Carolann Dowding - Shadows in Paradise

Those who do not have power
over the story that dominates their lives,
power to retell it,
deconstruct it,
joke about it,
and change it as time changes,
truly are powerless,
because they cannot think new thoughts.

Salman Rushdie

Poem from the Heart

Never be afraid to try something new.

Remember amateurs built the ark.

Professionals built the Titanic.

Wolfgang Riebe

2009

It is dark. My thoughts swirl. The digital clock reads 3.00am. I fumble for the light switch, throw back the covers and climb out of bed. I find a pen and paper and record my words.

Baby was born and sent on her way,

So innocent she had no say,

When her life changed on that fateful day.

What might have been held no sway,

As baby was tragically carried away.

When she was grown,

She trudged the mire,

To find mother, father,

Her hearts desire.

Her mother knows

It was a dreadful sin,

To give her own

For a strangers kin.

With baby gone

her soul felt wrong.

Her heart was heavy,

She must move on,

Forever with an empty space,

Nothing new will ever replace.

Her heart is on fire,

She knows for sure,

When she was born

and life was poor,

No family celebrations

Passed through her door.

No blue and pink and lemon trims,

No cards and ribbons and lacy whims,

No flowers and toys and happy pics,

No nursery sets and building bricks.

Her father never held her hand,

Counted to ten,

Nor helped her stand.

Popped the cork and drank a toast,

Sent her flowers or did his most.

His heart is on fire,

He feels the cost,

He will never know the child he lost.

He will only know her in his mind

Society disapproves his kind.

Her heart is on fire,

the mind is a liar,

her spirit is full of strange desire,

Sorrow, anger, fear and strain,

What might have been?

Brings on the pain.

Her heart is on fire,

She is growing wings,

To fly above the hurtful things.

She questions which road she should take,

To try, deny or maybe break?

Her heart is on fire,

She would love to know,

How did they cleave,

Then let her go?

The answer nigh may not be true,

Where and when and why and who?

1. Miasma

When your mind is full of indecision,

try thinking with your heart.

Believe in Yourself Journal by Heather Zschock, Sophia Bedford-Pierce & Beth Mende Conny

1950s

My adoptive mother, Mary, and I often examined the memorabilia contained in her camphor-wood chest and especially enjoyed looking at the baby clothes I had worn as a newborn. Although the garments were discoloured and faded, they retained their fragile beauty.

January 1982

I pressed my nose to the windowpane and observed the sky as it transformed into shades of orange and gold. My heart raced as shadows of the unknown beckoned me. Tonight I would cross a boundary. Tonight I would phone my birth mother.

I squinted through the glass and watched the darkness grow. Lights appeared in neighbouring houses as the blackness softened untidy grass and straggly hedges.

The season was high summer. My family had sweltered since dawn and dusk brought small relief. The broiling air was trapped in the ceiling and radiated a furnace-like invasion into the small rooms of the cottage.

I was aware only of my heartbeat as I twisted my clammy hands into contortions.

Without warning, a din echoed through the cottage. My husband glanced up at the ceiling and I realised it was only the pop and crackle of the iron roof as it retracted in the night air. I turned back to the window and pushed the frame upwards.

That night I had chosen to contact my birth mother for the first time since she relinquished me thirty-four years ago. Would I recognise her voice? Maybe. Incredulous as it sounds, a foetus can hear in the womb by the second trimester.

I was aware I spent my first ten days in the Brisbane Womens Hospital with my birth mother. Did she cuddle me, caress me and feed me? Perhaps I had repressed memories?

The bond between my birth mother and I was severed when I was two weeks old and the event would have devastated us both. Many studies have proven that babies know and recognise their mothers. Would I?

It is also acknowledged that when a baby and mother are permanently separated, the baby is traumatised. First, the foetus bonds with its mother physically, psychologically and spiritually, then the bonding continues after birth as the mothers scent, voice and face imprint upon the child. The act of feeding (breast or bottle) enhances the intimate relationship. After the separation from my birth mother, I would have experienced abandonment, and felt it stamped on my unconscious mind forever.

My thoughts returned to the oppressive atmosphere in the cottage. The atrocious heat wave did nothing to help my anxiety. Suddenly my mind infused with a state of derealisation; my eyes were unfocused; the rooms perspective warped; my arms and legs felt like lead.

Despite the heat, our children slept. A rare but welcome puff of air ruffled the curtains and as the scent of frangipani wafted inside I visualised thousands of pink blossoms displayed in our garden and tried to focus.

The little cottage, situated on my adoptive parents farm, was home for my husband, John, and our three children Christopher, Lachlan and Andrew while our home was under construction. My adoptive parents, Mary and Jack Gordon, lived three kilometres away in the old Queenslander where I grew up with my adoptive brother, Ian, who still lived there with them. I had the support of a loving family all around me. Why was I doing this?

I grabbed a notepad from the coffee table and noticed my sweaty hands had dampened the paper. I stared at the phone number. John, who had promised his support, waited patiently.

Ten minutes later John walked across to the sofa and plonked himself down.

I shuffled over and sat beside him. Ill phone soon, but I need to calm down first, I mumbled.

I imagined lifting the receiver and dialling. Butterflies fluttered recklessly in my stomach, making me nauseous. My thoughts of rejection magnified. I cringed and wondered how my birth mother would react. In my mind she had rejected me once and I feared rejection more than anything. My childhood had been happy and I was married to a kind husband and the mother of three adorable sons. A quote floated through my mind: Why reach for the moon when you already have the stars? I wondered if I should heed the message.

I slumped on the sofa and struggled with my emotions. The parable of Pandoras Box floated into my mind. I remembered it well as my adoptive mother had often recalled it. It felt so relevant at that moment as I wondered, should I use caution and remain safe but ignorant? Or should I open the box as Pandora did?

Although I was a comparatively happy person, I hated being adopted. I had always despised the words adopt, adopted and adopting. On hearing them, I always experienced a sharp jab of emotion.

I looked at the phone. Would my birth mother reject me again? Could a mother be so cruel? Maybe I was nave, romantic or optimistic, but my adoptive parents had given me the gift of feeling special. I was convinced I exuded enough charm to win acceptance. The woman was my birth mother so surely we would weave a relationship.

I wilted in the heat and stared into space. John took my hand and squeezed. I asked him, What if she rejects me?

Johns clear blue eyes looked into mine with compassion. It might be better if I phoned. I dont think you should be directly involved. Weve no idea how shell react.