You worry so sweet, my honey, my love.
You worry so sweet.

You worry about the trees and their leaves;
You worry about the bees and even that soft summer breeze.

You worry so sweet, my love, my dear.
You worry so sweet.

You worry about love and the world,
all of the little boys and little girls.

The arthritic joints and controversial points...

You worry so sweet, my honey, my love.
You worry so sweet.

You worry about wars and 'isms
       worry about purpose...
       worry about death...

                                 and even life too...

You worry about goodness and pain;
You worry worry worry you.

You worry so sweet, my love, my honey, my dear. 
You worry your heart and your heart worries you.

You worry so sweet... so sweet... 
                                          so... sweet...

                                                             love.

This morning, I worshipped at the early morning service with the Friends at Boulder’s meeting house. It was a fully silent hour of worship with only three in attendance. Personally recovering from some psychological distress occurring over the past several weeks, I started to hear this poem.

After spending a day in Garden of the Gods to celebrate my friend Griffin’s 30th Birthday, I returned home to Boulder. I had a call with my friend, Keegan, where I shared some of the words I was hearing in Meeting. He encouraged me to put pen to paper. So I did. Then I put fingers to keys, deciding to share it with the world as I am often wont to do.

I am not sure what I think or feel about the poem and its origins. The central refrain ‘you worry so sweet, my honey, my love’ seemed to come from something external to me. But the rest feels a little contrived to me. Contrived or not, I do appreciate the tenderness and care given by the words, whether they came from a spirit realm or somewhere deep in my own psyche.

It’s refreshing to be comforted in this way, no matter the origin. Does my worry have to be evil? Do I have to hate the anxiety that grips me as if it is some evil, cantankerous hound biting at my throat? Or can I see the fears as a sign of tenderness? A sign of goodness and care?

I worry so sweet, my love, my honey, my dear. Worry so sweet about my poem and what it means. Worry about you and what you might think of me.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s okay.

Love.