I talked to my mother today. Her name is Joan. She gave birth to me in 1951, in San Francisco, and gave me up for adoption. In her 73 year life, she never had another child, and she never found me though, it turns out, she lived only a few block from me in Los Angeles. She didn't know if I was a boy or a girl. She probably didn't even know the exact date of my birth. She died of ovarian cancer in 2003, never having found her only child.
In February of this year, I renewed a search to find my birthparents and heal all our psychic wounds. I was told that, when a mother gives up a child for adoption, she is left with a psychic wound. The wound can reside in the child as well, and in an empath like myself, it is even stronger. So I embarked on a quest to find my birthparents and heal us all.
I found my father. But I was five years too late for my mother.
Today, finally, I meditated, and then I spoke to her. I tried to reassure her spirit that I was all right, that I loved her, that I wish I could have known her.
I am trying to know her through the eyes of those who knew her well. This is my mystery, my giant puzzle, my quest.