The Wait

Sally says it will do me no good to worry. I worry a lot, she says and I agree. I am a worrier. This is not a new thing. I have always been a worrier. As the coxswain on crews, I worried about everything. It works for me. That's why, to my own way of thinking, it does quite a bit of good to worry. To me, it is like the lawyer's mentality of finding what is wrong before it becomes an issue, like submitting a sealed bid, forgetting to include something as being "non-responsive." I
have a boy scout-like "be preparedness" retentivity. It comes from self-protection, or protecting one's family or friends, I think. Thinking things like: carry a pocket knife or a spare tire inflator, it might come in handy. Or sailing with Lloyd years ago, always keep that champagne cork, it might plug a through-hull opening, which one time out in the middle of the deep blue sea, it most certainly did. It is thinking of preventative maintenance, looking ahead, around the turn in the road. It is anticipating winter from the comfort of summer and the fatness of fall, remembering the sere and cold of winter. Did I haul and split enough cordwood to get me by? It is a northern, not a tropical philosophy. It is not "manyana. . ."

And so we wait. When will the sale of our house occur? Will it occur in time? Will we be OK in time for winter? This is the antithesis of "things will take care of themselves." I think that's what Sally's problem with my worrying is. She believes fear or worry paralyzes people,and that nothing happens, and "nothing..." we learned from Shakespeare, "will come of nothing." And I don't want to be busy for the sake of just seeming to do something. I need to worry. And worry myself into doing something right.