Category Archives: Healing

a fireside lullaby

sing to me a lullaby

of peace and joy and loves gone by

take my hand and let’s get high

on fragrant blooms, the midnight sky

dance with the wind to our hearts content

at home with the redwoods, my dearest friends

nature beckons promising solace

for she is divine and perfectly flawless

want to be like the angels as i journey forth

seeking truth, giving love,

wings to fly evermore North


The Rising, Essie Jain. A beautiful, poetic piece. 

Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

down a crooked path i went

when i think of time gone by,
all the things i’ve missed
hopes and dreams
and visions,
the love that i so wished
would somehow save me from myself,
take away the ache
yet down a crooked path i went,
at times I thought i’d break
should have listened to my gut
oh so young and trusting
learned the hard way, cut by cut
that i’d be left with nothing
sold my soul to lies, got lost
still, in the end was found
my soul emerged, sought the light
turns out light would win
and here am i on a new path
paved with life’s experiences
though not what i set out for,
it’s made all the difference


It’s All Happening Now, BAERD. Full lyrics here. Life really is all happening now, around me everywhere. So many changes in the past several months. I’m not sure when I’ll land…

Photo by Levi Bare on Unsplash

fly free

just when i feel like
i know where i’m going
the wind knocks me over,
and i’m left blindly groping
stumbling through the dark,
falling miserably short of the mark
days when the tired runs so deep
no amount of sleep can beat it,
and i feel defeated
angry that this i must suffer
seeking protection,
a thing that might buffer
day after day, pour myself out
while mending, on the rebound
need a minute to catch my breath
i am drowning, 
and now i am sounding
a whole lotta crazy
in truth longing to fly free,
leave the tired behind
tell myself, it’s only a matter of time
lock away the light
catch my dream, hang on tight
it’s just within sight


Exhausted by Foo Fighters. Can it be the weekend, please? Work has been draining. I wish it weren’t so. I’m venting, but also jamming to the song below 🙂 The poem has been revised since I first posted. I think I was so tired when I initially wrote it, it didn’t flow the way I wanted it to. I’m done with the revisions now. And I’m also done with my work week. Woo fuckin’ hoo!

Photo by Leo_Visions on Unsplash

more than a flicker

you and i are

more than a moment,

more than a flicker

in a world getting sicker and sicker

when one wonders if anyone cares

and life seems shitty, unfair

you, darling, are one in a million

in a sky filled with a billion

wicked stars in the sky

perpetually evolving, you and i

reaching high for our zenith,

a connection shared between us

on me you can always rely,

a trustful ally

holding up a light

when no longer you can fight

the hurt you hide inside

fall into me,

can i help you see that you are

more than just a moment,

more than just a flicker

i see in you all that glitters


Inspired by Linkin Park’s One More Light. Full lyrics here. After reading Fox Reviews Rock post on Friendly Fire, another song I love, I spent the day listening to Linkin Park. I’ve loved this band for a long time. It made me think, are we all not looking to be seen in this big, bad world? So, I wish for you the following:

May you feel seen and heard. May you be peaceful and happy. And may you be safe and free.

Photo by Muhammad Ali on Unsplash

hey, thanks

I hope you’re enjoying a restful, restorative weekend! I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you for visiting and taking time to read my poems, posts, etc. It truly means the world. It’s laughable, I never thought I’d ever write poetry. Okay, so it’s not great poetry, but the process is incredibly rewarding and even more so, healing.

I have loved writing since the time I could hold a pencil. Yes, I was that geek in school with the straight bangs and glasses who loved, yes loved, practicing cursive. The act of forming each letter was like art.

I started this blog in 2010 primarily upon the encouragement of a group of individuals I knew in high school, and a teacher who was very well liked by the students, Carole Ann Kaplan. We all created WordPress blogs and began posting stuff. Since then, so many other platforms to write and subscribe to have popped up. My posts began as a journey to find my birthfamily in Taiwan. I wrote a memoir about that journey. Things have changed tremendously since then, and the book would be much, much different now…I don’t write about adoption very often anymore, but elements of grief and loss, attachment, rejection, okay, yes, unrequited love, and longing that I’ve experienced as a result of adoption, I’m sure, influence my prose.

So, thank you, dear readers for following this blog, reading my silly poems, and sharing space with me. It’s really nice to read your posts as well, and I”m grateful for the support. Happy writing, and may you have a lovely rest of your day.


Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash

Enjoy this beautiful tune! A friend recently introduced me to Father John Misty, though he’s been around for awhile. I’ve had this song on repeat 🙂

feckless fool

i cannot feel this way about you

            just when I’ve reduced you to background noise

            you find your way back to me

            like that long-lost song I love

            playing on the radio,

            bringing me back to the way we were

            to the way we could be

            note by bittersweet note

and without a single thought

i follow,

feckless fool

the ache that bends

The attachment wound…if you’re adopted, you might get it…

the ache that bends

till i feel i might snap

visits from time to time

a hollow within

that has existed since

the day you abandoned me

a window, the only light

in a darkened room

full of shadows that frighten

but even more so,

the endless, pathetic quiet

there is no one there,

no voice to soothe and cajole

the ache that bends

feels icy and hot,

defiant and soft

i demand it leave,

to no avail

the ache that bends

until I feel I might snap

and yet,

I never do…

Featured Photo by Khamkéo Vilaysing on Unsplash

what every adoptee longs to know

When I was growing up in Louisiana, one of the questions I was most often asked by others upon learning that I was adopted was, “so who are your ‘real’ parents?” It was fairly obvious that I was adopted, as I looked nothing like my white parents. I had straight black hair, almond shaped eyes, and skin the color of my dad’s morning cup of coffee. I was usually annoyed by the question each and every time it was asked. My typical response was, “well my parents are my real parents.” My adoptive parents were the only parents I knew. The only parents I would ever know. I have no doubt that other adoptees encounter the same question and perhaps feel the same sense of annoyance.

