Though I love it, dearly, I don't think I'd appreciated the word 'welcome' enough, until now. What an enfolding. I know we only know one another here, but I felt you in these new people, with their sweet and soothing words. I know the feeling well, of a story escaping before it can be caught and then it not being able to locate a safe enough landing spot... Know that our eyes and ears, here, are sturdy branches, where your story can rest, and be safe 🤍
Eyes and ears as sturdy branches.... what a beautiful thought. How often we move through this world, seeing and listening to others, not knowing that we can be that safe landing for another. Human aviaries. Thank you dear Chloe. 🙏
This chapter, your family, and you restore my hope in humanity, in humans. The world tells us to close off, but there are still others whose arms are wide open, even when others may take advantage of that empathy and kindness. But I don't know, for me, it's harder to be closed off than to be open, even if it may get me in trouble from time to time. Thank you, Kimberly. You're light. <3
I’m with you Nadia. So much harder to be closed off. The challenge for me is to allow my way, but also tend to my cellular pace, which can sometimes feel too much charge with all that openness. It’s a delicate balance and I’m learning how to be open and also be gentle with my body at the same time (which sometimes means I need to retreat, close, and quiet.)
But yes, knowing there are humans in this world who live with open arms (and so many of them miraculously here on Substack!) constantly refuels my inner smile.
Of course, I understand the necessity to also be careful and to protect your own feelings. I'm still learning to do that. But I can't imagine closing off no matter how many times life shows me lessons where I need to adjust myself. You're doing it right. I know it's hard, of course. And yes, thank goodness for the Substack community. So many lovely folks here!
Having had a DNA surprise myself, you nailed what it feels like to have an urgent need to share the circumstances with others (only to sometimes get a not-so-desirable response). “I don’t know how to do this.” YES. YES.
I zoomed into those photos and audibly gasped. They are you. ❤️
Ohhh! We have so much to talk about Christine. I feel so much relief when someone (you) validates my experience, or says “yes I do that too!” We’re making this up as we go along and I don’t think we can underestimate the bedrock shift it’s having on our body/mind/spirit. I just shared your Moth story with my mom and it was a teary and expansive listen for both of us.❤️
Lovely. Yes, lucky, which makes your elation justified. Others, like me, as you’ve alluded to, have had much darker and complex experiences, and nonetheless enlightening.
What a wonderful story! Aren't we great at dismissing our feelings (because others had it worse or for whatever random reasons)... It's so beautiful and rare to have the opportunity to connect with 'strangers' and discover family bonds with such natural ease. And no wonder it's all confusing and unsettling too.
More echoes, Kim - my great-grandfather also drowned in one of the Great Lakes (not sure which one) and it had broad ramifications for our family - my grandfather became the primary breadwinner of the family at age 8... I know exactly the surreal experience of connecting with family in this way, mine of course through adoption. It's unsettling and exciting at the same time (and yes, incredibly brave to be open to it.)
What? I have so many questions! And he must've been young if your grandfather became the breadwinner at 8? Ok, we must meander here a bit in our conversation in a few weeks. x
I read your story, Welcome. I wanted so much to respond, but you don’t know me on this venue. This was not a work of fiction. Though I certainly felt it was writing at its finest , it is your personal story .Then I realized it is exactly why I need to respond. At the very least, I need to tell you that I care. And I hope the greatest gift from a reader, is to celebrate with you.
So much courage to splay yourself open for all of us to feel. Like ever so gently lifting a band-aid from a child ,slowly, whispering nonsensical words of encouragement.
Reaching the last stubborn bit precariously held in place over the wound . No choice but to rip it free.
Leaving it raw and still healing. Some may call it closure. I feel the opposite. Arms reaching out across the miles with a new definition of welcome.
We do not know you yet, but you are family. And we love you.
Glad you are able to feel my honesty. And thank you for a very high compliment. I can’t imagine having to compose my thoughts in to stories on a regular basis. I think I would feel like I was going to work. I am a reader. I love how words have the ability to feel like a misting spring shower, head up, eyes closed, wet smile. And then there is the bruised clouds that open a torrent of rain on an icy cold December day.
Of course there are only a select few on Substack that have the ability to , well let’s just say, ‘affect the weather’. I welcome you into that group that has that affect on me. I have much more I could have added to your post and usually write too much. My sister went through a similar experience, searching for her biological parents. It was not the wonderful experience she had imagined, but it is her story and not mine to tell. And on a side note, I too am unfixed . I sometimes go by the name , Abby Normal ( from the movie, Young Frankenstein).
Well then perhaps your book could simply be pages of your reflections and comments because there is such beauty and truth in your expression. Even turning your face upwards to feel a spring shower, your participation changes it. Quantum poets can't argue that. ;)
It's a privilege to know you sister, every last unfixed, frankensteined part of you. (And Ranger!)
