Villa Sionna

"There are moments, when you're getting to know someone, when you realize something deep and buried in you is deep and buried in them, too.  It feels like meeting a stranger you've known your whole life." ~Leah Raeder, Unteachable

In the four days since I first arrived at my sister Shannon's home, Villa Sionna ("Shuh-nuh"), I seem to have unintentionally developed a bit of a routine.  As the resident night owl in a house full of larks, I tend to sleep in later than the others, then get up while Shannon is off working out and spend a bit of time in the morning chatting with her lovely children Kincaid and/or Arden, as well as a dear friend of theirs named Damian, who is currently living with them. I've come to love quietly hanging out with the kids and getting to know them and learn more about who they are.  Considering they've largely been dragged along their mother's journey of discovery (whether always willing or not), they seem remarkably resilient in spite of all the ups and downs of said journey and have been allowing me bit by bit to see who they are, which is generous in the extreme, all things considered. They know who they are for the most part, and they are incredibly clever, all but daring you not to keep up with their quick minds and wit.

Arden is a lovely young woman just a year younger than my own girlie, with long, dark hair and a ready smile.  She is a dear, sweet soul who loves being close and cuddly with all her relatives (even me!), especially her brother Kincaid, with whom she alternates between play-bickering and often appearing to share one mind; they are like twins whose 5-year-age gap is somehow nothing but a metaphysical fluke of time. She is a peace-maker, but still gives as good as she gets when necessary. She and I share a love of writing and literature and musical theater and she has a lovely voice that she accompanies with her guitar. Arden is also interested in food and writing, which largely precipitated her taking a 4-month cooking course in Ireland with her mother; I can only imagine what a powerful experience it was that they shared.  There is a poetry in Arden--in the way she moves, in the way she thinks, in the way she expresses herself. Hiding behind her soulful brown eyes is a wise old spirit and a knowing far beyond her years; she brings a quiet, understated grace to this home.

Kincaid is a bit of a chameleon; he is always in motion whether it's his mind racing with a plethora of ideas or his feet beating and clicking out Irish dance steps as he moves from room to room. A former touring dancer with Riverdance, he is by turns a shrewd and astute businessman; a sassy badass, take-no-shit-and-tell-it-like-it-is kind of guy; a consummate storyteller with such dramatic flair as to make Garrison Keillor so woebegone he'd cry in his Wheaties before giving up writing for a second career as a fro-yo scooper; and a very quietly thoughtful young man who voluntarily gave up his bed for me (which is quite a real sacrifice because that bed is amazing--I've slept better the last four days than I have the last four months and may considering an affair with it.) Kincaid always turns on a light in his room for me before I go upstairs to bed so I can find my way without bumping into unfamiliar surroundings, he makes me tea in the morning when he hears me moving around upstairs, and he secretly slips a hot water bottle with a fuzzy cover under the sheets for me to warm my toes on a cold night, all without expectation of thanks or recognition. I kind of adore him, and not just because he reminds me of the girlie in more ways than I can count.

Damian is a quieter guy, but no less sweet or thoughtful; he is constantly washing up the dishes and helping around the house; he makes an excellent foil to Arden and Kincaid's escapades.  We haven't really talked much, but he has an engaging laugh and seems to be a lovely young man (not that I'm aging myself at all by referring to him as a "young man.")

Kincaid, Arden, and Damian

Shannon has another dear son named Obie after her grandfather, but sadly he has not been available to meet me thus far, so I will have to look forward to getting to know him at some point in the future.

Another formidable presence in the house is the recently-passed Ooma, who was Shan's mother.  Ooma's whip-crack observations about life and her stories live on through each member of the family, particularly via Kincaid's wickedly brilliant impressions of his grandmother. Ooma's absence may be keenly felt, but she is still an integral part of Shan's family.

After Shannon finishes working out, we hang out a bit by the fireplace and swap stories before getting some lunch and running around in the afternoon.  Shannon, like my daughter, is the epitome of Shakespeare's quote: "Though she be but little, she is fierce." Shan is a boundless font of energy who dances and prances and moves around with a spryness that would make women half her age wildly jealous. She has imbued nearly every inch of this stunning home with her personality, from the Venetian plastering she personally applied all over the walls to all the artistic touches gracing every room.  Designed to look like a Tuscan villa, Shannon's home is absolutely gorgeous (not unlike the woman herself). In the downstairs bath is a wall mural of--a woman in a Roman bath...naturally. The walkway out front has artistic swirls imbedded in the stone. Over the stove is a mosaic of a Renoir painting entitled "Luncheon of the Boating Party." Everywhere you look is some different form of art created by Shannon, whether hung on a wall or part OF the wall. It is a living, breathing portfolio, and a testament to her extreme artistic talent.

I've been here four days and I still cannot stop staring at Shan when we sit by the fire and talk.  It's as though I'm trying to memorize every inch of her face before I have to leave for my conference. We don't look much alike physically, she being largely the embodiment of her birth mother while I am all but a clone of our father, but we are astonishingly alike in so many other ways. I keep looking at this petite, beautiful woman and being absolutely floored that we are related.  One moment she is exuding deep, soulful compassion and understanding from her wise, dark eyes; the next she is a joyful pixie bounding throughout her home like a jack-in-the box.

