Some days, I feel like a broken record, spinning over the same sore spots, writing the same things in my journal, treading over the same beaten path. It feels like poking a bruise, just to see if it still hurts. Yes, I was that kid (and I’m still that adult).
But as I have been writing a post that’s not quite ready to publish, I realize that this is more like watching a storm system move across the weather map on the nightly news. Yes, I’m spinning. But the spinning is more like a storm — or like a series of storms. We go in circles. We hit some of the same spots we did on our last pass up the coast. But the spinning has a trajectory, a momentum.
The wounds of adoption are old. The trauma is as old as my first breath — older depending on whose theories of development you believe. So why should I expect it to be cleared up in one easy pass?