Cold, grey morning, fog off the coast. Low inspiration for anything, including this blog. But I continue to believe something will be gained if I write every day...what, exactly? Perhaps, a transcendence of the heaviness of spirit that comes with being too focused on the practicalities of motherhood.
When one is feeling low inspiration, the best thing to write about (to shake things up a little) is what one finds terrifying.
I'm still terrified by the possibility that I won't "make the grade" as a mother; on my worst days I even imagine that someone will step forward and identify me as a sham, a charlatan, a "fake mom."
I look at my son--this evolving little person--with such a spirit for life, love, happiness, fun, and exploration, already shining out from him--I watch him in his crib, his face pressed against an old velour top of mine, sleeping, so tiny, so completely fragile and alone--and know that I'm looking at something more than I ever imagined possible in my life, something totally inexpressible in its beauty.
And seeing all that--I see the whole history of my time on this planet in stark relief, for the mess that it really is; and wonder, how on earth did I ever think I was qualified for this job?
And at 9 am on Thursday morning, I don't have any answer for this question.
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