I Worried
Mary Oliver, 1935-2019
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.
This poem came to mind after a rough week of illness. Instead of editing my food journey in JB, I found myself tangled in negative thoughts.
Between GP visits and a sudden trip to the A&E department, I found myself waned at heart. I still have no idea which virus I caught; this abominable disease that brought me days of high fever, and I have spent the time since wheezing and working through a long list of medications.
I am of half heart to call out the flippant attitude of the young doctor at the emergency department. It filled me with such impeccable discomfort that they could easily dispense a mass of painkillers, as if it is the cure-all of everything, without regarding my symptoms.
Yet above all, I yearn to have my health back. I am still resting, hoping to be back on my feet before next month rolls around, which, admittedly, doesn’t seem all that likely.
But as the poem suggests, perhaps the better cure is not fretting over a long list of what-ifs, but stepping into the moment and simply living.
I haven’t been this sick since COVID-19, and I can’t fathom what’s going through my body but a huge thank you to my dear sister for taking care of me. and to all who had accommodated my absence during this period.
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