Worried thoughts
As you come into Will’s daycare, there’s a little table in the lobby with two plastic Easter egg buckets, a small pad of paper, and a pencil. One bucket’s labeled “Take a Happy Thought,” and the other, “Throw Away Worried Thoughts.” The idea is that you take a happy thought out of the bucket if you need one, and you write your worries down and throw them away in the other bucket.
Today after we picked Will up, Laura went back to his classroom to get something she'd forgotten while we waited for her in the lobby. She’s occasionally been known to take her time, so Will and I were just hanging out. He started to color, and finally I started poking through the worry bucket. Somebody had written, “I hope my husband gets the job.” Another worry read, “I hope my mother is OK.” Someone else had written, “I wish he would at least call so I won’t worry.” It looked like one kid named Hayley had written her name on a sheet of paper every single morning since she’d been coming to the center.
The happy thoughts looked like plants to me—very proverbial. “Make a friend to double your joys and halve your worries,” etc. But there sure were there lots of them. I’m thinking maybe the work study student who staffs the sign-in desk had some free time and a book of Hallmark wisdom.
I’m not a big believer in happy thoughts (or magical thinking, as I would define it). When I send off a batch of poems to a journal, I start checking the mail for my rejection letters shortly afterwards. It’s not because I’m not an optimist, although I probably am not, but because I prefer to be prepared for the worst (and because realistically, you get LOTS of rejections and proportionally few acceptances when you’re a poet).
Anyhow, of course I didn’t take a happy thought out, but I decided to try throwing away a worried thought. So I wrote something like this: “I don’t want to be this busy.” Not a profound worry, and probably not my biggest, but one I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. As I folded the paper and threw it in the bucket, Laura came down the hall. Although I stirred the bucket after I added my thought, Laura reached in and pulled out my paper (from the bottom, mind you, the first piece she touched) and read it out loud. Then she looks up at me, sighs and says, “Boy, I know exactly what you mean.” Worried thoughts. My goodness.
Today after we picked Will up, Laura went back to his classroom to get something she'd forgotten while we waited for her in the lobby. She’s occasionally been known to take her time, so Will and I were just hanging out. He started to color, and finally I started poking through the worry bucket. Somebody had written, “I hope my husband gets the job.” Another worry read, “I hope my mother is OK.” Someone else had written, “I wish he would at least call so I won’t worry.” It looked like one kid named Hayley had written her name on a sheet of paper every single morning since she’d been coming to the center.
The happy thoughts looked like plants to me—very proverbial. “Make a friend to double your joys and halve your worries,” etc. But there sure were there lots of them. I’m thinking maybe the work study student who staffs the sign-in desk had some free time and a book of Hallmark wisdom.
I’m not a big believer in happy thoughts (or magical thinking, as I would define it). When I send off a batch of poems to a journal, I start checking the mail for my rejection letters shortly afterwards. It’s not because I’m not an optimist, although I probably am not, but because I prefer to be prepared for the worst (and because realistically, you get LOTS of rejections and proportionally few acceptances when you’re a poet).
Anyhow, of course I didn’t take a happy thought out, but I decided to try throwing away a worried thought. So I wrote something like this: “I don’t want to be this busy.” Not a profound worry, and probably not my biggest, but one I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. As I folded the paper and threw it in the bucket, Laura came down the hall. Although I stirred the bucket after I added my thought, Laura reached in and pulled out my paper (from the bottom, mind you, the first piece she touched) and read it out loud. Then she looks up at me, sighs and says, “Boy, I know exactly what you mean.” Worried thoughts. My goodness.
posted by Lisa at 9/15/2004 07:53:00 PM
<< Home