A Meditation on Worry
i chew my cheeks and wipe my palms. my deepest fears are locked beneath layers of tissue and embedded in my bones. worry is written across my forehead in premature lines. i wish that there were more lines around my mouth, around my smile. that's where lines ought to be.
sometimes, effie sits up during the darkest hours of the night and gently shakes my shoulder.
"mama?" she asks.
i watch her eyes furiously chasing the shadows dancing along the walls of our bedroom.
"are there monsters?" she asks.
"no, little bird. only angels," i tell her and i coax her back to sleep with songs and sips of mother's milk.
monsters in the night, splinters, and stubbed toes may be the breadth of her worry today. but, what about a year from now? five? ten?
the aptest teachers lead by example. what example am i setting as a parent by worrying? worse yet, worrying that my daughter possesses my propensity toward worry?
it seems that i am accidentally manifesting a lifetime of submission to fear, and that is far from the life i want to lead, let alone the example i want to set for my daughter.
i'm writing this to pledge that i am going to let worry roll down my back like water and evaporate behind me.
i am going to work on adding laugh lines to my face.
i am going to dance and sing in public.
i am going to ask the questions i am afraid to ask.
i am going to write without editing.
i am going to notice how tight and foreign worry feels floating around in my skin.
i am going to mindfully release worry.
i am going to be okay in silence and stillness.
i am going to be okay alone.
i am going to talk about the things i'm scared of.
i am going to make room for adventure, compassion, and love.
i am going to celebrate the little (big) moments and seek out ordinary magic.