If nothing else, grief makes us tender – exposes a fragility we weren’t expecting. Before loss, we were pretty sturdy. We thought most things would be okay. We put one foot in front of another without giving it much thought. We might have had hard times, but we made it through. We grew strong, over time, and for the most part, we learned to trust life.

But once we’ve experienced Great Loss, once the ultimate wolf is at the door, sometimes we realize just how fragile we really are. And doubt begins to creep in. Whatever certainty we had gathered around us suddenly seems pretty flimsy. Before my own experience with grief, I was pretty sure of myself. I might have had a few worries, struggles, but I could weather those with resilience and feistiness and assurance. I was strong, after all.

These days, though, I seem older, a little more vulnerable….and I worry. I worry about my sister and her health, when people with lung issues are at risk with this new virus. I worry about the state of the topsy-turvy world. I worry about the little blue herons that feed at the edges of the pond, when the river water has flooded over the land again. I worry about the bayou places I love – Cocodrie, and Pointe Aux Chiens, and Lower Montegut – sinking down. I worry about Sunny who, at 93, insists on going to Walmart to get seed for his birds even though everyone’s supposed to stay home during the virus scare. I worry about women and whether they (we) will ever be truly valued. I worry about the newly planted dahlia tubers that haven’t sprouted yet, and how they’ll do. I worry about getting older. I worry about not getting older. I worry about money, and not having money. I worry about who will remember me since I’ve lived so much time alone. I worry about losing my mind – it’s a hard thing, I imagine, to outlive your mind. I worry about Bodi – my oldish, lumpy dog, and who will take care of him if the Virus gets me. And I worry about how I’ll get along in life without him, if he goes first. He’s known me through so much. I worry about the things I didn’t have – a good, long-lasting husband – enlightenment – a Pulitzer Prize – fabulous skin – great acclaim – good arches. I worry about the things I haven’t seen – Africa, and Madagascar and glaciers. And about the things I have – inequity and cruelty and willful ignorance. I worry about all those who struggle alone, or those who struggle together. I worry about this Earth, its loveliness and gifts, and how ruthlessly we’ve treated it. I worry I haven’t loved enough, prayed enough, done enough, healed enough.

I don’t know whether my aunt’s death years ago triggered this litany of fears, or whether it’s just a combination of events and aging that have piled up over time. But I know that loss seems like an almost overwhelming reality sometimes, and everywhere I look, I see more of it coming my way.

But I know that worry can’t be everything. I still love life – still glory in every small and wonderful thing that surrounds me in this stupendous, surprising world.

I recently saw one of Mary Oliver’s poem that hit home for me –

“I Worried” – (from Swan: Poems and Prose Poems)

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well, hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.”

So I try to follow her example –
This morning, Bodi and I walk down the levee and the river trail. Dew is heavy in the grass, the air is warm and close, and sun burns through fog in the patchy blue sky. At the pond, a crowd of whistling ducks feed at the edge of the water while a small alligator floats nearby. The air smells like sweet clover and river water and new green growth. A fisherman stands on the far shore of the pond with his line in the water, and waves.

There is much blooming today – evening primrose stretches across the sand, and patches of white sweet clover flank the trail. Horsetail stands tall at the river’s edge, and large masses of white-flowered Beggar’s Ticks line the path. On this day, it is the Beggar’s Ticks I’m after. I’ve read recently that it has many anti-viral and anti-inflammatory properties, and I’ve thought it might be good to have some on hand in this health-challenging time.

Bodi waits while I reach into the thicket of plants, feel along each stiff stem until I get to its root, then tug the herb up out of its soil. I notice how the roots and long creeping stems anchor the sand in place, helping to shore up the riverbank. I step carefully, hoping to warn any sleeping snakes to go another way. With the plants so thick, it doesn’t take long before I have a nice bundle of herbs to carry home.

On the river, fog hangs thick and low, and I think about all the ways this current Corona Virus crisis is similar to the fog – close, pressing over us all, coloring the way we see lives we once might have thought were pretty bright. Now, we live with worries that seem unavoidable. We worry for the future of our world, for our children and families, our older people, our health care professionals, and how our lives will be tinged with uncertainty for who knows how long. It’s a hard thing to live with.

And – but – here I am, with my bundle of wild healing. Even though the herbs I’ve picked today may only offer a minuscule bit of aid against what seems to be a monster storm on the way, I’ve done a tiny thing to help myself.

Maybe in this troubled time, any little thing we can do will help in this moment, and then the next, and the next. All I know is that by the time I’ve plodded through the powdery river sand, watched the whistling ducks avoid the alligator as it scrabbles through the damp grass, watched the sun break through hazy clouds on the big river, I feel more at home. I love the Beggar’s Ticks and the ducks and the ibis who hang out in the tops of trees. I breathe up the sweet damp air as if it were an infusion of life, and feel better. And I pray, like Julian of Norwich in the times of the Black Death – May all be well. May all manner of things be well.

For now, at least, I am well.