanda or the Holocaust, it served the invaluable function afterwards of helping survivors locate family members. (photo: Red Cross volunteer in India, IFRC, flickr creative commons) 

                      Woman in Bangladesh talking to a Red Cross volunteer about climate change (photo: Amir Jina, flickr)

What I find even more interesting than the work that the Red Cross does in disasters and wars, is the work they do in the areas of health care and mitigating climate change. Red Cross volunteers and paid professionals work around the world on campaigns to help prevent and treat such diseases as AIDs, tuberculosis (TB), and malaria. The Red Cross also helps women and children with nutritional support in disaster zones and refugee camps. In countries hardest hit by climate change, such as Bangladesh, Red Cross volunteers are working on projects to help mitigate damage that has already happened and study ways to prevent future damage related to climate change. All of this work can prevent trauma, in the sense that it can prevent parents from dying of disease and leaving orphaned - i.e. traumatized - children behind and, in some cases, this type of work can even prevent more people from becoming climate refugees. I'm not sure how long this preventative work has been going on, but it is so important. 

Check out the video below. Yes, I know Bono doesn't exactly have the reputation as one of the world's most humble people and, in a way, this clip is an ad for the Red Cross. Despite that, however, it contains some powerful footage people helping each other during disasters. Sad and inspiring and, at times, overwhelming. 

  

Something to think about: the Red Cross helps with "public" disasters. Who helps with private disasters, such as sexual violence, domestic abuse, child abuse, etc.? Sadly, these smaller, hidden disasters create just as many - maybe more - trauma survivors and people with PTSD than some of the larger more visible disasters. Watch for future posts on this public vs. private trauma. 

Red Cross Day is part of a larger celebration of the Red Cross that lasts until May 12 and is recognized in many countries around the world. 

Estrangements - as long as there's love, there's hope

If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. All of them are alive in this moment. Each is present in your body. You are the continuation of each of these people. 

Thich Nhat Hanh

     Boys picking tomatoes, circa 1940s to 50s. Boston Public Library, flickr creative commons 

My mom thinks that the last time she saw her brother Junior, he was going to pick tomatoes in Indiana to earn some extra money; he was in his teens then. (I know she saw him later, but this is how she remembers it.) My Uncle Joe remembers seeing Junior in Chicago in the early 1950s and only realized much later that he was probably the last person in the family to see his brother alive. My Aunt Eve can't remember the last time she saw her younger brother, but she remembers going with other members of the family to get his ashes and his things when he died. All of Junior's siblings have a tinge of sadness in their voices when they talk about their "missing" brother. My mother has a framed picture of her brother. Last summer, out of curiosity, I took the picture out of it's frame and turned it over to see if there was anything written on the back.  "My brother, Elmer Jr. Loy, two years older than me," was written in my mother's handwriting. Not long after that picture was taken, Junior walked out of her life just as surely as he walked out of her parent's lives. 

  I don't have any answers about family estrangements. I wish I did, but there are as many answers and outcomes as there are families. And so, I thought I'd tell what I know about how my mother's brother became estranged from his family and how that estrangement lasted a lifetime. The estrangement began because Junior resented his father. As my uncle told me, "He didn't think he was done right by." My mother's family was a close-knit one who lived in a small rural community where everyone knew everyone else, so Uncle Junior couldn't have visited the family without seeing his father and, apparently, he was willing to sacrifice his whole family to avoid that possibility. And if he thought of the sadness he was causing his mother, he didn't let that convince him to go home. Or maybe it wasn't that way at all. Maybe he was too proud to come home and then as months stretched into years, he didn't have the money or he was too ashamed. We'll never know because he died when he was in his 50s in Salt Lake City, Utah without having spoken to anyone from his family. Ironically, he died alone in  a place where the passion for genealogy is intense. However, I know he still kept his family in his heart because he left a note with his landlord that if anything happened to him, they should contact his oldest brother Dellous, and Junior left Dellous's phone number. I assume, that's how Junior's family found out about his death.  (photo: my mother and her younger brother Clifton, Kentucky, circa 1960) 

