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Wonder or Worry

On or off?

Lately, I’ve spent a lot of time with my two-year-old grandnephew, Davis. I’m astonished at his fascination with the world around him. He delights in turning a light on. And off. On! Off! Over and over. What a wondrous thing. I’ve taken that to heart. My intention this year is to stay in wonder as much as possible. When I am present with Davis without an agenda of my own, I’m able to join him in the experience of wonder over a light switch! You push a button and a light comes on! 

“Wonder” is defined as a feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable. What else am I in wonder of? The magic of mobile phones, the dawn of the day, the chittering of bluebirds. I bet you could list dozens of things you experience with wonder. 

Let’s practice wonder by turning our attention towards our remarkable body. Can you feel the breath as it enters and exits your lungs? Can you hear your heart beat? Feel the blood rushing through your arteries? Sit still. Soften your sense organs. Be curious. Can you stay in wonder about how your body works and how the mind works with it? How does that feel, to be still and quiet, even for a millisecond, when the mind is turned inward? I urge you to set aside some time every day if possible—10 minutes is fine—for this sitting, meditation, prayer, pranayama. Call it what you will. Find time to sit still. 

When I sit I experience mental and emotional settling. Sometimes I can stay there in serene observation. On other days, my mind slips from curious introspection to plain old worry. What is that tickle in my throat? Covid? What if Davis gets it? Blah, blah, blah. When I catch the worried thought, I turn the mind back to the quiet space and let it know that after this quiet time I will give some thought to whatever worry has arisen. If I can do something, I do it. Check my temperature. Take a test. If not, then I direct my mind to something more productive or wholesome. Fix a meal. Take a walk. Check emails. 

Perhaps worry arises about my health or someone else’s health. Whatever. The mind does what the mind does. It wanders—often into worry, anxiety, or fear. Don’t believe everything you think. 

If the mind wanders into the anxious agitation of worry or the dullness of depression, what can we do? Here’s what I do. First I focus on the physical sensation of worry. For me, this shows up as a knot in my stomach. I direct my attention to the feeling without judgment and without the “story.” I breathe into the knot and feel it loosen. In other instances, I can settle the mind by turning it to practical ways to solve the issue: perhaps I call a friend who has had a similar worry and ask for advice. Moving the stuck energy is another useful approach, especially if I’m feeling low. I get on the yoga mat, take a walk, or simply stand up and move around. It’s important that we take responsibility for our own well-being. When I’m calmer and clearer, I’m able to help myself and perhaps others as well. 

Which leads me back to wonder: it’s an emotion, just as transient as sadness and worry, anger or joy. What I feel when I experience wonder is an expansiveness of spirit and a visceral connection to the object of my wonder. I acknowledge that openness without clinging to it. There. That moment was wonder. Now I’m present to the next moment. And the next. I aspire to stay open to wonder. What’s that sound? Oh, it’s Davis coming in the door to spend time with Aunt Cindy. Lucky me. I’ll meet him at the light switch. 

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Lights & Nights of the Season

The end-of-year holiday season is upon us, whether we like it or not. I grew up in a Baptist family that celebrated Christmas. My Jewish friend, Jane, and her family observed Hanukkah. I enjoyed the lighting of the menorah when I visited her family. She came to my house to help decorate our Christmas tree. I was enamored with the bright, colorful lights on trees, bushes, rooftops, and cars. I was scared of Santa. 

Those were the traditions I knew existed. Now, I’m aware of Kwanzaa, the winter solstice, St. Lucia Day, St. Nicolas Day, as well as New Year’s Day, and others. Everyone seems to want to celebrate any spark of light during these dark days of winter.

As I reflect on my family’s traditions, my first thought is that they haven’t changed much. We still go to the Moravian Lovefeast at Messiah Moravian Church in Winston-Salem, where we hold up candles at the end of the service as the church lights are dimmed. We still ride around my hometown and look at lights while singing off-key to the familiar Christmas music playing on the radio. We still read “A Visit from St. Nicolas” by Clement Clarke Moore before going to our respective beds, although our ages range from 30 to 66 years. 

My nephew Davis.

Yet, everything has changed. Our family size has changed due to marriages, divorces, deaths, and births. The big news is that we now we have a five-month-old baby boy in our midst. My grandnephew, Davis, was born on my birthday, July 23, to my niece, Kathryn, and her husband, Jake. I love that he is as enamored with lights as I am. Although Davis probably won’t remember his first Christmas, he is a part of the Dollar family tradition, whether he likes it or not. 

Although we still gather together, the meeting location changes yearly. The Christmas Eve supper has evolved from soup and crackers to nachos and now to a sous vide meal that we have yet to taste or understand.

Looking back over what I’ve written, I realize how much the lights of the season affect me. The outdoor lights remind me of our inner light and the love it represents to me. Even on days when I feel cranky, I remember that the light is there in each of us. Sometimes it’s covered up by stress or anger. That will dissipate. The love and light shine continue to shine. I can see it when I stop and look.

Love remains constant. Love, not affection or attraction. Pure love. When all the change is said and done, what remains is the love and light of the season of life. One phrase that I’ve heard is this: We are light wrapped up in love experiencing itself through life. 