There is virtually nothing Shannon hasn't done, nothing she hasn't achieved (or rubbed the elbows of someone else who has). She is smart as a whip and more accomplished than I could ever hope to be and yet easily one of the kindest, sweetest, and most generous (and least Diva-y) people I have ever known;  I am more than a little in awe of her.

Me and Shan

When we are together and it is just the two of us, so clearly a part of each other, it seems as if we have always been so. It's an uncanny connection, even more so for having overcome so many lost decades and wild improbabilities during the years between our births and our meeting. I felt as though I knew Shannon 30 seconds into our first phone call, and nothing has happened in the last three months (or the last four days) to change that reality--quite the opposite, in fact. My only wish is that she and our other new siblings didn't live quite so far apart.  Someone needs to get on that whole transporter technology post-haste.

Shan and Allen

After running around in the afternoon, dinner preparations begin and Shannon's husband Allen comes home.  Thus far Allen has been relatively quiet, but I know he is clearly taking everything in because I like to watch his quick and observant eyes as he smiles indulgently at his family when they're being enthusiastically goofy. A bad-ass brain tumor survivor, Allen is the keeper of the zoo, smirking bemusedly at all the chaos swirling around him. With a heart of gold and a ready wit, my new brother-in-law also calls things like he sees them, though his quippy observations often seem to come more in the form of sneak ninja attacks that catch you off guard and leave you giggling as you struggle to catch up. A kick-ass grill master, Allen just tonight fed me the best steak I have literally ever eaten in my life--like "slap yo mama, better than sex" good.  Like "I may have to cheat on Kincaid's bed" good. He is a marvel.

I have been singularly fortunate to have landed myself a visit in a house full of foodies. I doubt I've ever eaten so well in my life. Food is a vital part of life here at Villa Sionna; in this place it feeds soul as well as body, and is one of the ties that strongly binds this family together, whether they are planning meals, shopping for meals, or cooking the meals.  I particularly enjoy listening to Arden and her brother discuss food and cooking on and off all day long; they put me to shame with their knowledge of and skill in cooking diverse and healthy foods. Meals are a part of the lifeblood of this home, and everyone here has inspired me to do better about cooking for real when I get home instead of just being lazy by half-relying on semi-packaged foods for convenience. They are spoiling me rotten here and treating me like a queen. A girl could get used to this...

After dinner we all hang out by the fire a little while, till one by one the morning larks peel off for bed.  This has become one of my favorite parts of the day.  While the house is quiet, I sit cozy and warm in front of the fireplace, illuminated only by the light of my laptop.  To my right is a curving stone staircase with wrought-iron railings.  To my left, across an expansive kitchen island (on which I threatened to make my bed before being introduced to my new boyfriend upstairs) is the Renoir mosaic over the stove, illuminated by the hood light. Behind me is the breakfast nook and hearth room, which should really be called the "heart room" because this area, along with the pass-thru fireplace and kitchen is where everyone congregates for the majority of the day.  It is the heartbeat of this home, a home which now folds my heartbeats into its own. It seems strange to say that sitting here alone in the dark while everyone sleeps is one of my favorite parts of the day, but as I relax here in this beautiful room every evening, listening to the crackling of the flames and repeatedly looking across at the Renoir mosaic--which seems to epitomize all the camaraderie and life and sharing of food that occur daily in this heart room--I am given a chance to reflect on the events and conversations of the day and to realize how truly fortunate and blessed I am to have found such love and acceptance among these wildly talented and loving people and to be able to call them, in however small a part, my own. I am tearing up even now just at the overwhelming thought of it all.

My heart is full.

Villa Sionna

"There are moments, when you're getting to know someone, when you realize something deep and buried in you is deep and buried in them, too.  It feels like meeting a stranger you've known your whole life." ~Leah Raeder, Unteachable

In the four days since I first arrived at my sister Shannon's home, Villa Sionna ("Shuh-nuh"), I seem to have unintentionally developed a bit of a routine.  As the resident night owl in a house full of larks, I tend to sleep in later than the others, then get up while Shannon is off working out and spend a bit of time in the morning chatting with her lovely children Kincaid and/or Arden, as well as a dear friend of theirs named Damian, who is currently living with them. I've come to love quietly hanging out with the kids and getting to know them and learn more about who they are.  Considering they've largely been dragged along their mother's journey of discovery (whether always willing or not), they seem remarkably resilient in spite of all the ups and downs of said journey and have been allowing me bit by bit to see who they are, which is generous in the extreme, all things considered. They know who they are for the most part, and they are incredibly clever, all but daring you not to keep up with their quick minds and wit.

Arden is a lovely young woman just a year younger than my own girlie, with long, dark hair and a ready smile.  She is a dear, sweet soul who loves being close and cuddly with all her relatives (even me!), especially her brother Kincaid, with whom she alternates between play-bickering and often appearing to share one mind; they are like twins whose 5-year-age gap is somehow nothing but a metaphysical fluke of time. She is a peace-maker, but still gives as good as she gets when necessary. She and I share a love of writing and literature and musical theater and she has a lovely voice that she accompanies with her guitar. Arden is also interested in food and writing, which largely precipitated her taking a 4-month cooking course in Ireland with her mother; I can only imagine what a powerful experience it was that they shared.  There is a poetry in Arden--in the way she moves, in the way she thinks, in the way she expresses herself. Hiding behind her soulful brown eyes is a wise old spirit and a knowing far beyond her years; she brings a quiet, understated grace to this home.

