When not making snow angels or standing on my hands under water, I think about this stuff. Really. And I think it is an inherited trait, and, perhaps unfairly, not often evenly distributed.
Among my siblings, one in four seems to have gotten the worry gene, and it ain't me. But just in case I acquire the bugger, I'm tucking this poem in my files for future reference and hangin' on to this link.
by Mary Oliver
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,
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,