                                                 Tobacco farm, Tennessee, flickr creative commons

 Several of Junior's siblings drove across the country to get his ashes (he had been cremated) and brought them back to Kentucky, where they were buried in the family cemetery. It was early August, then, and I imagine it was hot and humid; the cicadas would have been shrilling in the heat of the day and the tobacco would have been getting tall and lush and green. People stayed in their air conditioned cars and homes as much as they could, but they would have been out in the heat of the day at the cemetery when they laid what was left of my uncle to rest. I'm sure people were crying and sweating and hugging each other and talking of the man-child they once knew. Junior left his family and they forgave him and gathered to mourn his life and his absence. That provided a sense of closure the way rituals always do. Junior came home in death, if not in life. 

That's one take-away from this post: you can leave your family, but you can't make them quit loving you. Family ties are enduring and people yearn for connection. "Take care of yourself and live a long time," a friend of mine told me, "because maybe one day your daughter will want to see you again."  I hold onto that hope. My alternative is bitterness and anger and I'm trying hard not to go down that path because while I cannot control what she does, I can still love her. And I would be surprised if she doesn't think of me with love too, even if she hasn't mustered up the energy or courage or whatever she needs to pick up the phone and call me. Maybe I'm too optimistic, but I do believe that love can overcome many obstacles.

 How long would you continue to hope that a reconciliation was possible between yourself and an estranged family member?

Finally, A Long Time Traveller by the Wailin' Jennys.

 

Childhood and PTSD - love and resilience

What we give our attention to - stays with us. What we let go of - will let go of us.

Cat Forsley

  The pink snowsuit my father's parents got me for my second Christmas 

My mother's youngest sister died Friday. In January, her oldest sister died. Both deaths rocked my world. My aunts were potent symbols of a childhood world where I felt safe and loved. I was the third grandchild in my mother's large family and the first grandchild in my father's smaller family. In my father's family I was spoiled, no doubt about that. At Christmas, I was showered with presents. My mother's parents couldn't afford to be so generous with things, but they more than made up for it with people. Their house overflowed with people and there were no strangers in that small rural community where my mother grew up. Most people knew my name and, if they didn't, all they had to do was ask my mother's name, and then they knew who I was. I loved that sense of belonging. 

           Me in Kentucky with one of my uncle's dogs, circa 1955 (personal collection)

I felt safe and loved at my grandparents' houses. My own home was sometimes full of fighting. My parents were young and when I was born my father was patrolling the DMZ in Korea. When he got home, adjusting to each other and a new baby created tension and fighting. The fighting frightened me. And that's why I felt safe with my grandparents. 

I loved visiting my father's parents where I was the center of attention. I remember Grandma asking me what I'd like for lunch; I always asked for the same thing: Campbell's Cream of Chicken Soup and a peanut butter sandwich made with Skippy's peanut butter. Afterwards, if I'd been good I could go to the cookie drawer and get a cookie. Sometimes, I spent the night and Grandma would tuck me in and tell me, "Nightie, night." Grandma taught me how to play cards and we played game after game of War. When I turned eight, my grandparents got me a record that played, "Happy Birthday to you/Happy Birthday to you/Happy Birthday, dear Angela/Happy Birthday to you." I still have that record. It's bent after all these years and I have no way to play it, but I keep it in a box with other treasures and sometimes I take it out and think about what it was like to be a beloved grandchild. (photo above, me and my father's mother, circa 1955) 

My mother's house was a busier place. I rarely had my grandparents full attention and that was just fine because the house was full of uncles: my mother's four youngest brothers. We sometimes played Chinese checkers together and hung out together and sometimes, because they were teens after all, they loved to tease me. Once my Uncle Sam scared me with a devil's darning needle, a kind of walking stick that was actually harmless. Best of all, was when my uncle Clifton, the tallest of my mother's brothers, would lift me up on his shoulders and I felt like I could touch the sky. (photo: Clifton and me, circa 1962) 

When we went to Kentucky, we were "going home," or "down home." My mother took me there for the first time when I was only six weeks old because she wanted her family to see me "real bad." The house was full of people, including my ailing great-grandfather.