What baffles me is that I was never curious about my birthparents or place of birth until about two years ago after finding my adoption papers, 40 years after my adoption. This ambivalence was perpetuated by the secrecy surrounding adoption at the time. My adoptive parents never ever talked about my birth heritage or birth family. Hell, I had never even heard the term, “birthfamily.” When I was placed for adoption, it was the beginning of the end of any connection to my birth country, to my birthfamily, to my cultural roots. After my adoption, all cultural ties were severed. I would never know that my birthparents were from China, but forced to leave the country and build a new life in Taiwan, that I had two older biological sisters and an older biological brother. I believe that my adoptive parents did everything possible to keep my past hidden from me, and for years, it would remain so. Then one day, the truth came out, or at least part of it. And when it did, it was the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

This afternoon, I went with some friends who are visiting from California to see a movie, “Philomena,” starring Judi Dench and Steve Coogan. It was a heartbreaking movie, although there was some humor between the characters that lightened things up. It is based on the true story of Philomena Lee, an Irish woman who, as a teenager, had a romantic fling with a boy at a carnival and became pregnant. Rejected by her own family, she is sent to a convent where she gives birth to a son, Anthony, and is forced to work with other young girls in order to work off the penance of their “sins.” The girls are allowed to see their children for only one hour a day. What is even more tragic is one day, Philomena watches helplessly as her three-year-old boy is taken away by a rich American couple without as much as a goodbye. The convent was in the business of selling babies to wealthy Americans and having the young mother’s sign contracts that they could never seek the whereabouts of their children. This abominable practice is historical, unfortunately. Fifty years later, Philomena is still tormented by the loss of her son and the desire to find him. She unwittingly connects with dejected political journalist, Martin Sixsmith, portrayed by Steve Coogan, who agrees to help her find her son, primarily for the tabloid possibilities of a human interest story. What follows is a tender story of loss, reconciliation, forgiveness, and ultimately acceptance.

I know some adoptees hated this film, but it really resonated with me, despite the creative license that was taken to make it more dramatic. The story of deep loss and grief was what hit me. The depiction of such a tremendous loss experienced by a woman whose child was taken away from her was so real. I felt the loss as if it were my own. So often adoption is portrayed as a happy event, yet rarely do we see the other side of adoption from the perspective of the birth mother who is forced to relinquish her child. One of the most memorable lines comes when Philomena decides to go to America with Martin Sixsmith in hopes of finding her son. Philomena says, “I’d like to know if Anthony ever thought of me…I’ve thought of him everyday.”

Since learning about my birthparents in Taiwan, I’ve often wondered if my birth mother ever thought of me. How can it not be so? Philomena answered this question for me. The separation between a mother who is forced to give up her child and the child who is relinquished causes a wound that is easily re-opened again and again. I will never know my birth mother. She and my biological father died before I had the chance to meet them. I have often wondered about her, like what her favorite color was, what kind of music she liked, what kind of personality she had, was she happy, did we bond at all while I was still with her? I was told by my sisters in Taiwan that she was a teacher, she enjoyed learning and classical music. Unbeknownst to her, my birth father, took me to the orphanage and relinquished me without her consent. I often wonder how it all happened, if he felt anything at all when leaving me at the orphanage to languish. My sisters tell me that our mother never talked about what happened, but it deeply affected her, emotionally and psychologically. When we met for the first time in Taipei, they gave me photos of our mother and father. I felt that there was such sadness behind my birth mother’s eyes.

Philomena eventually learns that the life her son attains after his adoption is much more affluent than anything she could have ever provided for him. She recognizes this fact and is happy that he grew up having opportunities that he would not have had otherwise. This is the reason why many adoptees are placed for adoption, including me. It’s quite the phenomenon when you are given everything you could possibly need and want, yet still feel a hole somewhere deep inside you, like there is a part of you that’s missing. It’s still there to this day. I’ve learned to accept it, or perhaps even ignore it so I can deal with life.

I think that many adoptees wonder why they were given up or abandoned. Questions like, “was it because I was unwanted, was it forced, was I ever thought of afterwards?” are not uncommon. Unfortunately, many adoptees will never know the answers because of a lack of documentation, abandonment or falsification of records. Finding my birthfamily brought me one step closer to the truth and to answering some of those questions. Yet, the whole truth is still so elusive. I will always have questions about my birthparents and my birthfamily. Answers are not so easy to come by.

In the movie, Martin Sixsmith quotes T.S. Eliot toward the end of Philomena’s journey, 

“The end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” 

I thought how very apt this quote was. Philemona started her journey at the convent and, in the end, returns to it. My journey began in an orphanage in Taiwan. Two years ago, I returned to the city of my birth to be reunited with my birth/first family. I arrived at the place where it all started, yet only just began to know the place for the first time. Though I will never be able to meet my birth mother, I believe that she thought about me. There is no longer any doubt in my mind.