Worry

I am allowing the worry to abandon me now, letting it leave me like sweat and tears.

Why, I ask myself, revive old rancid regret? Why write out old ugly worry into word and story? Why drag up nets of jagged metal, splintered junk, and wreckage onto the deck of my being?  Why, when I can just release it? I release it now. And when it rises again, I look at it, then I release it like fish, like flies, like flocks of caged birds. For worry is tight and heavy and fierce. I don't want this wild thing. It clots and rots my body. Severs me from soul.

I only ever want to be here. And I only ever want to be a life that is light and clean. I want to sweep out the dirt, guts, and dust of unwanted thoughts. I want to seek and settle into silence, float within stillness.

I once wore worry like a gold medal. Look at me! Look at all the worry I have! - worry for others, worry for the world, worry for myself! Goodness, I must be good for I feel so horrible about so many things! I would write congested paragraphs of the stuff, scribbled page after scribbled page, then I would open my mouth and spew my fury and fear. I thought worry made me a better person. That it was proof of my awareness of all the suffering, - my suffering, your suffering, the suffering of every suffering stranger.  I believed that worry made me and the world better. But what has my worry ever really made (aside from a false means of activity)? I'm not sure it has done much of anything. For my worry rarely dissolved and evolved into action, which certainly would have been worth my attention.  Instead, my worry formed a wind storm inside me.

Now I let it blow through me.

I once had a water wheel for a heart, a thrashing thump thump THUMP of wood against water. Now, inside me, there is a leaf on a stream, gliding gently gently gently, paper between water and air.

I am allowing the worry to abandon me now,

and good GOD it feels good.