We went to Kentucky every summer. My grandparents would be waiting in the front yard when we drove up and my grandmother would always say the same thing, "I looked for y'all to come today," and fold us into her arms. My grandfather was quieter, but, in his own way he welcomed us too. My grandfather died when I was 12 and, after that, us girls slept in grandma's room. I loved her room. It had a screen door that opened onto the front porch and lots of windows and even in the Kentucky heat, it was cool and comfortable. Grandma would tell us stories as we were falling asleep and after her voice stopped, I could hear the whip-poor-will calling from the woods across the road. 

  

On the day we left, Grandma would give my mother a jar of her homemade strawberry jam and they would hug and then we would get in the car and my father would back down their red clay driveway to the road and head north. 

What's the take-away from all of this? For me, these good memories gave me something powerful to hold onto. The love I found with my grandparents and my mother's family, helped me weather the terrible times after I lost my daughter. Was my childhood happier than other people experiencing similar trauma? Maybe not. What matters, according to an article in Psychology Today, was what I felt about my childhood. Those happy memories gave me resilience. That reminds me of my Kentucky grandmother and her hollyhocks. Every year, my grandmother would plant flowers and every year her chickens would scratch them out. The only flowers that survived were the hollyhocks. Hollyhocks grew at the back of the house and I can picture them now: resilient flowers that were strong, beautiful, and chicken-proof. 

In other ways, however, my childhood was no bed of roses. (More on the vulnerabilities and losses of childhood and how they relate to trauma in my next post.) Meanwhile, here is a song that expresses the bittersweet feeling I have about losing my aunts. Bitter because so many of the people I love are now dead. Sweet because when I hear this bluegrass tune, for a few precious moments I'm back at my grandparents in Kentucky with the television tuned to the Nashville station. Maybe the Grand Ole Opry is on and old-timey music is playing and I'm happy. Those memories are talismans I can hold onto as I keep going, living with PTSD.

 

Making the Holocaust Real

For the dead and the living

We must bear witness

Elie Wiesel

          Clara Kramer, Holocaust survivor and author of the book Clara's War 

April 19, is Yom HaShoah - Holocaust Remembrance Day. Based on the Jewish calendar, Holocaust Remembrance Day is not celebrated on the same day each year. And so, although we are commemorating the Holocaust on April 19 this year, Yom HaShoah will be on Monday, April 8 in 2013.  Officially, Yom HaShoah began at sunset on Wednesday April 18 in Jerusalem, when a torch was lit at the Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial by six Holocaust survivors. Lighting candles is a common theme in many commemorative events. There are also processions, speeches, and Holocaust survivors sharing stories of survival. Hearing one person telling about what happened to them is a powerful way to bring such a horrific event down to a scale that other human beings can comprehend. As Joseph Stalin said, "A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic." (For more on whether it was, indeed, Stalin who said this and why go to The Quote Investigator's post on this topic.)

There are many places to go to find these stories. Amazon.com lists over 1,000 Holocaust memoirs; the website, The Jewish Eye,  recommends about 25. My personal favorite is The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million by New York writer Daniel Mendelsohn. The Lost chronicles Mendelsohn's search for what happened to his great-uncle's family who lived in a small town in the Ukraine and died in the Holocaust. Mendelsohn's book is a miracle of detail that evokes not just the deaths, but the ephemeral, previously unknown lives of his aunt, uncle, and cousins. In the end, I think that it is only in contemplating the shared humanity of other peoples' very specific lives that we can come closer to grieving for the millions who perished in the Holocaust. (At left, Old Jewish cemetery, Ukraine; photo: WikiMedia Commons)

There are still Holocaust survivors alive today who participate in sharing their stories and, not surprisingly, Holocaust Remembrance Day provides a good excuse (as though one were needed) to do that. In 2010, a journalist working for The Manchester Guardian estimated that there were only 5,000 Holocaust survivors remaining in the UK. He documented the stories of some of them in his series on Holocaust Survivors.  Filmmakers are also rushing to document survivors' stories before they are gone. Below is one story. There are many others. The Shoah Foundation's Visual Archives has preserved and made available 52,000 more interviews (testimonies, as they call them) with survivors. 

