One kind of worry I dislike yet struggle with addiction to is the worry of not having full sense of my feelings. The worry that I am not trusting them; the worry that I am not letting them do what they need to do; the worry that I am mucking up everything with all the worrying about them. The worry of worry is worryingly worrysome.
And then there's what words do. See what they do? They are doing it today. I give them meaning, they give everything meaning, they even hold the meaning of not knowing, of nonmeaning. When I am all up in them so very, they can, and will, devolve, spiral in, spin out, overlap, dance chaotic, hopscotch jumpfrog meta-pile-on. Hint heavily, with the bedlam of their entropy, that it's time for me to quiet them, internally situate elsewhere a minute, or more, if I possibly can. Settle down, hear music, feel touch. Get in the shower; be overcome by the flow. Be in other ways of the brain. Be in ways of the body.
Tonight is the new Wes Anderson movie. I am not worried that it will suck. No matter how it may suck, it will have something to offer me, and I am ready ---nay, eager--- to allow it in. And there is pretty much nothing I could be doing wrong by it (or by me?) while sitting there letting myself enjoy it.
Also it's quite possible---even likely---there are signs, and I know something of this person, and others I respect of similar taste agree--- that it will be very good, even transportingly good, and that I will enjoy it greatly and be glad of it and continue to look forward to more. And it's easy to be simple with that anticipation about the new Wes Anderson movie. I wish to nurture the calm simplicity of this attitude in & during more of the rest of my life.
And that thing about the words, and the body. That thing too.
Kerri wrote this morning: "'twould be lovely to go away to a little cabin on the water for the weekend. wouldn't it?" Somehow you just know: that cabin wouldn't be a cabin full of words.