It occurs to me, at this stage in life, that my worry quota is somewhat under my control. My level of angst, anxiety, regret, dread seems to be independent, for the most part, of the actual circumstances in front of me. Behind me, too.
It's far too late to die young and I have already failed, by most standards, personally and professionally. Don't take that statement as an attempt to elicit pity. If I had it all to do over, I would fail more spectacularly. I certainly didn't do it Sinatra's way.
My fret meter generally stays at a tolerable point and I seem to have some bit of control by herding my memories to love that I've known.
Oh, I still worry about every orphan. Every prisoner. Every soldier. I continue to lose sleep over that one-legged seagull on Indian Rocks Beach when I was five or six years old. Somehow I've made it this far with my old pal, the blues, and I suppose we'll make it to the finish line.
That old line, I love you- I've thrown it around. I don't take it lightly, though. I love you.