It's a habit I've had since my teens and I can clearly remember my daddy gently laughing at me and saying that it was a waste of time, that nothing I ever worried about was worth it, that the entire process was silly. In the face of an ongoing war - it was the 60's - this made me furious and I would accuse him of apathy, of complacency and worse. He would just give me his "wait and see" smile ( of all his expressions, this was the one that made me the most undone, the fastest ) and pay no mind to my outrage. This led to many one sided but still good natured shouting matches with no clear winner - my idealism was embedded in stone, his optimism and faith were immutable. Anything was fair game - the welfare system, politics, drugs, books, and of course, the war.
When I left home for the last time to share a Back Bay apartment with the boy I would marry a year or so later, my mother and grandmother publicly disowned me, although my grandmother privately relented enough to take my calls. My daddy, however, finally gave in to worry and while he wouldn't talk to me, he did keep in touch through Nana - his moral qualms were mild, his parental concerns were severe. I missed him but fancied myself in love and determined to be on my own. It was our first estrangement.
For all his worry, I did marry and attain respectability and I stayed married for ten years. All was forgiven the moment a symbolic ring was slipped on my finger.
Age and experience have taught me that my daddy was mostly right. Nowadays I worry about more substantial things and try and leave the world -still here and more or less intact despite all my dismal expectations - to fend for itself. I support my causes quietly, lend a hand where and when I can, send money when I'm able but leave the active protesting to the young, putting the worry on their shoulders.
Worry is like a rocking chair, a friend of mine recently posted to a social networking site, It gives you something to do but doesn't get you anywhere.
Would that I could tattoo this behind my eyes so that I see it every time I blink and be reminded of its pure truth.
When I left home for the last time to share a Back Bay apartment with the boy I would marry a year or so later, my mother and grandmother publicly disowned me, although my grandmother privately relented enough to take my calls. My daddy, however, finally gave in to worry and while he wouldn't talk to me, he did keep in touch through Nana - his moral qualms were mild, his parental concerns were severe. I missed him but fancied myself in love and determined to be on my own. It was our first estrangement.
For all his worry, I did marry and attain respectability and I stayed married for ten years. All was forgiven the moment a symbolic ring was slipped on my finger.
Age and experience have taught me that my daddy was mostly right. Nowadays I worry about more substantial things and try and leave the world -still here and more or less intact despite all my dismal expectations - to fend for itself. I support my causes quietly, lend a hand where and when I can, send money when I'm able but leave the active protesting to the young, putting the worry on their shoulders.
Worry is like a rocking chair, a friend of mine recently posted to a social networking site, It gives you something to do but doesn't get you anywhere.
Would that I could tattoo this behind my eyes so that I see it every time I blink and be reminded of its pure truth.
1 comment:
Great observation.
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