I’m not a worrier. I enjoy the terrible surge of excitement that is not worrying. When I meet someone new, I try my hardest to believe that they are both fascinating and wonderful, so that I can be surprised and disappointed by anything otherwise, and in the meantime, open to what I am not accustomed to. When I say something new, and possibly controversial or even offensive to someone I’ve known for a very long time, such as a relative or my mother, I similarly decide to believe that he or she will understand, and that my words will carry the appropriate amount of weight or weightlessness in her appraisal of my thoughts and actions. It is a purposeful decision to confidently mount beliefs in qualities of being and expression that are not practical or accurate, in order that meaningful connections can be eventualities. That is to say, I believe people are worth liking before I find out if they are, and I also tend to act, speak, and write in a way that promotes (and requires) others to do the same for me. It is a matter of not worrying, and asking others to join in.
Until today, it was a method I lived by rather successfully for several years. Until today, worrying was something I was nearly incapable of. On occasions that might invite worry, I always chose to hope rather than to worry, to pray rather than to imagine. Until today, this worked. But it wasn’t until today that certain mysterious noises in a certain female’s apartment located six states away challenged my beliefs. And it wasn’t until today that a text message on my cellular device read these entirely worrisome words: P.S. My Mom discovered your blog.
And here I am, fighting off a clear opposition to my slow and confident state of being. Here I am, fighting and accepting these inner changes with valor and excitement. Here I am, worrying.