A splash in the pool, a plastic cup of white wine on ice, Grace entertaining herself with Clemmie and Bronwyn, and easy conversation with old friends from the first days of mom-hood (Jen and Heidi). Altogether, a lovely afternoon.
Driving home Grace fell asleep in the car. I found myself musing on the idea of strength. I think I am physically strong, but I have no faith whatsoever in my emotional strength. Is there a correlation? Probably not. I think back to the crazy commitment I had to a drug-free labor, to the grueling, but ultimately successful, 36 hours delivering Grace, and I realize I must have known I had it in me to do that. Somehow, deep down, I had faith in my body’s strength and ability. Now I need to find a wellspring of faith in my psychological strength. So often, I feel weak. So often, I feel daunted by the enormous amplitude of my moods and emotions.
I wish I could find a way to draw strength from all the experiences that have shown me my own fortitude: thinking of that hour in the pitch black blizzard at the top of Kilimanjaro, of the day I ran 11 miles just to prove a point, of the sense that my body was cracking open as I delivered two babies. How to translate those memories, those moments, into a kind of muscle memory of strength, which would in turn give me some solace and belief that I can survive any oscillation?
