in which i forget what i was going to say, but talk anyway

There was a truly excellent collect the week in church (collect = opening communal prayer, if you're not familiar with an Episcopalian service):

Grant us, Lord, not to be anxious about earthly things, but to love things heavenly; and even now, while we are placed among things that are passing away, to hold fast to those that shall endure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

See, it's funny because -- well, because my anxiety level could kill a camel. I'm learning and working on it, but it will take me the rest of my life to learn to take work with equanimity.

I also have a great poem for you, by Mary Oliver. I don't like the title much, but the rest of it is great. It reminds me to suck it up and pay attention to the wider world. . . .

The Poet with His Face in his Hands

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water-fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.