Kincaid is a bit of a chameleon; he is always in motion whether it's his mind racing with a plethora of ideas or his feet beating and clicking out Irish dance steps as he moves from room to room. A former touring dancer with Riverdance, he is by turns a shrewd and astute businessman; a sassy badass, take-no-shit-and-tell-it-like-it-is kind of guy; a consummate storyteller with such dramatic flair as to make Garrison Keillor so woebegone he'd cry in his Wheaties before giving up writing for a second career as a fro-yo scooper; and a very quietly thoughtful young man who voluntarily gave up his bed for me (which is quite a real sacrifice because that bed is amazing--I've slept better the last four days than I have the last four months and may considering an affair with it.) Kincaid always turns on a light in his room for me before I go upstairs to bed so I can find my way without bumping into unfamiliar surroundings, he makes me tea in the morning when he hears me moving around upstairs, and he secretly slips a hot water bottle with a fuzzy cover under the sheets for me to warm my toes on a cold night, all without expectation of thanks or recognition. I kind of adore him, and not just because he reminds me of the girlie in more ways than I can count.

Damian is a quieter guy, but no less sweet or thoughtful; he is constantly washing up the dishes and helping around the house; he makes an excellent foil to Arden and Kincaid's escapades.  We haven't really talked much, but he has an engaging laugh and seems to be a lovely young man (not that I'm aging myself at all by referring to him as a "young man.")

Kincaid, Arden, and Damian

Shannon has another dear son named Obie after her grandfather, but sadly he has not been available to meet me thus far, so I will have to look forward to getting to know him at some point in the future.

Another formidable presence in the house is the recently-passed Ooma, who was Shan's mother.  Ooma's whip-crack observations about life and her stories live on through each member of the family, particularly via Kincaid's wickedly brilliant impressions of his grandmother. Ooma's absence may be keenly felt, but she is still an integral part of Shan's family.

After Shannon finishes working out, we hang out a bit by the fireplace and swap stories before getting some lunch and running around in the afternoon.  Shannon, like my daughter, is the epitome of Shakespeare's quote: "Though she be but little, she is fierce." Shan is a boundless font of energy who dances and prances and moves around with a spryness that would make women half her age wildly jealous. She has imbued nearly every inch of this stunning home with her personality, from the Venetian plastering she personally applied all over the walls to all the artistic touches gracing every room.  Designed to look like a Tuscan villa, Shannon's home is absolutely gorgeous (not unlike the woman herself). In the downstairs bath is a wall mural of--a woman in a Roman bath...naturally. The walkway out front has artistic swirls imbedded in the stone. Over the stove is a mosaic of a Renoir painting entitled "Luncheon of the Boating Party." Everywhere you look is some different form of art created by Shannon, whether hung on a wall or part OF the wall. It is a living, breathing portfolio, and a testament to her extreme artistic talent.

I've been here four days and I still cannot stop staring at Shan when we sit by the fire and talk.  It's as though I'm trying to memorize every inch of her face before I have to leave for my conference. We don't look much alike physically, she being largely the embodiment of her birth mother while I am all but a clone of our father, but we are astonishingly alike in so many other ways. I keep looking at this petite, beautiful woman and being absolutely floored that we are related.  One moment she is exuding deep, soulful compassion and understanding from her wise, dark eyes; the next she is a joyful pixie bounding throughout her home like a jack-in-the box.

There is virtually nothing Shannon hasn't done, nothing she hasn't achieved (or rubbed the elbows of someone else who has). She is smart as a whip and more accomplished than I could ever hope to be and yet easily one of the kindest, sweetest, and most generous (and least Diva-y) people I have ever known;  I am more than a little in awe of her.

Me and Shan

When we are together and it is just the two of us, so clearly a part of each other, it seems as if we have always been so. It's an uncanny connection, even more so for having overcome so many lost decades and wild improbabilities during the years between our births and our meeting. I felt as though I knew Shannon 30 seconds into our first phone call, and nothing has happened in the last three months (or the last four days) to change that reality--quite the opposite, in fact. My only wish is that she and our other new siblings didn't live quite so far apart.  Someone needs to get on that whole transporter technology post-haste.

Shan and Allen

After running around in the afternoon, dinner preparations begin and Shannon's husband Allen comes home.  Thus far Allen has been relatively quiet, but I know he is clearly taking everything in because I like to watch his quick and observant eyes as he smiles indulgently at his family when they're being enthusiastically goofy. A bad-ass brain tumor survivor, Allen is the keeper of the zoo, smirking bemusedly at all the chaos swirling around him. With a heart of gold and a ready wit, my new brother-in-law also calls things like he sees them, though his quippy observations often seem to come more in the form of sneak ninja attacks that catch you off guard and leave you giggling as you struggle to catch up. A kick-ass grill master, Allen just tonight fed me the best steak I have literally ever eaten in my life--like "slap yo mama, better than sex" good.  Like "I may have to cheat on Kincaid's bed" good. He is a marvel.

