A group of about 15 people sit in a room, in a long narrow circle. The room is old, at the top of a brick built London house opposite a secret garden. There are candles, and flowers, and boxes of tissues. Traffic and aeroplanes go by, but the sound of quiet sobbing, of many voices, can still be heard.
We are invited to light candles to invoke any beings or qualities we would like to be there with us today. I write the name Tara on the bottom of a candle and place it on a central table. Tara, sometimes known as Kwan Yin, is the name of the Buddhist embodiment of compassion in action, and the name I would have given my daughter, if I had had one.
We are welcomed. Music plays. Heart felt poems are read out, some well known, some written by participants in the ceremony.
More tears flow. I am quiet, eyes closed, until this is read out: 'Sometimes I feel as if I'm being punished.'
Then I cry. Because now I realise that this is how I feel. I am being punished by the adoption social workers and panel for things I didn't do. Punished for my honesty, for my naivety, for my anxiety, for my confusion. I am not suitable to adopt because of who I am in their eyes, and part of me believes them.
We are invited to give our sorrow words, in Shakespeare's famous quote, and I write on my piece of paper:
'I feel empty and separate. But actually, I am full, and connected to all, as we have all lost.
I feel punished and wronged, but I did nothing wrong.
I feel so jealous and am not alone.
I would have loved you so much, and tried so hard.
What can I do now?
xxx'
I place it in the bowl in the middle, writing my name on it so I can retrieve it at the end.
We are all invited to hold hands and the ceremony ends.
I feel lighter, calmer, tireder and sad beyond words. But there were words, and they were heard.
And perhaps one day, there will be hope.
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