When I am Worried

Here are some essential truths: 1) I live in Florida. 2) I have family and friends. 3) I love my life. 4) I pay attention. These four things sometimes combine to create worry. I worry for my loved ones, climate change, equality for all people, my carbon footprint, whether the oven is on, whether I’ve locked the door. I worry for silly, mundane things and I worry for bigger, more serious issues. In light of recent events, I do not worry that our predisposition toward violence has become progressively worse over generations; I don’t think it has. Instead, I worry that our capacity to do damage unto each other has exceeded our ability to think about what we’re doing. In the good vs. evil scenario we try to place ourselves in, there are no winners and losers; there’s only devastation and heartbreak. I’ve had quite enough of that in my short lifespan. Having been raised all warm and cozy within the loving arms of my family, I realize that my experience of loss and devastation is limited. So I ask myself: what can I do about this?

Worry is a form of arrogance, I’ve read, and I agree. Who am I to think I can control anything except for myself? I can’t control the weather, unless you’re talking about the climate in my house when I’m happy, or angry, or tired. I can only control how I respond to situations, how I act, what I focus my energies on, what I pay attention to, and what I choose to do about what I experience. I am only one small, perpetually and annoyingly optimistic me who is not so blithely sitting in the midst of some pretty serious swamp muck-o-life. To paraphrase Voltaire really poorly, I tend my garden. The act of tending my garden doesn’t mean that I’m avoiding or ignoring what happens around me.

I can worry, or I can act. I choose to act every single time. My version of action isn’t yours and much of the time goes unnoticed. It is nevertheless action. I’ve already done enough laundry lists in the course of these couple paragraphs, but suffice to say my action revolves around kindness. I did some math because why not. I’m closer to 52 these days than 51, but for the sake of my calculator let’s pretend: If I’m 51 exactly, then I’ve been alive for 18,615 days, 446,760 hours, 26,805,600 minutes, and over 1.6 billion seconds (with an error code on my calculator). Many of those seconds were taken up with sleep, waiting in lines, and running errands. The good seconds were taken up with hugs and laughter, and the bad ones were taken up with pain and worry. They were all, however, imbued with my grateful presence on this planet. There’s no less flowery way to say it. I am grateful to be here every day, living with what I strive to be dignity and grace.

I don’t always have a clear-cut sense of purpose and my focus gets a little hazy in the grind of the seconds of my days, but I always come back to this: hate doesn’t work. That just creates a self-feeding system of more hate. And then still more. Indifference is like saying that we don’t care enough to even have an opinion, and whatever happens, happens. Love, though, is some pretty powerful energy. It doesn’t mean that everyone gets a hug and a cookie, but rather that taking care of each other means more than tearing each other apart. I’d kinda like to see that in the news. If we look, we will find it. Better yet, if we are the ones taking care of each other, we don’t have to look because we’ll be the ones solving problems, changing the course of our days, and making our seconds matter.

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