I have been singularly fortunate to have landed myself a visit in a house full of foodies. I doubt I've ever eaten so well in my life. Food is a vital part of life here at Villa Sionna; in this place it feeds soul as well as body, and is one of the ties that strongly binds this family together, whether they are planning meals, shopping for meals, or cooking the meals.  I particularly enjoy listening to Arden and her brother discuss food and cooking on and off all day long; they put me to shame with their knowledge of and skill in cooking diverse and healthy foods. Meals are a part of the lifeblood of this home, and everyone here has inspired me to do better about cooking for real when I get home instead of just being lazy by half-relying on semi-packaged foods for convenience. They are spoiling me rotten here and treating me like a queen. A girl could get used to this...

After dinner we all hang out by the fire a little while, till one by one the morning larks peel off for bed.  This has become one of my favorite parts of the day.  While the house is quiet, I sit cozy and warm in front of the fireplace, illuminated only by the light of my laptop.  To my right is a curving stone staircase with wrought-iron railings.  To my left, across an expansive kitchen island (on which I threatened to make my bed before being introduced to my new boyfriend upstairs) is the Renoir mosaic over the stove, illuminated by the hood light. Behind me is the breakfast nook and hearth room, which should really be called the "heart room" because this area, along with the pass-thru fireplace and kitchen is where everyone congregates for the majority of the day.  It is the heartbeat of this home, a home which now folds my heartbeats into its own. It seems strange to say that sitting here alone in the dark while everyone sleeps is one of my favorite parts of the day, but as I relax here in this beautiful room every evening, listening to the crackling of the flames and repeatedly looking across at the Renoir mosaic--which seems to epitomize all the camaraderie and life and sharing of food that occur daily in this heart room--I am given a chance to reflect on the events and conversations of the day and to realize how truly fortunate and blessed I am to have found such love and acceptance among these wildly talented and loving people and to be able to call them, in however small a part, my own. I am tearing up even now just at the overwhelming thought of it all.

My heart is full.

Belonging

As DNA testing becomes both more affordable and more accessible, more and more people seem to be hocking up spit samples in an effort to find out something new about themselves. Sometimes they just want to know if Great-Grandma's insistence that they are Scottish and descended from the Bonnie Prince is remotely accurate so they can rush off to purchase that cool kilt they saw in Edinburgh on vacation.  Occasionally they're trying to locate missing relatives for a family member. Perhaps most often, though, they are trying to find birth relatives of their own.  Regardless of the impetus for testing, the goal is usually the same:  making connections. We want to connect with our ancestors, we want to connect with other relatives, we want answers to resolve questions about our histories and personal origins so we can better connect with ourselves.  In all cases, we're searching for something.

For me, initially at least, that "something" was information.  I have always known I was adopted, but I wanted to know my origins...I wanted to stop playing "Ethnicity of the Day" with myself and figure out where I really came from. By the time I started looking in earnest, I already had a fairly good idea of who I was as a person, and I was largely content with that. But most of us never entirely lose that curiosity to know how we came to be: Why is my hair red? Why do I like music? Why do I hate math? Who donated those qualities? Who are my people? Certainly I had a generally happy childhood with my brother and with two parents who loved me, even if they didn't always understand me 100%.  They simply had no frame of reference for or experience in dealing with some of my interests or quirks.  How could they? As a result, even in the happiest of families, there is still sometimes a sense of "otherness," of knowing that, in spite of it all, you are somehow different...a unicorn of sorts. "One of these things is not like the other..." You belong, but you don't.  It can be felt in subtle differences or the divide can be glaring, but it's always there.

Like so many adoptees, when I began my search I was focused on locating my birth parents. The concept of unknown siblings had never even occurred to me at the time, yet here I am today with what appears to be my very own platoon. Go figure.

I first spoke to my new sister Shannon on Sunday, October 22, 2017, while she was studying cooking in Ireland. I often think of those first few moments with Shan as "The Click Heard 'Round the World," because within practically seconds of hearing her voice, it felt as if I knew her...as if I had known her my entire life, and the 50-odd years separating us melted away. If the moment had been any more surreal, there would have been clocks melting down the walls of my office. We both had such an immediate and deeply visceral reaction to each other that I can't possibly describe it in mere words; it was simply a knowing--a like recognizing like, I suppose. This instant connection (just add water!) made it even more frustrating to have to wait another several months for Shannon to return home from Ireland so I could meet her in person. But we were both busy, and so I waited patiently...ish.

