orphan - coming soon orphan email-contact orphan@neuage.org neuage homepage blog

this is starting after meeting my blod brother from my father's side for the first time APril 2026 age 78...I met my sister from my mother's side a decade earlier.

here is our blog of that meeting in New York -

here is where I first started writing about this in 2003 - about adoption

First thoughts. I used to be an astrologer (40) years stopped in 2003. No longer believed in any of it - no longer looked at anything to do with it. However, today, starting this new project, I thought what would AI say if I put in today's transits to my natal chart. Here is that response.

just a sketch below not the real deal...today is 24/07/2026 - long ways to go -

⭐ ORPHAN: A YEAR OF RETURNING TO THE BEGINNING

I was born in Battle Creek, Michigan, in the late summer of 1947, and for most of my life the story of my beginning was something I carried like a sealed envelope. I knew it existed, I knew it contained truths, but I never opened it. I lived forward instead—through countries, marriages, children, careers, reinventions—always moving, always building, always becoming.

But the past has a way of waiting. It doesn’t chase; it simply stands at the doorway until you turn around.
In 2026, at seventy‑nine years old, I turned around.

Not because of nostalgia. Not because of regret. But because something in me—something old, something buried—began to stir. It was subtle at first, like a faint vibration under the floorboards. Then it grew louder, clearer, insistent.
It said: Go back. Look again. Begin at the beginning.

I didn’t expect astrology to be part of this. I had left that world decades ago, packed it away with other abandoned identities. But when I asked an AI to read the sky for me—just to see what it would say—it answered with a story I recognized immediately. Not because I believed in planets, but because I believed in patterns. And the pattern was unmistakable.

The Sun had returned to the house of origins. Pluto was digging in the foundations. Uranus was cracking open the locked rooms. Saturn was asking for discipline, structure, truth. The Moon was pulling me toward memory, meaning, and the long arc of my own history.
It was as if the sky itself had become a map of my unfinished story.

I realized then that this year—2026 to 2027—was not just another year. It was a threshold. A return. A reckoning.

I began to write. Not to explain myself, but to find myself. Not to justify the past, but to understand the shape it left in me. I wrote about adoption, about absence, about the strange weight of being born into a story without a beginning. I wrote about the places I had lived, the identities I had worn, the people who had shaped me, the people I had lost. I wrote about the child I once was—the one who never knew where he belonged—and the man I became, who learned to belong everywhere.

And as I wrote, something shifted. The sealed envelope opened. Not all at once, not dramatically, but gently—like a letter that had been waiting for decades to be read.
Inside was not a single truth, but a constellation of them: the mother who could not keep me, the father who never knew me, the families who tried to shape me, the countries that held me, the choices that saved me, the wounds that taught me, the silence that defined me.
I realized I was not writing a story about being an orphan. I was writing a story about becoming whole.

This year is not about finding the people who created me. It is about finding the parts of myself I left behind. It is about returning to the beginning so I can finally move forward without carrying the weight of an unfinished past.
I am not looking for answers. I am looking for coherence. For meaning. For the thread that ties the child I was to the man I am.

And so this project—orphan—is not a memoir. It is not a confession. It is not a search for sympathy or closure.

It is a map. A reconstruction. A story of origins written at the end of a life, not the beginning.

It is the story of how a man, nearly eighty, finally turned around, opened the envelope, and discovered that the past was not a wound but a doorway.

And now, at last, I am walking through it.