I love company, but also solitude, being alone with my thoughts, especially now that my reading ability is impaired. But a downside of my solitude is my penchant for worrying. Even when things are stable, my health good, bills paid, and those dear to me thriving, my worrying mind seeks out expression like a starving mosquito at a nude beach.
I have two strategies to deal with this: One, I pray, ask for insight, for a path to rationalization, for support; second, I’ll quietly talk to myself. “Mind,” I’ll say, “shut the fuck up. You don’t have permission to sabotage this glorious day, my appreciation of God’s grace, the traps I’ve avoided, my gratitude for gifts bequeathed, the fulfillment of writing, and love of family and friends.”
One or the other of these tactics works and brings me back into the present moment—able to focus, to dream and imagine and wonder and see beauty in the world.
Worry, it’s not all bad. It has survival value, but can also gnaw at life and spit it out stained brown like an overused chew.
If we let it.