  

Stories are essential for those who wish to understand and remember an event they neither witnessed nor took part in. Stories are also tremendously beneficial to survivors and to society at large. Author Judith Herman has written about this in her seminal book Trauma and Recovery. "Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are prerequisites," Herman writes, "for the restoration of the social order and for the healing of individual[s]." 

                Stolperstein, Germany (photo: WikiMedia Commons)

There are times when words fail. That's when people turn to memorials and other forms of visual art. I looked at quite a few pictures of Holocaust memorials, but, in the end, none of them seemed satisfying. They were too large, too abstract, to monumental, or too horrific. Then I found the stolpersteins. In the 1990s in Germany, artist Gunter Demnig came up with the concept of creating small - approximately 4-inch-square - memorials for people who died as a result of Nazi violence. These memorials, which Demnig calls stolperstein (from the German for stumbling block),  are brass plates mounted on cement and placed on streets and sidewalks closest to the place where the person memorialized last lived. The memorials have the "title" Hier Wohnte, which means "here lived" in German, and a brief bio of the person, including birth date, deportation or death date, and place of death. Demnig began his work in Germany, placing hundreds of stolperstein in cities and towns around the country. Today, there are thousands of stolperstein in hundreds of towns and cities in Germany, Belgium, The Netherlands, Italy, and other European countries. I was tremendously moved when I looked at online pictures of these memorials. To me, they seem like the best sort of memorial, one pitched to a human scale. I can imagine what it would be like to be walking down a street and to suddenly come upon one of these mini-memorials. I know I would pause, bend down and take a closer look and lean closer and touch the brass lettering and wonder who this person had once been, who they might have lived to be.

  Stolperstein, commemorating Manfred Cohn, who died in Auschwitz (WikiMedia Commons)

I find the stolperstein above to be particularly moving. Young people, such as Manfred Cohn, rarely survived the Holocaust. 

Do you think it's important to remember traumatic events such as the Holocaust? Why or why not? 

Coping with Estrangement - the tough stuff

. . . the point is to lean toward the discomfort of life and see it clearly rather than protect ourselves from it.

Pema Chodron

Candle by window (photo: flickr creative commons)

Once you've had time to allow yourself to grieve and developed some healing practices, you can step back and take a closer look at what happened. Kind of like taking a big breath and letting it out slowly. If you're like me, your mind is buzzing with questions: why me? why us? what happened? In order to understand the answers to some of these questions, you'll have to "let go." You'll need to develop enough detachment so your emotions don't overwhelm your ability to think. At first, the wound of estrangement is simply too raw for this. Time won't completely heal that wound, but it will hopefully provide you with enough space to be able to look more closely at what happened. 

                Reiki workshop (photo: Angsbacka Kursgard, flickr creative commons)

Letting go is hard for me. I "lost" my daughter to adoption when I was 17, then had three pregnancy losses in my 20s and 30s, and lost family members and friends to sudden death. So, when I hear the words "let go," it terrifies me. I picture clinging to a cliff and someone stomping on my hands until I let go, one finger at a time and fall and fall. I only realized that everyone doesn't see things this way after talking to a close friend who is a Reiki practitioner. She said that "letting go" was one of the most important practices in Reiki. Letting go in Reiki is important for trusting the healing process. Letting go for me, and those of you who are facing estrangement, is necessary to move towards healing and reconciliation. 

What Do We Need to Let Go Of?

• Being right
• Being wrong
• Anger
• Denial
• Hatred
• Self-hatred
• Shame
• A false belief in our power to control the other
• Unrealistic expectations

Once you've let go of some of these difficult emotions - or at least started down the road of letting go - you should be able to be more objective about the estrangement. Clear-eyed honesty is essential to understanding. It's also important not to take things so personally, that you fail to recognize circumstances that provide fertile soil  for estrangement. Here are a few:

• Divorce
• Death
• Adoption
• Caring for Aging Parents
• Intolerance about sexual identity, religion, or other personal issues
• Settling an estate of a deceased parent or family member
• Serious illness
• Geographic distance

I can see now that estrangement was a ticking time bomb in my relationship with my daughter. My daughter is adopted and we were reunited when she was 29, we live 2,000 miles apart, her husband died suddenly two years ago, then she saw me and her biological father together for the first time days after her husband's death. Everybody's emotions were on high alert and it was easy for things that people said or did to be misunderstood. Realizing this has helped me quit blaming myself - or my daughter - for what happened. Now what? There are many excellent posts on this topic. I found this post on dealing with an estranged adult daughter to be particularly useful. (estrangement, photo: flickr creative commons) There are many other posts out there and I'm sure you can find one that speaks to you. 

