Nashville, Tenn. • Whenever I’m nervous, I find some sort of amulet to drop into my pocket. A buckeye. A feather molted from a blue jay’s tail. The river rock my middle son always called a “worry stone.” The spent egg sac from a praying mantis. A seashell from my mother-in-law’s grave. I hold onto what’s in my pocket the way an anxious baby clings to a beloved blanket at bedtime.
When I was about to give my first talk at a gathering of English teachers, my department head tried to reassure me. “Rule No. 1: Don’t sweat the small stuff,” she said.