Peach Friedman
author, educator & trainer
intuitive fitness for women

I was sad to tell my little Victoria, who woke up from her nap today asking for her Mimi, that she had gone home on the airplane.

But, it was a very good week.
My flour, sugar, oats, spices, cereals, and more are now in pretty glass jars. Almost every box is unpacked, with our belongings in (at least a temporary) place. Flowers are cut and in vases, porch doors are scrubbed clean, and I have the start to a new spring/summer wardrobe. Yes, my mother’s touch is everywhere I turn…

Which also means I had my share of cries this week, the kind that come from a very deep & very tender, almost primal, place within, that place which has some somatic memory of having been carried by my mother for those nine months before being delivered from her body.

I’m exploring what it means to be human (always) and what it means to have faith (always) and how those two things intersect. I don’t have any answers but I do know that I’m grateful to be alive, grateful to have a mother and also to be a mother, grateful to have a sweet baby girl who asks for my mother, and grateful for (of course I didn’t forget you) a husband who lets his mother in law sweep into his home with all her opinions.

Oh, to be a woman. Such a continuous journey!