I had a post-doc in worry. Covid pretty much cured me of it. Or cured me of the notion that worrying did anything but furrow my brow, wreck my sleep and drive me to consume copious portions of foods made from sugar, fats, and salt. Mary Oliver, of blessed memory and eternal wisdom, was a worrier too.
I Worried
Mary Oliver
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
***. *** ***
Where are you with your worrying? Can you set it aside? How did you reach that state?
Thank you for reminding me of this poem.
Love Mary Oliver.
She is my favorite poet.
Tha
I’m so glad you enjoyed it.
I loved this! Put so simply, it is the eternal antidote to worry! I’d love to read that to everyone, 5 times a day or more. It’s classic!
I’m thinking of doing some sort of collage with it.
Anything she writes is a treasure; this one especially.
This poem shows me I am in good company. I think I’ll go outside and sing.
What song did you sing?