Joining you in the backyard now because “wait just a minute, I’ll be right back I just saw something I wanna go check out." !!!!
Oh my Lor, you just blanketed me in chills of awe and gratitude. What magnificent being, so full of love and mirroring, just landed here? I feel your "arms reaching out across miles," your gentle encouragement, your unfathomably loving embrace. Thank you for being here. Thank you for whispering, "it'll be ok." And thank you for being family.
I see you follow some of my favorite authors over here... no doubt you'd be one as well, if you ever decide to write. This comment alone makes me want to weep.
Ah! This makes me so happy!!! Tears of joy. Of course they welcomed you with open arms. What a beautiful gift you must have been in the absence of their beloved Chuck. You and Chuck both have the same dreamy stare…adventurers in life, artists full of love and curiosity for the world and the people in it. You carry so much of him with you, Kimberly. And I can’t wait to experience what happened when/if you met them in person!!!
“I’ve known them for as long as I’ve lived. There has simply been a clogged pipe between us and now warm waters are gushing through.” — beautiful words, Kimberly.
I also really like your focus on ‘welcome’. Until you mentioned it, I hadn’t really considered how powerful that word is, especially when it comes at a time when we feel displaced.
Thank you Michael. It is such a good word...you inspired me to look up the etymology, and the original word wilcuma may have been closer to “willing” one “to come” or “wishing” another’s presence or arrival. I love that more active interpretation!
"My body a frayed electrical circuit, grounding wires ripped out, raw and buzzing. I don’t know how to do this. Each time I recount the story, I wish I hadn't. But I can’t not; it flies out of me, trying to find a place to nest and rest. And that place is not me. With each syllable of his name—Charlie, Charles, Chuck—I lose another Newton of gravity. Soon, I will be floating."
I know this feeling but in an entirely different context.
I feel a weight lifted and a lump in my throat reading that simple word ‘welcome’, how powerful words can be! And how relieved I am to read this one here for you. Of course you don’t know how to be, to continue, of course you are floundering... this is a new beginning, one you have no experience in. I’m smiling at the thought of the next adventure though, for surely, after such open armed acceptance, it can be nothing more than wonderful and enlightening.
I don’t know why now, perhaps it was the photo of family, or perhaps your description of floating but suddenly I recall a friend, over thirty year ago now, who was also faced with the discovery of a whole new family. He began his long journey of acceptance with shock, there was no other word for it, he was immobilised by it. Could not take one step further. Then came intrigue, like you he had to know, he couldn’t leave a whole other family dangling in the unknown. For years he said to me he felt as though he were floating, or more precisely a float bobbing up and down on a still lake, with nibbles being taken but never swallowed whole... as if he (an only child) wasn’t quite what either family needed or wanted. It took him years to accept that in fact he had been the catalyst that knitted every one of them together... and they were strong. They are still. X
Susie, you are such an empath. I don’t mean for you to be carrying these lumps and anxieties with me! ❤️ It’s uncanny though, to hear you talk about your friend and his experience of “bobbing up and down on a still lake.” I can’t claim to understand the bio-mechanics of a loss of identity, but I know many of us have this experience. And even describe it as bobbing, or being on a float at sea. As you’ll learn in later chapters, what you shared here becomes a very real and terrorizing physical experience for me...so to hear others speak about it, whether in metaphor or not, is eerily validating. This life. What a beautiful messy mystery.
Thank you always for your kindest, most thoughtful and thought- provoking comments. I feel you near.💕
What a stunning sentence: “My body a frayed electrical circuit, grounding wires ripped out, raw and buzzing. I don’t know how to do this.” I love seeing something I’ve felt (tho for different reasons) expressed in such tangible physics.
Thank you Jen. Sometimes I google engineering or mechanics videos just so I can understand my own interior better. Metaphors are so helpful when I can’t quite figure out how to articulate my innards.:)
Jeez, I totally teared up reading that "Welcome". Wow, Kimberley, those are some beautiful letters you received. I feel like I'm living this through you when I read your words.
Wow! I can understand your floating sense, having been knocked over in other ways. But your last image puts you on your feet again and feels like it answers every question - at least for now. What a treasury of new photos.