Finally, two nights ago, I was able to fly to Texas on my way to a genealogy conference to meet my darlin' Shan in real life for the very first time. I was so excited...I had been waiting THREE LONG MONTHS to see her sweet, kind face and to give her a giant hug. When I finally came through the security doors and we spied each other, I flung down my bags as she ran across the baggage claim to launch herself into my arms. We stood there hugging and sniffling and behaving more like long-lost lovers than siblings, loathe to let each other go. When we finally did release each other, I was greeted by my new brother Kent, who'd decided the weekend before to skiplag a flight to Dallas to meet us. He'd spent the afternoon with Shannon, then drove to the airport with her to pick me up. As Kent approached me for his own hug, I apparently got all weird and awkward (I honestly don't remember) and half-started to shake his hand instead, causing him to give me a look and say, "Really??" Then he pulled me to him for his own hug. Something tells me I'm never gonna live that down. ;)  (Oh, look at that--we're already behaving like siblings!) Between the significantly smaller amount of time I've had to get to know Kent and being all flustered by the rush of emotion from finally meeting Shannon in person, it's probably a small miracle I didn't do something even more dorky or awkward. So much for grace under pressure.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a chance to do much more than clap eyes on Kent before he had to return to his hotel to rest before an early return flight the next day, so we never really had much opportunity to chat at any length. He did bring Shan and I some lovely flowers, though, and no doubt I'll have a chance to meet him one-on-one soon and get to know him properly.

The rest of Saturday night passed fairly quickly in the excitement of meeting Shan's family and getting a brief glimpse of her spectacular home.  My one takeaway for the evening was how relaxed and natural everything felt, almost as though I've always been here. Everyone has been so sweet and supremely gracious, especially considering I was little more than a random person who fell out of the sky a mere three months previously, birth relative or not.  It would have been so easy for Shannon's family all to be cautious and wary of me, especially after past disappointments with other birth relatives, but her family has been nothing but open and welcoming. I can only think of one other time in my life when I was able to walk into the room of a pseudo-stranger and immediately feel as though I belonged there; that first evening with Shannon's family felt just the same.  Even if you've been speaking regularly with someone via technology for months, it's still quite a leap of faith to invite a virtual stranger into one's home, both for the host and guest alike. I am grateful to Shannon and her family for being so willing to extend to me the benefit of the doubt and trusting enough to welcome me in their home--for allowing me a chance to find that belonging at last.

I can only hope that sense of belonging continues as I get to know our two "newest" siblings better, but so far so good. There's nothing quite like entering a new year full of promise and possibility with several new siblings to make things interesting. It's a good feeling.

Belonging

As DNA testing becomes both more affordable and more accessible, more and more people seem to be hocking up spit samples in an effort to find out something new about themselves. Sometimes they just want to know if Great-Grandma's insistence that they are Scottish and descended from the Bonnie Prince is remotely accurate so they can rush off to purchase that cool kilt they saw in Edinburgh on vacation.  Occasionally they're trying to locate missing relatives for a family member. Perhaps most often, though, they are trying to find birth relatives of their own.  Regardless of the impetus for testing, the goal is usually the same:  making connections. We want to connect with our ancestors, we want to connect with other relatives, we want answers to resolve questions about our histories and personal origins so we can better connect with ourselves.  In all cases, we're searching for something.

For me, initially at least, that "something" was information.  I have always known I was adopted, but I wanted to know my origins...I wanted to stop playing "Ethnicity of the Day" with myself and figure out where I really came from. By the time I started looking in earnest, I already had a fairly good idea of who I was as a person, and I was largely content with that. But most of us never entirely lose that curiosity to know how we came to be: Why is my hair red? Why do I like music? Why do I hate math? Who donated those qualities? Who are my people? Certainly I had a generally happy childhood with my brother and with two parents who loved me, even if they didn't always understand me 100%.  They simply had no frame of reference for or experience in dealing with some of my interests or quirks.  How could they? As a result, even in the happiest of families, there is still sometimes a sense of "otherness," of knowing that, in spite of it all, you are somehow different...a unicorn of sorts. "One of these things is not like the other..." You belong, but you don't.  It can be felt in subtle differences or the divide can be glaring, but it's always there.

Like so many adoptees, when I began my search I was focused on locating my birth parents. The concept of unknown siblings had never even occurred to me at the time, yet here I am today with what appears to be my very own platoon. Go figure.

I first spoke to my new sister Shannon on Sunday, October 22, 2017, while she was studying cooking in Ireland. I often think of those first few moments with Shan as "The Click Heard 'Round the World," because within practically seconds of hearing her voice, it felt as if I knew her...as if I had known her my entire life, and the 50-odd years separating us melted away. If the moment had been any more surreal, there would have been clocks melting down the walls of my office. We both had such an immediate and deeply visceral reaction to each other that I can't possibly describe it in mere words; it was simply a knowing--a like recognizing like, I suppose. This instant connection (just add water!) made it even more frustrating to have to wait another several months for Shannon to return home from Ireland so I could meet her in person. But we were both busy, and so I waited patiently...ish.

Finally, two nights ago, I was able to fly to Texas on my way to a genealogy conference to meet my darlin' Shan in real life for the very first time. I was so excited...I had been waiting THREE LONG MONTHS to see her sweet, kind face and to give her a giant hug. When I finally came through the security doors and we spied each other, I flung down my bags as she ran across the baggage claim to launch herself into my arms. We stood there hugging and sniffling and behaving more like long-lost lovers than siblings, loathe to let each other go. When we finally did release each other, I was greeted by my new brother Kent, who'd decided the weekend before to skiplag a flight to Dallas to meet us. He'd spent the afternoon with Shannon, then drove to the airport with her to pick me up. As Kent approached me for his own hug, I apparently got all weird and awkward (I honestly don't remember) and half-started to shake his hand instead, causing him to give me a look and say, "Really??" Then he pulled me to him for his own hug. Something tells me I'm never gonna live that down. ;)  (Oh, look at that--we're already behaving like siblings!) Between the significantly smaller amount of time I've had to get to know Kent and being all flustered by the rush of emotion from finally meeting Shannon in person, it's probably a small miracle I didn't do something even more dorky or awkward. So much for grace under pressure.

