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Posts Tagged ‘worry’

Sitting in a Quiet Room


                  with thanks to Karly Pitman
 
There is this stark moment
when I see I am not my worry.
When I do not chastise
myself for worrying, nor
do I demonize the worry.
I do not imagine the worry
as a snake or a tick or a nail.
I welcome it into my lap,
uncomfortable teacher,
and pause here
on the hard chair of curiosity.
Softness arrives with conscious breath.
In and around me blooms
spaciousness.
Silence is the tenderest lullaby.
It holds both the worry and me.
It has no tongue, yet the lyric is clear,
There is nothing here you cannot meet.

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When Worry Showed Up Again


 
It slithered in snakelike, the worry,
and hissed in a sinister whisper,
What if you said too much?
Why can’t you just be quiet?
I felt its eyes measure my long, bare throat,
felt its fangs against my skin.
Doubt in my safety flooded in.
But I did not speak back.
Instead, on instinct, my body
took me to the noon-bright pond
to float like a leaf on my back.
I felt the water lifting me.
Felt the summer-warm kiss of sun.
Listened to dragonflies moving
the reeds as they landed
and took off again. Listened to trees
rustled by wind. The more present
I was in my body, the less strangled
by worry I felt. The more I could see
how worry wasn’t everything,
the easier I could breathe.
Hours later, I marvel how the body,
knew just what to do,
an ancient wisdom moving through.
Of course the snake didn’t disappear.
I still hear its disturbing, insistent hiss:
What if, it insinuates. What if, what if …
But it’s harder now to believe the snake
when I feel more aligned with what’s here.
What’s here? The heart ever learning
to open, to trust. The wonder of having
a voice at all. The wondering what I am
here to learn. Dozens of dragonflies.
Reeds. A slender snake of worry. Trees.
Sun. Pond. Wind.

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Listen to the rhythm of things that never die.
                  —Mark Nepo, “For a Long Time”
 
 
Worried about what was to come, I went to the river
and listened to the constant song as water met stone,
met log, met wall. The endless white hush of it.
Song of building up banks. Song of tearing them down.
Song of surrender to invisible force. Song of change
that is ever the same and not the same. And in the listening,
I found refuge—not in the longing to hide, not in the sound—
I found refuge in the listening. Refuge in the opening
of the senses. In attuning to what is here. Wave and current
and eddy and flow and the attentiveness that lives
through this woman. And I listened and listened, listened
to it all, and was opened by listening. At some point
the listener disappeared. What was left was
listening itself. For a time, peace found me there.

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All at Once


 
 
Walking alone into the dark,
my fear comes with me.
I feel it small and hard
in my belly like a tiny grenade
the mind has conjured
in case I need protection.
Meanwhile, all around me
the night is peaceful.
The dark spills its generous ink
into every open space.
Crickets rub their legs in bright music.
The misty rain makes no sound.
But the mind is not convinced
the night is safe. It clenches tighter
around its fear. It does no good
to tell the mind not to worry.
Hello, tiny grenade.
I carry it with me as I walk
through a field of fireflies—
and I’m laid bare by the beauty
I find there—thousands of glittering sparks.
Isn’t it a marvel how a person
can be both clenching and opening
at the very same time
while moving alone through the dark?

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The Minimum




Even when worry wrecks us,
leaving us broken on the shores
of the life we had,
even when we have been wrung
like rags, even when we
are brittle, snappish things,
even then the scent of spring
can reach us with its notes
of damp soil, sharp pine,
and sun-warmed grass,
the air clean and slightly sweet.
We don’t need to open
our eyes. Don’t need to try.
All that is asked of us: breathe.

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right where I am
and find the peace
that is already here,
notice the way
peace is what
holds all the tension
in the same way
silence holds noise,
in the same way
the dark holds the sun.
Right here. Right here.
An infinite peace,
an unwavering peace
great enough to hold
all agitation, tender
enough to hold
even the most
shattered heart.  

