Worry About Yourself (b.)

I worry.

I worry about being honest. I worry about being too honest. I worry about what the truth does to others. Specifically, what MY truth does to others. I worry about people and their capacity to hold the truth (me). I worry about what truth (I) does to bodies and hearts and emotional states. I thrive in the comfortability of others — I do not want anything about me and my truth to make for uncomfortable realities. I worry about failing people with the reality of who I really am.

I worry about not telling the truth. I know what a practice of non-truth telling does to you. What it does to your mind, your outlook, your days, your body, your spirit. I understand what it does to relationships. The distance and bewilderment not telling the truth provides, the divide it erects between hearts. It is not a good place. I worry about what happens when I do not say it all - have I let you down when I do not fully say a thing? How much truth belongs to me? And how much of it am I required to share with others? I worry about what happens to people when they do not have the truth. When they find me “out” will they love me the same? Will they see me the same?

I worry about the world beyond me and how much of it I need to consistently hold and make space for.

I even worry about my worry. The weight of it. The space it takes up in my life and body. The exhaustion. The premature mourning and the premature grief.

Erykah Badu talked about me; called me a bag lady. And then asked me to become less of one by putting those bags down.

There is this long, dark hardwood hallway in the house that runs from the back bedrooms to an open living space/kitchen/connecting garage. It is one of my favorite features and my favorite path to walk as I am chasing that first sip of coffee, the soul-stirring quiet and the stillness of an early morning…