Unfortunately, I didn't have a chance to do much more than clap eyes on Kent before he had to return to his hotel to rest before an early return flight the next day, so we never really had much opportunity to chat at any length. He did bring Shan and I some lovely flowers, though, and no doubt I'll have a chance to meet him one-on-one soon and get to know him properly.

The rest of Saturday night passed fairly quickly in the excitement of meeting Shan's family and getting a brief glimpse of her spectacular home.  My one takeaway for the evening was how relaxed and natural everything felt, almost as though I've always been here. Everyone has been so sweet and supremely gracious, especially considering I was little more than a random person who fell out of the sky a mere three months previously, birth relative or not.  It would have been so easy for Shannon's family all to be cautious and wary of me, especially after past disappointments with other birth relatives, but her family has been nothing but open and welcoming. I can only think of one other time in my life when I was able to walk into the room of a pseudo-stranger and immediately feel as though I belonged there; that first evening with Shannon's family felt just the same.  Even if you've been speaking regularly with someone via technology for months, it's still quite a leap of faith to invite a virtual stranger into one's home, both for the host and guest alike. I am grateful to Shannon and her family for being so willing to extend to me the benefit of the doubt and trusting enough to welcome me in their home--for allowing me a chance to find that belonging at last.

I can only hope that sense of belonging continues as I get to know our two "newest" siblings better, but so far so good. There's nothing quite like entering a new year full of promise and possibility with several new siblings to make things interesting. It's a good feeling.

Happy New Year

In nearly every way possible, 2017 was an unprecedented year at Chez Ginger. I began last year by  testing the genealogical waters in taking a 4-week online course on Genealogy Basics through Boston University, in part to determine whether or not I had sufficient interest and/or aptitude to pursue genealogy as a 2nd (3rd? 12th?) career because I wanted to be like the hosts on shows like "Who Do You Think You Are" and "Long Lost Family," etc. and help other people to find their history the way I had found mine (or at least half of it) with my birth mother Norma.  I had no idea what the year had in store for me, or what that simple class portended.

Shortly after completing the class all hell seemed to break loose, necessitating the replacement over the next several months of all three of our cars, two heating and A/C systems, one water boiler (subbed out for a more traditional water heater), as well as two trips to Indianapolis for my birth mother's death and subsequent funeral, moving my child across country to Atlanta for grad school, attending my first genealogical institute, and beginning a more intensive course of genealogical study in September, all of which caused me to hemorrhage enough money to purchase a small island somewhere in the South Pacific.  I'm thinking Guam...or maybe someplace nice in the Outer Hebrides for when Guam gets too hot. Either might come in handy given the current political climate of the country.

If all that weren't enough to make one's head explode, a mere one week into my intensive genealogy course ("20 hours a week" my ass), I learned I had a half-sister and the identity of my birth father. Five weeks later, I discovered yet another half-sister...holy mackerel!! Then a week before the end of my course, two more new siblings appeared, neatly bookending my foray into serious genealogy because apparently the genealogy gods value symmetry as much as they do yanking your chain. You can read about 2017's misadventures here, here, and here.  Now it seems my Revelations trilogy needs to become a quadrilogy soon.

If you had told me this time last year that I would finish out 2017 with a new car, a new heating system, and be orphaned all over again, never mind that I would have inherited enough half-siblings to field my own football team, I not only wouldn't have believed you, I probably would have spewed my drink in your face while laughing uproariously because honestly, how does that even happen? But apparently it has, and it now seems my life has become my own personal Jerry Springer show.

Yet in spite of last year's chaos, as I sit here writing in the quiet and the dark, comfortably ensconced in front of a crackling fireplace in the most beautiful custom-styled tuscan villa home I could ever imagine (seriously, the place should be in the pages of House Beautiful or Architectural Digest), I realize that although the revelations of this fall have completely altered my life and my reality, they have also perversely brought me home, and I feel more content and more at peace right now in front of these dancing flames than I have in a very long time. 

So how are you gonna top that, 2018?  Give me your best shot.

Happy New Year

In nearly every way possible, 2017 was an unprecedented year at Chez Ginger. I began last year by  testing the genealogical waters in taking a 4-week online course on Genealogy Basics through Boston University, in part to determine whether or not I had sufficient interest and/or aptitude to pursue genealogy as a 2nd (3rd? 12th?) career because I wanted to be like the hosts on shows like "Who Do You Think You Are" and "Long Lost Family," etc. and help other people to find their history the way I had found mine (or at least half of it) with my birth mother Norma.  I had no idea what the year had in store for me, or what that simple class portended.

