Sometimes I worry about things. Mostly I have worried about that shallow and selfish threat to my country. You know, that one. But since I unsubscribed from cable television, The New York Times, and The Washington Post, I push those concerns to one side.

I worry about global warming and the use of poisons to control insects and weeds and people. I worry about cancers and the danger of a tidal wave washing my home away.

I worry about population growth, a concern when I was a little girl and the earth’s human population was less than three billion, and now approaching eight billion. I worry about the loss of empty spaces, that human need to use everything.

I worry that a journal that has short-listed my story for a year only means to tease me. I worry about using too much purple or not enough in the quilt I am making. I worry that the sweater I should be re-knitting for my grandson will be too large or scratchy or no longer colors he likes.

I worry that so many people are reading my post “Why You Don’t Want to Become a Teacher” and will think I did not love teaching and miss teaching with all my heart.

I worry about the way our community is changing into an industrial zone without people to care for more than income.

I worry about my brittle bones and bad teeth, my weight gain and poor posture, and finding better medical care.

I worry about the power flickering in and out, but not too much.

Those are the easy things.

I worry about dying and leaving my husband alone or being left alone by him dying first. I worry about alienating my daughters-in-law, each a dear person but not my daughter. I worry that I have failed to help my sons know and trust their obvious courage and kindness.

I worry my older granddaughter will throw herself on the floor in a fit of embarrassment. I worry that my younger granddaughter will be the pretty sweet girl people take advantage of. I worry about my grandson’s attention.

I worry every time my husband calls across the house to tell me about reading that someone we know has died.

And then.

And then I sit down during a break from the sewing machine and steam iron, push color aside, and I watch the storm come in. The waves are higher than yesterday. The sky is dark and brilliant. Rain makes a variable patter on the skylights. There is thunder far away, but the ocean roars steady over all.

And the sky is sometimes aqua overhead and bright and then darkening with heavy clouds. Those who only value the clear sunny days as good weather must have simpler lives than mine. This is the world I love.

My worries are fruitless, pointless, fussing. The storm is inevitable, inviolable, and out of my control. It is coming onshore.

I watch the storm arrive and I am not worried.