je lis trop: I worry, worry

june essay on worries, boredom, bus that broke down, the dangers of "so what?", and awakening to the void

Everything I write below will be to understand a mechanism I've been actively questioning, softening, picking apart. It’s the mechanism of worry. I worry, I worry about so many things. I recall conversations and worry if what I said came across right. Was I true to myself when saying it? Did I choose the best words? What happens if an imagined thing happens? Action plans A, B, C, D are written and stocked on mental shelves. I worry about things big and small. A big one: I worry if my knowledge about this world is accurate. A small one: I worry if the documents come on time, and when they do, I worry if they get processed all right. 

I worry if I finish tasks on time, and then I worry if I left any mistakes. Double check, triple check, quadruple check. When one thing gets solved, there's always something else to worry about. What happens if another imagined thing happens? I prepare another catalog of action plans. I spend so much time in that arid land of worry. Even if my confidence grows and I'm much calmer compared to a few years ago, the potential for worry is still boundless. My worries might not be as acute as they once were, yes. They might not have catastrophic dimensions. If I had to compare, my worries now are like the buzz of the smallest insect that will circle rounds above my head, descending closer and closer, shooing away rest. Oh, the land of worry. 

I've been reading Devotions, a collection of poems by Mary Oliver. One line of hers partly inspired this piece. The poem is called "I Worried", and here's the line: "Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing." I'm mesmerized by the simplicity of her words and her soft focus directed at birds, branches, and waters. It seems silly to worry about docs and mistakes when watching a tiny bird that’s looking at my skirt’s hem and circling my legs. I always say I don't have a strong connection with nature, and it cannot change my state of mind quickly. But that bird did (when I paid attention to it). Oliver writes a lot about nature. Reading her words, relief washed over me, even though I never inspected the marshes, spent long stretches of time by the sea, or followed the bird's song as closely as she did. 

One late evening, I was sitting on a balcony, squinting at the darkening outline of clouds (remembering how, when I was little, I thought the clouds were sturdy enough to sit on them), as well as the traffic and the glimmering asphalt. This scene could fit in a small, gem-like poem. As Oliver writes in "Flare", the poem wants to open itself like a little temple, where I, as the reader, can be cooled and refreshed. When I think of Devotions, I do think of refreshment and physical sensations. I think of a breeze on my face. I think of a single drop running down my neck, a shiver of pleasure. I want to be "the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle" she describes in the poem "Blue iris". Devotions help keep the pulse on a different kind of world, where the worries have been softened as much as possible. 

But the drop runs its course, the shiver is gone, and worries find their way back. One Wednesday morning, I was sitting in a sunny spot on a bus and reading Izumi Suzuki's Terminal Boredom (I continue reading Japanese literature, a goal I came up with earlier this year). I was ruminating on a variety of things, Suzuki's stories mixing with unrelated thoughts. My eyes were following these sentences from the story "Smoke gets in your eyes": "Now! Now only happens now. But now exists everywhere. The past and future have vanished and countless nows continue infinitely." 

Suddenly, there was a noise. I lifted my head. The bus had stopped in the middle of an intersection, blocking traffic in nearly every direction. There was something wrong with the engine. Until we moved, nobody could move. And everyone was eager to move. I felt the eyes, the headlights of the machines all around us, ready to jump. At that moment, the words I'd just read started spinning in my mind. The phrases were jammed. It was only now, a succession of nows, intense and whole. They were complete without the burden of memories or worries of what might happen in 30 minutes. Similarly to my late evening on the balcony, this moment wiped all my worries away. And I don't know why. When I came to work, sat down, looked at the black desk partition with a postcard pinned on it, and opened the computer, my thoughts were completely still and composed. 

I was probably touched by the haunting mood of Terminal Boredom. Suzuki wrote her stories in the eighties, and it's uncanny how much she foresaw what we deal with today. I mean disengagement from the world, the explicit refusal of emotion, or living as a performance, which relies on cultural cues to understand what’s deemed normal and important. I was also surprised to find so much technology in her stories. She describes framed (virtual) experiences and young people’s preference for them. She alludes to the terminal boredom of video calls. Yes, in her stories, people also have to explain why they don't have a camera on! All of this mingles with apocalyptic science-fiction elements, such as interplanetary wars. Terminal Boredom is for those not afraid of questioning conventions and feeling discomfort. 

Let’s get back to the worries. In another book I recently read, Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors, one character says that "So what?" are "two of the most powerful words in the English language." She adds, "right between them is a free and happy life". Practicing "So what?" is one of the reasons why I'm calmer than I used to be. But it's slippery. At first, "So what?" felt liberating. Pushing it further and further, I started disengaging from the world. I became disillusioned, seeing how much can be done with so little care. I also became confused because I associate worrying with control and care, and I see them both as essential pieces of my character. Is worrying an essential piece of my character, then? What's the difference? I don't know the answer yet. I only know that "So what?" cannot be entirely trusted. 

Is a positive detachment possible? A while ago, I decided that my worrying could be softened by putting my ego in the backseat and taking nothing personally. It was an ambitious goal, maybe even an extreme one. I threw myself into new situations and experiences, and it's become easier to meet them unflustered (or, at least, without crushing overthinking). This experiment deserves a separate story, but reading-wise, I'd like to mention The Way of Zen by Alan Watts. It introduces the reader to the history of Zen Buddhism. What I liked the most, though, were the explanations of the philosophy and its beliefs. 

I've read many books about the void (think Joan Didion and Fleur Jaeggy), but I didn't expect to find one where the void of the universe is not scary. There's bliss in emptiness; there's nothing to fear. This state of mind is about a sudden and intuitive way of seeing. It's about understanding that self-perfection equals self-frustration—no need to always keep a vigilant eye on oneself. Any attempt to control my worries is trying to fix myself using the very tool proven unreliable. I know that my thoughts and my attachment to them have tricked me too many times. Learning how not to attach to every thought that pops up is a life-long exercise but a worthy one. I want to say much more about this book, but these sentences describe what I found most soothing. The Way of Zen is an excellent companion for anyone looking to seriously take up meditation, better understand non-dualistic concepts, or read the history of Zen Buddhism.

I realize that the calm ideal I've been aiming for since my teenage years is not real; it will not end my mind's crazy racing. I'll fall prey to it again and again. But I've found a suitable routine, a routine that allows daydreaming and observing. And the books help, too. Writing about a refreshing collection of poems (such as Devotions), short chilling stories filled with moments that resonate (such as Terminal Boredom), and a book questioning the fundamental view of the world (such as The Way of Zen) has been a meditative experience. I've gone a long way, and hopefully, I'll eventually understand my relationship with worry, care, and control. At least for this sentence, my mind is empty. 

I don't worry, I don't.