May you have a bright, healthy, and joyful holiday season.

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Kindness and Goodness

For days, I’ve been writing in my head and on paper. When the time to write a blog post approaches, I watch my mind try to think of something wise to impart. The truth is, my mind (“the” mind) isn’t that wise. The heart holds the wisdom. So today as I write, I’m doing my best to let the heart speak.

My heart is full. Since my sister Carrie, died on December 5, 2018, I’ve received an outpouring of love in the form of letters, cards, texts, and calls. I received a small toy stuffed owl, a white feather, a silver butterfly pin, and a special origami crane. And hugs… oh, my goodness. I’ve received hugs by the dozens. I give them right back.

When I mentioned these kindnesses to a close friend, she remarked that she was happy to be reminded that human beings are kind; that they are loving. I agree: loving-kindness stands along with compassion, joy, and equanimity as one of the four “immeasurables” inherent in each of us. However, sometimes we confuse these pure qualities with what are called their “near enemies”—attachment, pity, indulgence, and indifference. 

Wise ones say that even the non-virtuous carry the four immeasurables, although greed, doubt, ill will, or plain old laziness can block their expression. I suspect that each of us has experienced confusion at some time due to these hindrances. I know that I have. 

Right now, though, I’m experiencing the kindness, generosity, and open-heartedness of people on a daily basis. Family friends from childhood have reached out to my sister, Jennie, and me with stories of playing board games with us while drinking Mom’s iced tea. Mom’s childhood friend, Anne, came to Carrie’s Thing, reminiscing about birthday parties and watching the Dollar girls grow up. I rejoice in these memories.  

At the same time, I stay present and I move on. I get on the yoga mat and move my body. I sit still in meditation. I cry. I laugh. I hug. I carry on. I remind myself to look for kindness and goodness in all beings, not only the ones who reach out to me. I look especially closely if I don’t see those qualities at first. Like clouds covering the sun, obstacles may obscure our inherent traits for a time. May we each stay present and keep looking—inside and out. Like the sun, the four immeasurables can shine through each of us. 

In love and appreciation,
Cindy

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Ambushed by Chapstick

My sister Carrie.

My sister Carrie died eight days ago. I knew her from the get-go. I was eight years old when she was born. Even before that, I remember feeling her move in Mom’s belly. That was weird. After Carrie was born, Daddy came home from the hospital and a day later drove me and my sisters Amy and Jennie to pick up Mom and Carrie. I wasn’t that impressed. Carrie was scrawny. She didn’t do much. I already had two sisters.

I know about impermanence. I’ve watched my own skin change texture. I’ve held on to t-shirts until they were threadbare. Everything changes. All formations are transient. But my youngest sister? Her, too? Overall, I’m okay. I’m tired. I’m grieving. I went out to eat at Marco’s (now 828 Family Pizzeria) last night. I was feeling fine. Then, a tube of lip balm ambushed me. To explain: my family is addicted to Chapstick. Even if it’s Bert’s Bees brand, we call it Chapstick. Mom had some by her deathbed. So did my sister, Amy, who died in 2017. So did Carrie. Sitting in the pizzeria I was ambushed by Chapstick memories as I brought the tube to my lips. I took some deep breaths. I tonglened my way though the moment—breathing in wet, moist, grey grief for myself and for all who are grieving right now. I breathed out bright, expansive, sunshiny joy to all who need that relief.

I warmed up to her over the years. I helped brush out her hair when we’d get ready for school. Every single morning, she’d have a rats’ nest of hair scrunched up the back of her head. As a toddler she had a way of making a “V” shape with her mouth. She made this shape every time we asked, even a week before she passed. She was a funny, happy little girl who once wrote a story about Colorfus the Rooster. Carrie loved our cat, Smokey, who slept in her bed. She was generous and would bring little treasures to me when I was a teenager. She laughed easily when she turned cartwheels in the back yard. I drove her to swim lessons, dance lessons, and cheerleading practice. She wasn’t particularly good at these sports—although she had a good time! I bought beer for her. She bought her own pot. Mom never knew about the beer.

Sadness and grief are essential to the process of letting go. Letting the whelms of emotion cover me physically, mentally, and emotionally allows me to be present to what’s happening now. I miss Carrie. That’s true. I’m happy she’s not in pain. That’s true. I’m grateful to all who have reached out in love. That’s true, too. I still miss Amy at times and now Carrie is gone. We all wore the same size shoe. All of us Dollar Girls had the same size ponytail. Now Jennie and I are the only two Dollar sisters left. The only two with tiny, thin ponytails. They, too, will go. I hope not for a long, long time. 

Carrie died at home with her dear friend Dave, Jennie, and me close by. A van came to pick up her body to take to Bowman Grey School of Medicine. In her generous way, she donated her body to science. As the van drove away, I stood in the street and waved until I could no longer see the vehicle, the circle of coming and going completed.

In the meantime, while I’m here on the planet, I will be present to those I love. I will tell them that I love them. I will cherish my time with each person I’m with, knowing that each life is precious and fleeting. I invite you to do the same.

Namaste,  

Cindy