What now?

• Give the estranged person space for as long as they need it
• Acknowledge and apologize for any hurtful things you may have done or said 
• Try to see things from their point of view, even if you don't agree with them
• Don't respond to criticism with anger or defensiveness
• Don't expect the other person to acknowledge their hurtful behavior and make amends
• Maintain contact in whatever way the estranged person will accept (I'm writing to my daughter every few months and I remember her birthday and Christmas.)
• Be patient. (The hardest thing of all.)

Here is a wonderful poem by the Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai that reflects the importance of being open-minded during estrangement and conflict.  The Place Where We Are Right.

And finally a song by the great Mavis Staples.

 

Coping with Estrangement - Start Small

Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I will try again tomorrow."

Mary Anne Radmacher 

               Small sprout (photo: Adam Foster, flickr creative commons)

1.  Allow Yourself to Feel What You Feel 

Allow yourself to feel what you feel: sad, angry, afraid, frustrated. It doesn't really matter. What matters is that losing a child or other loved one to estrangement hurts. Even though there isn't a body, you're grieving. Fighting your grief - or whatever form your hurt takes - is exhausting. So spend some time with your feelings in whatever way feels right for you. 

2.  Be Kind to Yourself 

Practice self-kindness. Don't expect too much of yourself - for now - and don't talk to yourself with that harsh, "it's all your fault" voice. That won't help bring your loved one back. A good place to get started is with The gift of loving-kindness by Mary Brantley and Tesilya Hanauer. 

3. Pamper Yourself

Treat yourself to small - or not so small - things that make you feel cared for. Have a latte, eat some chocolate, get a pedicure or a massage, listen to your favorite music, take a bubble bath. Only you know what will help you right now. If you're stuck for ideas here's a great list of 25 ways to comfort yourself.

4.  Pace yourself

The truth is that you have no idea how long the estrangement will last and so, at first, it's normal to feel panicked, almost frantic. Most of us can't keep that pace up for long or we'll collapse. Waiting can be the hardest thing in the world and that's why pacing is essential. The hardest thing is we can't see the end and the flame of hope flickers - sometimes burning bright, sometimes almost going out. Keep hope alive by caring for yourself in ways that help you become stronger. 

5.  Talk to a friend, a therapist, or another safe person

Keeping things inside doesn't help. I talk to my therapist, several close friends, and my husband. They don't have answers, but they don't judge me either, and they provide me with much needed compassion. But BE CAREFUL, don't talk to people who judge you or tell you things like, "just get over it." Avoid those sorts of people like the plague.

6.  Participate in an online support group

There are many online support groups. I'll list a few here to get you started.

Estranged Parents of Adult Children 

Facebook Support Group for Parents of Estranged Adult Children

[Birth Mother,] First Mother Forum (for those, like myself, estranged due to adoption)

 

                Qi gong, Chinese meditation (photo: Phil Carlton, flickr creative commons)

7.  Adopt (or continue) a centering practice

I can't say enough about the importance of committing to a mindfulness/centering practice. I sing, write, walk, and read poetry (not all at once!). Sometimes I am too sad to practice. That's okay. When I can, I pull myself back up from the "slough of despond" and continue. Each one of the practices I follow help me in specific ways. Below are some other good practices.

• Yoga
• Tai chi
• Qi gong
• Swimming
• Running
• Knitting

Anything that helps to quiet the noise in your head is great.

8.  Go slow

I've made a lot of suggestions, but don't head off in too many directions at once. If your estrangement is recent, be careful of not taking on too much. Sometimes,it's enough just to get through the day. 