Shortly after completing the class all hell seemed to break loose, necessitating the replacement over the next several months of all three of our cars, two heating and A/C systems, one water boiler (subbed out for a more traditional water heater), as well as two trips to Indianapolis for my birth mother's death and subsequent funeral, moving my child across country to Atlanta for grad school, attending my first genealogical institute, and beginning a more intensive course of genealogical study in September, all of which caused me to hemorrhage enough money to purchase a small island somewhere in the South Pacific.  I'm thinking Guam...or maybe someplace nice in the Outer Hebrides for when Guam gets too hot. Either might come in handy given the current political climate of the country.

If all that weren't enough to make one's head explode, a mere one week into my intensive genealogy course ("20 hours a week" my ass), I learned I had a half-sister and the identity of my birth father. Five weeks later, I discovered yet another half-sister...holy mackerel!! Then a week before the end of my course, two more new siblings appeared, neatly bookending my foray into serious genealogy because apparently the genealogy gods value symmetry as much as they do yanking your chain. You can read about 2017's misadventures here, here, and here.  Now it seems my Revelations trilogy needs to become a quadrilogy soon.

If you had told me this time last year that I would finish out 2017 with a new car, a new heating system, and be orphaned all over again, never mind that I would have inherited enough half-siblings to field my own football team, I not only wouldn't have believed you, I probably would have spewed my drink in your face while laughing uproariously because honestly, how does that even happen? But apparently it has, and it now seems my life has become my own personal Jerry Springer show.

Yet in spite of last year's chaos, as I sit here writing in the quiet and the dark, comfortably ensconced in front of a crackling fireplace in the most beautiful custom-styled tuscan villa home I could ever imagine (seriously, the place should be in the pages of House Beautiful or Architectural Digest), I realize that although the revelations of this fall have completely altered my life and my reality, they have also perversely brought me home, and I feel more content and more at peace right now in front of these dancing flames than I have in a very long time. 

So how are you gonna top that, 2018?  Give me your best shot.

Revelations, Part 3: Gratitude, Thy Name is Shannon

Adoption is an amazing and beautiful thing, but it can also be a double-edged sword honed in contradiction.  An adoptee is ultimately the product of two entirely different realities, one of which is more often than not an unknown quantity. As a result, most of us spend our lives wondering where we came from, wondering "what if."  It doesn't mean we don't love or appreciate our adoptive family; quite the reverse is usually true.  But it does mean we will always wonder where and how we fit into the world, and it does mean that we will always be aware that a part of our identity is missing like lost pieces from a jigsaw puzzle.  Even growing up in happy homes, some of us may feel like we were rejected or abandoned by our birth parents, while some of us may feel a bit like aliens in a strange land.

I was fortunate in that my adoptive family made a point of telling my brother and I about our adoptions long before we had the first clue what it meant to even be adopted.  As a result, we grew up considering it little more than another fact of our existence, like having blue eyes or dimples.  At least I did...I can't really speak for my brother.

I grew up knowing I was loved and "chosen," and my childhood was mostly happy (puberty notwithstanding).  But I still often felt like my parents didn't entirely understand me, not the least because my interests and abilities so diverged from their own.  It's not that they didn't try to be supportive, it's just that they had simply no frame of reference for understanding or dealing with someone like me. I was an anomaly, and I knew it. A loved anomaly, but an anomaly nonetheless.

We all search for identity in one way or another, and adoptees more than most. I can remember being asked by the woman who helped me find my birth mother what I thought it would be like to "see photos of people who look like you."  Flummoxed, I had no answer for her.  Even after finally deciding to search for my birth parents, the possibility of finding people who might look like me had never once crossed my mind.  I was far too used to looking either like no one or like everyone; I forever seem to remind people I meet of some random other person that they know.  Visible Anonymity.  Even when I found Norma 5 years ago and my half-sister Robin just a couple months ago, I discovered that I didn't really look like them either.  I was still a mystery, as was much of my heritage--"my heritage" being the operative phrase.

By the time my genealogy course started in September, I had already tested with all the major DNA/genealogy testing sites in my effort to find connections and to solve the mystery of my parentage.  Over the summer, on a whim, I tested with a less well-known company called MyHeritage; I figured since I'd already gone this far, I might as well make a clean sweep of all the testing companies, even this one.  Honestly, I didn't expect much to come of it.

Approximately 5 weeks after I first learned the identity of my birth father, Donald Tolin, I was checking my email in front of the television.  One of the first messages was from MyHeritage; as I had never received a notification that my test had finished processing, I was more than a little surprised to see a subject line boldly proclaiming that I "had a DNA match."  I opened that message on October 8th, which will forevermore be the day my story changed.

That match was for someone named "Shannon Moore Tolin Parrish" who, like Robin, was listed as a possible half-sibling. Seeing the name "Tolin" was enough to send my heart racing; seeing "half-sibling" was something else again.  This time it was my discovery, not someone else's.  I immediately contacted the person administrating this Shannon's test, whose name was Rose.  We emailed back and forth for a couple of weeks while Rose worked on uploading Shannon's raw data to GEDmatch and while we tried to find a mutually convenient time to call. Rose and I settled on the October 21st; I spent most of that afternoon trying to will my phone to ring like Darth Vader Force-choking one of his minions.

Finally Rose called. She gave me Shannon's kit number for GEDmatch and, with Rose right there on the phone, I ran the X-comparison same as I'd done with Robin.  Shannon and I matched even more cM than I had with Robin.

I had another sister.

