Yesterday I went to a delightful baby shower for a friend of my daughter’s, a young woman I’ve known since she was five years old. We all had to write “advice” for the new parents to be read aloud by them, and someone wrote, “You’ll never have peace of mind again once the child is born” (it sounds mean but was humorous in context). I turned to the father-to-be’s mom, who was next to me, and said I thought that was true — I’ve never stopped worrying about my three children now that they’re grown up. “Not me,” she said breezily, “I’m just not a worrier. I always think things will turn out okay.” “And do they?” I asked. She looked very vague — I suspect non-worriers are often vague when confronting the ugly or sad parts of life – and just smiled.
So my theme for this week is worry, or its heftier partner, fear. Now that I’m of that certain age, I’m more confident about some things — not caring what others think of me, making friends easily, knowing what I can and can’t do — but I’m also more fearful, I think. The sudden deaths of Tim Russert at 58 and George Carlin at 71 from cardiac arrest makes me fear for my life. Hearing about a toddler beaten and stomped to death by the side of a highway in California while onlookers stood by helpless makes me fearful of the nature of the universe in which horrors like this can happen to the innocent and helpless. Losing my glasses for two days, only to have them returned after I ordered new ones for hundreds of dollars, makes me afraid of diminished mental capacities. I wish I could be confident that my children will be fine when they make life decisions (moving, getting married, taking new jobs, having babies), but the truth is that fear for them grips my heart when something changes.
The best part of this week was a small pleasure: holding the hands of my grandchildren as I took them to nursery school and third grade. Other than that, the pleasures were artistic:
What I’m reading this week: Vivian Gornick’s Elizabeth Cady Stanton: The Solitude of Self. This is not something I’d be likely to read on my own, so I’m grateful that I “have to” read it for my work. VG is always excellent, and her subject is fascinating.
What I saw this week: I very much enjoyed Werner Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World, a documentary about Antartica, with terrific visual beauty but also interesting and provocative portraits of the scientists who work there. I love Herzog’s weirdness — in general I’m more attracted to weirdness than normality. And the lack of fear of the scientists who dive under the ice for specimens without compasses or lines, something you couldn’t pay me enough to do, is endlessly intriguing to me. I’m astounded that some people take risks where I’d be scared to death.
I also saw a little gem of an exhibit with Sonia at Columbia University — some ancient Chinese statuary. We attached ourselves to a tour guided by an expert collector — I love experts. I also love Asian art. Thanks, Sonia.
And the Spec Shop was decent enough to cancel my order for new glasses. Thanks, Spec Shop. Life goes on.