If rooted trees could float, that might best describe the journey. A little bit of grounding, a little bit of floating. Like a swinging pendulum trying to find its natural resting place.:)
Though I love it, dearly, I don't think I'd appreciated the word 'welcome' enough, until now. What an enfolding. I know we only know one another here, but I felt you in these new people, with their sweet and soothing words. I know the feeling well, of a story escaping before it can be caught and then it not being able to locate a safe enough landing spot... Know that our eyes and ears, here, are sturdy branches, where your story can rest, and be safe 🤍
Eyes and ears as sturdy branches.... what a beautiful thought. How often we move through this world, seeing and listening to others, not knowing that we can be that safe landing for another. Human aviaries. Thank you dear Chloe. 🙏
This chapter, your family, and you restore my hope in humanity, in humans. The world tells us to close off, but there are still others whose arms are wide open, even when others may take advantage of that empathy and kindness. But I don't know, for me, it's harder to be closed off than to be open, even if it may get me in trouble from time to time. Thank you, Kimberly. You're light. <3
I’m with you Nadia. So much harder to be closed off. The challenge for me is to allow my way, but also tend to my cellular pace, which can sometimes feel too much charge with all that openness. It’s a delicate balance and I’m learning how to be open and also be gentle with my body at the same time (which sometimes means I need to retreat, close, and quiet.)
But yes, knowing there are humans in this world who live with open arms (and so many of them miraculously here on Substack!) constantly refuels my inner smile.
Of course, I understand the necessity to also be careful and to protect your own feelings. I'm still learning to do that. But I can't imagine closing off no matter how many times life shows me lessons where I need to adjust myself. You're doing it right. I know it's hard, of course. And yes, thank goodness for the Substack community. So many lovely folks here!
What a satisfying way to start my Sunday morn.
Having had a DNA surprise myself, you nailed what it feels like to have an urgent need to share the circumstances with others (only to sometimes get a not-so-desirable response). “I don’t know how to do this.” YES. YES.
I zoomed into those photos and audibly gasped. They are you. ❤️
Ohhh! We have so much to talk about Christine. I feel so much relief when someone (you) validates my experience, or says “yes I do that too!” We’re making this up as we go along and I don’t think we can underestimate the bedrock shift it’s having on our body/mind/spirit. I just shared your Moth story with my mom and it was a teary and expansive listen for both of us.❤️
Lovely. Yes, lucky, which makes your elation justified. Others, like me, as you’ve alluded to, have had much darker and complex experiences, and nonetheless enlightening.
And that’s really all it is...luck. Still complex, as you’ll learn in later chapters, but still lucky. ☺️
What a wonderful story! Aren't we great at dismissing our feelings (because others had it worse or for whatever random reasons)... It's so beautiful and rare to have the opportunity to connect with 'strangers' and discover family bonds with such natural ease. And no wonder it's all confusing and unsettling too.
More echoes, Kim - my great-grandfather also drowned in one of the Great Lakes (not sure which one) and it had broad ramifications for our family - my grandfather became the primary breadwinner of the family at age 8... I know exactly the surreal experience of connecting with family in this way, mine of course through adoption. It's unsettling and exciting at the same time (and yes, incredibly brave to be open to it.)
What? I have so many questions! And he must've been young if your grandfather became the breadwinner at 8? Ok, we must meander here a bit in our conversation in a few weeks. x
I read your story, Welcome. I wanted so much to respond, but you don’t know me on this venue. This was not a work of fiction. Though I certainly felt it was writing at its finest , it is your personal story .Then I realized it is exactly why I need to respond. At the very least, I need to tell you that I care. And I hope the greatest gift from a reader, is to celebrate with you.
So much courage to splay yourself open for all of us to feel. Like ever so gently lifting a band-aid from a child ,slowly, whispering nonsensical words of encouragement.
Reaching the last stubborn bit precariously held in place over the wound . No choice but to rip it free.
Leaving it raw and still healing. Some may call it closure. I feel the opposite. Arms reaching out across the miles with a new definition of welcome.
We do not know you yet, but you are family. And we love you.
To cherished family lost.
And new ones found.
Glad you are able to feel my honesty. And thank you for a very high compliment. I can’t imagine having to compose my thoughts in to stories on a regular basis. I think I would feel like I was going to work. I am a reader. I love how words have the ability to feel like a misting spring shower, head up, eyes closed, wet smile. And then there is the bruised clouds that open a torrent of rain on an icy cold December day.
Of course there are only a select few on Substack that have the ability to , well let’s just say, ‘affect the weather’. I welcome you into that group that has that affect on me. I have much more I could have added to your post and usually write too much. My sister went through a similar experience, searching for her biological parents. It was not the wonderful experience she had imagined, but it is her story and not mine to tell. And on a side note, I too am unfixed . I sometimes go by the name , Abby Normal ( from the movie, Young Frankenstein).
Oh, and my dog’s name is Ranger.
Well then perhaps your book could simply be pages of your reflections and comments because there is such beauty and truth in your expression. Even turning your face upwards to feel a spring shower, your participation changes it. Quantum poets can't argue that. ;)
It's a privilege to know you sister, every last unfixed, frankensteined part of you. (And Ranger!)
