We are midsummer. High sun, abundant thunderstorms, reaching 5 million hours of pool time. Yesterday Gabe told me he wanted to know what the plan was for the day and I pointed to the rocky coast of Maine - where we are now - and said something like, “Look. We are here. This is what we are doing.”

Tomorrow, however, we depart, for the alternate rocky shores of Ireland. A trip that has been months in the making, and which will begin with an airport reunion for the group of 19 (19!) good friends, both adults and children, that makes up our traveling crew and will end with a wedding, which is the reason we are going in the first place.

The car and hotels are booked and the dog is boarded. I have contacted my family in Northern Ireland, which required my Googling directions on how to place the call, and having to use many more prefix numbers that I thought. It took four tries.

I love to plan life’s adventures. And yet, if I’m being honest, sometimes planning the best parts of life, and definitely doing so post-pandemic, makes me anxious. If you presented these situations to me as an observer (from the exciting trips to the personal and professional goals to all the opportunities offered to my kids) I’d say, “Dazzling! What an undoubtedly lucky life!” I’d say, “This is what I value. This is what I want my time on this Earth to look like.”

But then, when I delve into the details, I sometimes wonder if I’m making the wrong decisions. Should we have rented a bigger car? Should we be going on a trip at all? The questions aren’t actually up for answers. Of course we should! And the car will be fine. These are the pesky symptoms of worrying when you’re making big (and sometimes even very small) decisions, especially those involving the people you love. What they are not is actual debates worth wagering.

I’ve writing something (yet to be completed) about the way I’ve been fighting these feelings when they arise, based on the many interviews I’ve done with various experts throughout my writing career. And (spoiler alert) the trick is to welcome them in, while you keep on living. The fastest way to get anxiety, or fear - or whatever that feeling is for you - to dissipate quickly is to greet it warmly, ride that wave, and keep going. Not to get overly dramatic, but it feels like that’s how you go from thinking about living, to actually doing so.

I’ve also been working on writing something about our Gerbils, both our former pair (RIP) and our current two, whose names are Cedar and Ginger. I can’t tell them apart.

You'd think these two pieces of writing would be unrelated, but I don’t know about that. Especially after what happened Monday night when J, who had been up here visiting with us in Maine, got home to Connecticut, and I received this text:

“Bit of a situation here. When I went to check on the gerbils I saw that the cage door was open. I guess I left it open. Gerbils had escaped. I found one running around Gabe’s room and got him back into the cage. Still looking for the other.”

Another spoiler alert, he found the other a few hours later in Nora’s closet. But I full-scale panicked while I waited for that news. Yes, it would be very bad to have to tell the children about their beloved pet’s tragic end (could it have gone down the bathtub drain, or into some crevice in the wall never to return…certainly!) but what I couldn’t stop thinking about was the prospect of heading abroad for 12 days while an alive or newly perished gerbil was somewhere in our home, location unknown, possibly forever. That we’d be coming home to that nightmare. It doesn’t seem the most compassionate response, I realize, yet I promise that my worry for its well being played into my overall angst.

When he’d found the second gerbil, however (“Crisis over” he wrote) I couldn’t help thinking, giddily, about the adventure those two had enjoyed. Climbing out of the Cage, somehow hopping from the cage onto the bed and from there…the whole world! Or at the very least across the room to Nora’s closet, and down the hall to Gabe’s room.

“Bit of a situation here.” What an understated message to convey this near disaster, this small-scale escapade. Meant to instill a sense of calm concerning what I believe he knew would be particularly upsetting to me.

It also so poetically encapsulates all the feelings I’m trying to express here (maybe all the feelings I’m trying to express all the time!)

Bit of a situation. Isn’t everything? When that small door atop their cage lay tantalizing ajar, I wonder how long it took those two gerbils, their tiny paws raised as though in prayer, their noses twitching, to climb out to whatever awaited them? My guess is they got right on with it, seizing that opportunity; breathed in whatever fears, if any, gerbils possess, and kept moving. My guess is: no time at all.