9.  Listen to yourself/listen to your deepest heart

If you aren't sure what to do, practice listening to yourself. I'm working harder to trust myself and to listen to what I would really like to do, not what I think I should or ought to do. It's like the quote at the beginning of this post, sometimes courage is "the quiet voice." And if it's a quiet voice coming from inside, you need to  listen carefully or you'll miss it. 

         Good friends can be a great source of comfort (photo: Pat Kight, flickr creative commons)

10.  Take comfort where you can

I can't overstate this enough. I don't know about you, but I crave comfort and kindness because I feel battered and hurt by the rejection of my daughter and my ex (her father.) Good friends provide wonderful solace for the soul. Enjoy lunch, a walk, or coffee with a friend or loved one. The break will do you good.

 Allowing yourself to spend a day in bed reading or doing nothing is a different sort of comfort. I often turn to books for comfort and recently picked up a wonderful one, Mala of the Heart edited by Ravi Nathwani and Kate Vogt. The book is a collection of short sacred poems by well-known authors, like Rumi, and lesser known writers like Mechtild of Magdeburg. Here's one of my favorite poems from the book.

Keep walking, though there's no place to get to.

Don't try to see through the distances.

That's not for human beings. Move within,

but don't move the way fear makes you move.

Rumi

 One last thought: it might not seem that way now, but - somehow - life goes on. Light and love find their way out of the darkness.

 

 

The Language of Estrangement: silence and stonewalling

Spiteful words can hurt your feelings but silence breaks your heart.

Unknown 

                  Grief (flickr creative commons)                  

I no longer phone my daughter anymore. That's because I can imagine her sitting there watching the phone ring and seeing my number come up and ignoring it. I choose not to put myself through the hurt and anger this image conjures up. Granted, she may not be at home. However, after spending time with her, I know her routine well enough to realize that all those unanswered calls were not accidents. She often begins the day by phoning people or returning calls from the night before. Her adoptive mother and her biological father are on the "to call" list and I'm not. That's hard to accept, but that's the way it is. Whether you call this the silent treatment or stonewalling doesn't really matter. Either way the silence at her end hurts. It hurts a lot. 

 

Why do people resort to the silent treatment?

• to control
• to ostracize 
• to silence 
• to gain control of their own feelings
• to shut off communication when they don't know what to say
• a lack of compassion and empathy 

Blogger, Ken Savage, discusses the difference between silence and ostracism. A "cooling off period" isn't ostracism and may, in fact, be a healthy response to intense emotions and conflict. However, if the "cooling off" stretches into months or years it has almost certainly become ostracism. Ostracism is destructive and is used to punish loved ones for perceived or imagined hurts and affronts. 

When there's silence at the other end of the line or in your email in-basket, it feels like you're knocking on a door that will never open. I picture my daughter sitting on the other side of the door, listening to me knock, listening and listening. I don't know if she's feeling sad, angry, guilty or something else entirely. And, worst of all, I have no idea when - or if - she will ever open the door. (photo: R. Canepa, flickr)

 

 My ex (my daughter's father) has an even more hurtful modus operandus. On a number of occasions he's gotten angry - often soon after we had what appeared to be a pleasant time together - and lobbed an angry email grenade at me, then, announced that he was cutting off all communication. I bit my tongue the first few times he did this and eventually he got back in touch with me and our "relationship" resumed more-or-less normally. The last time he used this technique, however, I emailed him back and said, "Fine. I don't want to communicate with you either." It's been two months now and I've had no word. Here's an informative post by Betsy Sansby on why men may resort to the silent treatment. 

The looming silence on the end of the line, the empty email basket, the empty mail box, results in a cascade of emotions: anger, sorrow, fear (of abandonment), hope, despair, frustration, helplessness. Riding that silence out hurts more than it seems possible. Thankfully, the pain waxes and wanes. Sometimes, my daughter's and ex's silence seems to suck all the air out of may life. Other times, it's like a car alarm going off in the distance. But, no matter what, their absence is always there - like something gnawing at my heart. 

How do you deal with the silence of estranged loved ones?

Next time: How to cope with estrangement.