We are often told that worrying is a pointless waste of time.  That when we have a problem and cannot find a solution, if we worry, it only diverts our energy away from potentially productive avenues of thought and effort.  In the case of worry about our own problems, I agree with the wisdom of this practical perspective (though I am not, unfortunately, able to live accordingly at all times).  But I am not so sure when it comes to worrying about others.
 
As soon as I learn that someone I care about has a problem, I start worrying, and become almost completely incapable of focusing on anything else.  And perhaps it is ineffective, in the most practical sense.  Yet it is my way of being loyal and caring, and is often truly appreciated as such.
 
Here’s what brings this to mind.  A young person I care deeply about shared with me yesterday that he had a long school assignment to complete in a short time and was very worried that he wouldn’t do a good enough job.  Of course it worried me to see him so worried.  At the same time, I was sure that the expectations he feared he couldn’t meet were his own brainchild.  But I didn’t tell him that, since I knew from experience that it would only make him feel invalidated, alone, and uncared about.
 
Instead, I conveyed my empathy with his sense of being in a pickle.  I offered to stay close by so he could ask for help, or a hug, if he wanted to.  He accepted.  And I think that just knowing I was there, worrying his worry with him, helped calm him and enable him to work steadily. 
 
When he was ready to stop and go to bed, he asked for some “love,” by which I knew he meant snuggling him until he fell asleep.  What a contrast to times when I had responded to similar problems with immediate practical suggestions and/or logical arguments as to why his worry was baseless.  All that had produced was tears, anger, and a much more protracted and miserable night... throughout which my presence, not to mention my affection, was seriously unwelcome.
 
We all want to do what’s best for our children.  We all try to do what’s best.  And we all fail, despite our best efforts, with distressing frequency.  My parenting scorecard, if I kept one, would be as full of marks in the “failure” column as anyone else’s.  But last night was a parenting victory, as I see it.  Why?  Because I worried.  And did nothing practical, or productive, instead of worrying.  And my worry made the person about whom I was worried feel a little less alone and therefore a little less worried.
 
As the British say: Result!

I've got a new FREE tutorial over at sewmamasew.com.  For fleece mittens.  With hearts.  For Valentine's Day... or for whenever you want to wear your heart on your sleeve or closest winter accessory thereto.

I think they're kind of cool because:

(a) they have 2 layers of fleece, for extra warmth and coziness;
(b) the pattern is one I show you how to make yourself, customized to snugly fit your (or the intended wearer's) hand;
(c) They were inspired by my sewing students... who did an amazing job of sewing their own versions BY HAND!

I also had a tutorial posted back in November on thestitch.com that I forgot to link to, for whimsical window valances like the ones I blogged about making for my nephew's room about a year ago (see post).  Here are the ones I made for the tutorial, in Oliver's room:

Plus, to those of you who said in response to my post a few days ago that I sure had a gem of a sister... you are right!  As this photo I found yesterday shows, she has always been there for me.

OK that last post was quite the downer.  I just couldn't leave it hanging out there, as if depression is all that's been going on for me.  Au contraire.  There has been quite a bit of awesomeness as well.  Too much to write about, in fact, so I'll pretty much just post pictures from here.

I’ve been depressed a lot lately.  It has not really inhibited my functioning that much (at least not so much that I can’t make up for it during my non-depressed intervals), but it has been very painful.
 
I have struggled with depression for most of my life.  (That’s a lot of years now.)  Unfortunately, for most of my adolescence and young adulthood, nothing helped.  Not therapy (which I think actually exacerbated it).  Not becoming a runner.  Fortunately, in the last decade, some things have.  Like medication.  And having a family of my own.  And discovering sewing.  And doing the Landmark Forum.  And Integrity Buddies, an outgrowth thereof.  And having a sister who always reminds me of who I really am, and what depression really is, when I turn to her in tears.
 
For those of you who struggle with depression and don’t have someone like my sister to pull you back from the brink, here’s the kind of thing she reminds me of.
 
Depression is not who we are.  It is an illness.  It manifests itself as a voice, masquerading as our own, that presents negative, one-sided, destructive opinions as truth.  It comes from inside us so it knows us and every feeling of guilt, shame, angst, fear, or doubt we’ve ever had, and which buttons to push (i.e. which thoughts to insinuate into our minds) so as to flood our brain with them.  They are “our” feelings, yet the way depression causes us to experience them – as if they are overwhelming and inescapable – is distorted and not natural to us.  It causes us to experience them as if in a vacuum, without access to any positive feelings to offset them or put them in perspective.
 
Just as other illnesses attack or suppress the immune system or otherwise inhibit various healthy functions of our bodies, so depression suppresses the brain’s ability to generate positive thoughts.  Its symptoms aren’t as visible as those of some illnesses, but the pain it causes can be just as hard to bear.  Often harder, in fact, because – perhaps uniquely among illnesses – it causes us to blame and loathe ourselves for even having the pain, thus compounding it.
 
Here’s what talking to my sister helps me realize.  I am feeling this bad, and having these fears, because of an illness I have and not because of who I am.  Realizing this doesn’t make the terrible thoughts disappear.  But it helps me be less completely identified with them, i.e. less believing of them as the one and only truth and the sum total of who I am.  “I” am the one noticing those thoughts and how strongly they pull me towards dark places, but not feeling completely powerless to resist their pull.
 
And then, suddenly, I’m just getting eagerly on with my life.

Until I’m not, the next time I get depressed.  And then I’m depressed until something helps again.  And so on.  With each period of depression getting, however, more amenable to help, shorter, and less frequent.
 
That’s a lot of sharing, huh?  It feels pretty scary to be this honest.  But my intuition tells me this will mean a lot to others who feel the same way, and think they are alone in it, and therefore feel even worse.