And, according to Rose, that sister was an awesome individual.

Shannon <3

I have to say, Rose is a woman after my own heart.  A fellow genealogy geek, she and I chatted for a good hour or two, laughing and comparing notes.  I liked her right away; Rose is good people.  From Rose I learned that not only did Donald Tolin have the three legitimate children I'd already uncovered, he also had two older sons I'd known nothing about.  From me Rose learned about Robin and that we all probably have yet another half-brother who was born some 8 months before me (though I haven't been able to contact him yet to confirm or deny).  Rose also learned about some of Donald's more dubious escapades from the newspaper articles I had ferreted out.  Basically my birth father sired enough children to field his own baseball team.

As we were ending the call, Rose asked if it was okay to pass along my contact information to Shannon (duh!).  I was breathless and a little dizzy...everything felt so different this time.

Less than 24 hours later, on October 22nd, I spoke to my sister Shan for the first time.  I don't think it would be an exaggeration to say that Shan and I clicked from the very start. Violently. Audibly.  Really, really audibly. Like the sound of a bazooka being cocked and then fed through the Trans-Siberian Orchestra's speaker array in a small room constructed of stainless steel walls and sitting atop a pounding locomotive.  I don't know if it's because we are both adoptees or because of our particular recombination of DNA or what, but I felt a deep and instantaneous kinship with this woman. She is nothing less than the missing piece of my heart.

That first chat was just under 5 weeks past, but it already seems like a lifetime ago.  There is so much I still need and want to learn about Shan and her family, but it already feels like I've known and loved her my entire life. Chatting with Shan in real time has been a challenge, because she is currently deeply ensconced in an intensive cooking school in Ireland (!!) that will basically qualify her to be a chef when she's finished if she so chooses.

I am in awe of Shannon on a daily basis.  She is so creative and so talented in so many ways and even more beautiful inside than she is outside (which is stunning enough); she outclasses me in virtually every way possible.  She is a fighter and a survivor, yet has enough joy and energy and exuberance to give the girlie a run for her money.  She loves fiercely and forever.  I am prouder of her than she will ever know and humbled that I now get to be a part of her orbit.  I can't wait till we are able to meet in person at long last.

Shannon herself is a gift beyond price, but generous to a fault as she is, Shan has also given me back my missing history.  As a young woman, she did the hardcore, pre-Internet research required to find her birth parents.  Success follows that woman everywhere she goes. I get Irony laughing and pointing at me from the corner while she lives out wildly improbable adventures and achieves accolades and honors the rest of us could only dream about. As a result of her successful searching, Shan had several years of getting to know our birth father and, while it didn't turn out as she may have hoped (let's just say our father wasn't exactly the most upstanding of men and leave it at that), her experiences with him have made it possible for her to fill in missing pieces of myself I thought I'd never get to know. For example, my baby fine hair and my jacked-up teeth are direct legacies of our birth father, as are my intelligence, my love of words, and any small musical ability I may have (actually, there is music on both sides of my birth family).  No doubt there are many more genetic quirks I have yet to learn.

Donald Tolin, sporting our big Chicklet front teeth.

Shan also sent me pictures so I could see my birth father for the very first time.  I still stare at them in disbelief because when I look at those photos, I see my own face staring back at me.  I don't just favor our father, I practically AM him (physically, at least).  Virtually every photo I see of him instantly reminds me of a photo I have in an album somewhere with an identical pose and/or expression.  It's surreal.  What's even more unnerving is the fact that Donald Tolin's youngest son, who was born a scant four months before me, is basically my clone.  Frankly, it's unnerving. Even without DNA tests confirming my connection to the family thru sisters and cousins and half-nephews, Shan's photos alone provide more than sufficient evidence that Donald Tolin was my father.  I don't know if I will ever get over the uncanniness of the resemblance between Donald, myself, and his son.  It's just plain freaky.  Freakier still is that Don died in May, just two weeks after my birth mother Norma.  (You seriously can't make this shit up.)

My birth father and me. I was 17, he was around 18-20.

My half-brother, about age 14, and me at 17.

Me and my half-brother as sophomores in high school, or possibly auditioning for Clone Wars.

Thanksgiving is all about being grateful for the things and people that give our lives meaning. Well, that and egregious gluttony and the inevitable tryptophan comas which follow said gluttony.

I am always grateful for my family and friends both far and near: my brother, my in-laws who've put up with me for over three decades, my fantastic nieces and nephews, my amazingly supportive Posse and Divas--who make all things easier--and of course for my brilliant daughter, who both amazes and confounds me on a near-daily basis.  I am blessed to have had the smallest part in her upbringing (though I'm still not entirely sure who raised whom), and I can't wait to see what she does next.  I adore you all.

This Thanksgiving, however, I am especially grateful for my new sister Shan and for all she brings to my life: knowledge, openness, generosity, light, hope, love, joy, grace, history, a passel of talented and hilarious cousins who have welcomed me with open arms (and two of whom I once lived a mere 184 feet from without ever knowing it), a new brother-in-law nicknamed "Sweet Daddy," and a glorious trio of talented and heartwarming niece and nephews. Shannon is completion...I am at last whole because of her, and I love her unreservedly.

My heart is full.

Happy Thanksgiving!