I open my dresser drawer to pull out a bra – my favorite one with the lace and no underwire, just right for a day of writing and relaxation. My hand hovers over the array of other ‘stuff’ in the drawer.

Between the three white bras and one black one, I shuffle through the small bag of potpourri, the sales tags from Nordstrom from three years ago, the tiny antique frame that needs to be mended, as it has for the four years it’s sat in that drawer, and to the right, the pile of greeting cards.

Knowing I shouldn’t, I pull the cards out.  I hesitate, then put them back in their spot. I just do not have time to do this now. I look at the clock – 8:12 – and pull them out again. Okay, just a few.

The first one is a picture of bright yellow California poppies in a field. The last Mother’s day card from my son. I open it up and smile. In his scrunched up, manly handwriting I read, “to an amazing person and an even more amazing mother. May you always know I appreciate everything you have done for me, and I love you very much.” I feel tingly goose bumps roll up my spine. This time he didn’t sign it with his first and last name, as in other years. Looking through my pile, I see his Mother’s day card from two years ago, and another from years before that.

But next I pull out a birthday card from my daughter. Last year? Two years ago? It’s not dated, and I wish I had put a year on it. The cover of the orange, new agey-looking card proclaims, “I know a woman of strength and beauty. I have watched her for years.” Inside, in script is added, “She is my mother. Happy Birthday.” I feel my eyes water (as they do every time I read the card), and then look at the added words, written with orange and blue magic markers. In blue she writes: “Mom, when I saw this card I immediately thought of you, because it says exactly what I think of you. I am blessed to not only know you, but to have you for my mom!”

The words from both my children never fail to touch me deep deep down in my gut, and I allow myself a good cry for three minutes.

I have a pile of at least 20 cards I could go through, from husband, the kids, my mom, friends, that remind me how extremely fortunate I am.

If I’m down and having a particularly tough day, I don’t need to go to the medicine cabinet for a pill, a picker upper. I just go to my bra drawer.

That’s where I always find lots of firm support.