if I worry as a first thought

There is this reoccurring window in life.

I find myself standing there once again.

The views are always somewhat different

yet generally the premise is the same.

Looking out through this window

into the lives of ones near and dear.

They are there always wherever.

I am removed from their immediacy

but privy and aware as if I was with them.

And somehow this is so.

I am equipped with expectations for them.

I have anxiety for them.

If allowed,

I blurt out a fountain of common sense.

I could offer to help.

I could sort of step in.

I could take over

out of frustration, damn it.

But none of these options

really happen

or change my window view.

If I act out

then my window feature

might be eliminated all together.

I guess I am appreciative of it

from time to time.

Having this window at all

surely beats

an unexpected knock at the door

or a phone call deep into the night

from a stranger’s voice

or a rollout identification

at the county morgue.

They have their lives

but still I have this window.

I have come to not only look through it

but also to look directly at it.

I have began to ask myself

about the window itself.

Where is it from?

Who made it?

What purpose does it really serve?

And why do I use it so often?

Is this where I come to worry?

To worry(?), worry about others, really?

Has worry become a window to my life?

If I am here that often

and it appears to be so,

then this window

slowly becomes a measure of me.

It is my construction.

Now, one of my private sacred rituals!

And yet, it undermines me.

Worry is not an action of support

to anyone.

Worry is in some ways a sabotage

to everyone involved.

It is an assertion

of a false sense of control.

It is a lack of true acknowledgment.

It does not allow for their spirit,

for any spirit to dance their dance

and fulfill their destiny in doing so.

If my destiny appears to be one of worry

then I am not addressing myself

but living through others to complete me.

If I incessantly worry

then I teach worry

as I distract myself

from the real worth of all of us.

I then am coveting them

as a commodity of my frame.

I want my best for them

as my expectations negatively infer,

as my projections falsely return

to complete me . . . ouch!

This is an avoidance,

a cultivation of fears

as my fears should be theirs

as they are an extension of me.

I blind my spirit

in an attempt to bind others.

Worry does not entitle me

to worth for my efforts.

As sincere as it could come,

is not the spirit buffed

by the adversities of life?

Is not character chiseled

by challenges?

Is not worth by presence

rather then possessiveness?

As worry layers and preoccupies

what is the gift?

If I worry as a first thought,

let that die of itself

in reminding me of spirit.

Reminding me to share

in the crazy wisdom as we are,

to permit myself

a deeper soul of silent sight

and the feel for a secret embrace

that sets us all free

so that worry is never the bind . . .