November 26, 2016 § 11 Comments
Worry doesn’t knock. It knows where you hide the key. Stumble out of sleep and, if it hasn’t climbed into bed with you, you will find it in its usual spot at the kitchen table, leaning on its elbows.
Might as well pour it a cup of coffee.
All day long worry steps on your heels, messes with you. It makes sure the car cranks like it isn’t going to start. It does, but not before adrenaline spikes. It sends text messages. It writes newspaper headlines. It keeps you distracted, ensuring that you misplace your glasses.
Worry runs the same movie over and over in a continuous loop behind whatever else is going on. It never serves popcorn.
Worry doesn’t solve or fix. It does not move on. Instead it accompanies you like a fretful, needy child, an aging relative, a pet that suffers when left home alone.
Reluctantly, you make worry a safe place in your heart until you come, in a grudging way, to like and protect it as you must like and protect any vital part of yourself.
Little by little, worry builds the box that contains and constrains you. It convinces you that not only are those walls real, but that beyond those walls is nothing but a howling darkness, that you are safer with a familiar worry than you are taking on a risk that is new and unknown.
You become convinced that the act of worrying inoculates you, keeps you safe, that other worries will respect the fact your plate is full and move on.
You grow around worry the way a tree grows around a wire fence.
But confined and absorbed by worry you cannot take advantage of the subtle shifts, the infinite possibilities, the shimmering invitation of NOW.
If only for a moment let that sunlight hit your face, turn toward it, take a deep breath.
And then, remember the boogie man who haunted the dark space under your bed.
You kicked him out, didn’t you?
Note: The “you” of this post could easily be replaced with “I.” I can only add, I am working on it.