I may not be lauded for picking through the ashes; I may not be praised for interrogating skeletons; and, I may not have any awards bestowed upon me for mapping out the inconsistencies; but, at least I live to honor the truth.
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Mother and Child
by Le Thi Luu About
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© All rights reserved, Sumeia Williams, Sume. 2004-2012. May not be reproduced without author's consent. The rights to all referenced content are held by the original owners.Adoptee Art and Literature
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Meta
Luckily there are those who not only honor the truth, but also honor those who pursue it. The truth can be an evasive thing, and we sometimes find that we must hunt it down like a pack of wolves. Ever read Jack London’s “Call of the Wild”?
“In this manner had fought forgotten ancestors. They quickened the old life within him, the old tricks which they had stamped into the heredity of the breed were his tricks…And when, on the still cold nights, he pointed his nose at a star and howled long and wolflike, it was his ancestors, dead and dust, pointing nose at star and howling down through the centuries and through him.”
“. . . each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest.”
“Far more potent were the memories of his heredity that gave things he had never seen before a seeming familiarity; the instincts (which were but the memories of his ancestors become habits) which had lapsed in later days, and still later, in him, quickened and became alive again.”