Although it's Sunday, and I've no earthly reason for it, I awoke early, filled with what I can only call existential dread. M starts a new job tomorrow, going door to door for the U.S. Census, and I'm worried about her safety in nutty California. I don't want to hold her back from making a contribution, from doing what she's decided to do. But, I'm worried. And it strikes me that it has been a while since I even allowed serious worry to intrude upon my consciousness.
For so many years worry was so central to my life -- worry about my children, their health and safety, worry about the 180 children at school for whom I felt responsible. My kids are long since grown and on their own. I consciously left the school worries behind when I moved here, and rightly so. But, in so doing it seems I've deliberately avoided serious worry of any kind. Oh, I've had the occasional concern about earthquakes or traffic safety. Like everyone else I've worried about the economy. But it's as if I believe I've been handed an exemption where life's immediate hazards to myself and my family are concerned.
My attention is diverted by a ruckus among the neighborhood birds (and I'm not making up either the occurrence or the timing). The mockingbird is once again dive-bombing a crow who has wandered too close to the mocker's territory. As the crow alights like a woodpecker on the side of a palm, grasping on to the broken remnant of a frond, the activity reaches a more fevered pitch and even the tiny hummingbird joins in. The crow maintains a studious unconcern as he plunges his beak into a crevice, then tips back his head to swallow, again and again. I realize he must have found a nest and is breaking each egg and eating the embryo. He's just makin' a livin', right? So, why do I feel such horror and revulsion? Why do I relate so intensely with a suddenly forlorn-looking hummingbird, now sitting idly and hopelessly watching?