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One Incongruous

this tattered cloak of worry—
with my best silk thread
embroidering the holes

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the day flooded with worry,
I become sailboat—
your words the wind

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A Fearful Heart

 
 

 
 
Worry comes in like a fruit fly—
slips through the tiniest crack,
a crack I didn’t even know was there—
or it comes in the front door
with something I love—
and soon, worry is everywhere,
laying its eggs in all that would ripen.
Almost instantly, worry multiplies.
Of course, worry would have red eyes.
Worry doesn’t much care the season.
Winter is as good as spring.
And it circles me, buzzes me,
annoys and undoes me,
resists my attempts to be rid of it.
Invites me to learn to live with it.
I never notice when it is gone,
only when it’s here again.

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One Expansion

swallowing the sky tonight—

all those enormous worries in me

now like grains of sand

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All Day, Everywhere I Go

 

 

 

in my stomach

only two butterflies

but oh how they flutter

not finding

anywhere to land

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The Worrier Goes for a Ride

 

 

 

And then, as I was walking the dirt road,

it hit me like a school bus: people

might not like me. I felt the rush of air before

the bumper connected with my butt, and knew

in that moment I could choose to be flattened or

choose to somehow crawl into that bus

and ride along with the jeers and snarls and sneers.

Okay, I said, as I clawed my way around the yellow fender

to the open door, a stowaway on my fear.

I climbed the green stairs and felt their stares:

icy, cruel, fierce. Others indifferent, bored.

I stared back, prepared to feel small.

Hello, I said, waiting for shame. But

that’s not what I felt at all. Instead,

some seed of awareness that I was not splattered

by fear but alive, and now moving in one direction

with this busload of what frightened me so,

And I was not flattened nor crushed nor bruised.

I took my seat. Felt their eyes on my back.

And the bus kept driving along. When it stopped,

I stepped off, surprisingly whole.

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After the Drought

 

 

even my worry

decides to kick off its shoes

and play in the rain—

forgetting for a moment

its soggy gray socks

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All the Way Home

 

 

Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.

—Helen Keller

 

 

Three days after

I think the world

is coming apart,

in the back seat

of the car

my daughter

is improvised

by a song—

I eavesdrop

as she mumbles

along

to an accidental

tune,

change is

wonderful

change

is wonderful.

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How I Stay Tethered

I return to the story about the monk

who put everything he owned into a boat

and rowed it into the middle of the lake

and then sank it. He did not give the stuff away,

not wanting to burden anyone else

with things. I would like to take

a red canoe to the center of a lake

and sink it with these thoughts—

why should anyone else need to worry

the ways I have worried on behalf

of the world? My only fear is that

they would displace so much water

the lake would flood and who knows

how many might be hurt then. No, I think,

better to take them for a walk.

Oh those thoughts, like unruly puppies,

biting at my ankles and running off—

and isn’t it like me to call them back

or run after them, afraid they’ll get lost.

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Tasting Them

just as I toss
these ashes of worry
to the breeze
the wind changes
direction

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Turn, Turn, Turn

At six, my daughter doesn’t know
her visit to the oral surgeon tomorrow

is a hardship. She is thrilled about losing
three teeth in a day, just think

what the tooth fairy might bring!
She twirls around the room and hums

a tune that only she knows. I do not tell her
how much it might hurt. I tell myself

it may not be so bad, that children
heal faster. Just last week, she was bit

by the cat and already the wound
has disappeared. I tell myself it is better

this way, the not knowing.
I try to imagine not knowing

how much it hurts when the ones
we love are in pain. I want to save her

in ways I can’t save myself—save her
from the sting of worry. Tomorrow

is nowhere here. For now, there is
this song spiraling out, there is

this spinning, laughing girl, there is
this heart breaking before its time,

this longing to hold something
that can never be held.

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While worrying
about tomorrow,
I make soup.
Sliver the onion,
thin white crescent moons,
and then peel the carrots,
slice them on the bias,
sauté, add dashi, add miso, add scallion,
and boil the udon,
till the whole house
smells of the rich golden broth
and that sharp little mouth
that ceaselessly sings
what if, what if,
is so busy observing
the tang of the ginger—
so pungent, so silver—
it (almost) forgets to insist.

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