There have been times in my life that I’ve been so low I could taste the ground. My mouth was filled with the dirt of devastation, the mire of not good enough, the bitter dew of loneliness. I was never sure I could stand up long enough, and strong enough, to be someone’s parent. However, I come from a rich ancestry of warrior women; both grandmothers, aunts, and cousins, and through their example of perseverance, I have found my center, my holy, over and over again.
Each time when I thought I couldn’t again raise my head from rock bottom, one of them would be there. They show up, time after time, never tired, never angry. The village of their love and support untangles me from the strangling weariness and sets me straight. Without them, I would lack the courage to not only love myself, but to pass on this all-encompassing love that I have for my son.
And, at the end of time, this is all that will matter. The sum total of our days will be measured by the love that has picked up our tired frames in its arms and carried us when we couldn’t do it ourselves.
Life is about being able to look upward from our lowest point and see an outstretched hand.
Happy 11th birthday, baby bear.