Joining you in the backyard now because “wait just a minute, I’ll be right back I just saw something I wanna go check out." !!!!
Oh my Lor, you just blanketed me in chills of awe and gratitude. What magnificent being, so full of love and mirroring, just landed here? I feel your "arms reaching out across miles," your gentle encouragement, your unfathomably loving embrace. Thank you for being here. Thank you for whispering, "it'll be ok." And thank you for being family.
I see you follow some of my favorite authors over here... no doubt you'd be one as well, if you ever decide to write. This comment alone makes me want to weep.
Ah Kim, tears reading this 🤍 'Welcome' - how beautiful... I've only read your memoir in segments but it's captivating and heartfelt.
Ah! This makes me so happy!!! Tears of joy. Of course they welcomed you with open arms. What a beautiful gift you must have been in the absence of their beloved Chuck. You and Chuck both have the same dreamy stare…adventurers in life, artists full of love and curiosity for the world and the people in it. You carry so much of him with you, Kimberly. And I can’t wait to experience what happened when/if you met them in person!!!
“I’ve known them for as long as I’ve lived. There has simply been a clogged pipe between us and now warm waters are gushing through.” — beautiful words, Kimberly.
I also really like your focus on ‘welcome’. Until you mentioned it, I hadn’t really considered how powerful that word is, especially when it comes at a time when we feel displaced.
Thank you Michael. It is such a good word...you inspired me to look up the etymology, and the original word wilcuma may have been closer to “willing” one “to come” or “wishing” another’s presence or arrival. I love that more active interpretation!
Ohh cool, that is super interesting. I like that interpretation too!
Etymology is so fun, especially for us writers.
This is so beautiful...
"My body a frayed electrical circuit, grounding wires ripped out, raw and buzzing. I don’t know how to do this. Each time I recount the story, I wish I hadn't. But I can’t not; it flies out of me, trying to find a place to nest and rest. And that place is not me. With each syllable of his name—Charlie, Charles, Chuck—I lose another Newton of gravity. Soon, I will be floating."
I know this feeling but in an entirely different context.
I feel a weight lifted and a lump in my throat reading that simple word ‘welcome’, how powerful words can be! And how relieved I am to read this one here for you. Of course you don’t know how to be, to continue, of course you are floundering... this is a new beginning, one you have no experience in. I’m smiling at the thought of the next adventure though, for surely, after such open armed acceptance, it can be nothing more than wonderful and enlightening.
I don’t know why now, perhaps it was the photo of family, or perhaps your description of floating but suddenly I recall a friend, over thirty year ago now, who was also faced with the discovery of a whole new family. He began his long journey of acceptance with shock, there was no other word for it, he was immobilised by it. Could not take one step further. Then came intrigue, like you he had to know, he couldn’t leave a whole other family dangling in the unknown. For years he said to me he felt as though he were floating, or more precisely a float bobbing up and down on a still lake, with nibbles being taken but never swallowed whole... as if he (an only child) wasn’t quite what either family needed or wanted. It took him years to accept that in fact he had been the catalyst that knitted every one of them together... and they were strong. They are still. X
Susie, you are such an empath. I don’t mean for you to be carrying these lumps and anxieties with me! ❤️ It’s uncanny though, to hear you talk about your friend and his experience of “bobbing up and down on a still lake.” I can’t claim to understand the bio-mechanics of a loss of identity, but I know many of us have this experience. And even describe it as bobbing, or being on a float at sea. As you’ll learn in later chapters, what you shared here becomes a very real and terrorizing physical experience for me...so to hear others speak about it, whether in metaphor or not, is eerily validating. This life. What a beautiful messy mystery.
Thank you always for your kindest, most thoughtful and thought- provoking comments. I feel you near.💕
I wish I could be Kimberly 🤍xx
What a stunning sentence: “My body a frayed electrical circuit, grounding wires ripped out, raw and buzzing. I don’t know how to do this.” I love seeing something I’ve felt (tho for different reasons) expressed in such tangible physics.
Thank you Jen. Sometimes I google engineering or mechanics videos just so I can understand my own interior better. Metaphors are so helpful when I can’t quite figure out how to articulate my innards.:)
Jeez, I totally teared up reading that "Welcome". Wow, Kimberley, those are some beautiful letters you received. I feel like I'm living this through you when I read your words.
Awwwww! What an empath you are!
Sounds like you’ve got this 👍☀️🌧️🌻
Wow! I can understand your floating sense, having been knocked over in other ways. But your last image puts you on your feet again and feels like it answers every question - at least for now. What a treasury of new photos.
If rooted trees could float, that might best describe the journey. A little bit of grounding, a little bit of floating. Like a swinging pendulum trying to find its natural resting place.:)