Articles

You’re probably wondering why I created this site and where the name Winks of Goodness came from. It all goes back to a beautiful little girl named Easton.

Easton moved with her family to the Lake Norman area in September 2016. I met her when her mom, Liz, began working out at the Y. As soon as I saw Easton, I fell in love with her. White blonde hair and beautiful eyes, she was a gorgeous child, but her personality sealed the deal. Every morning, she would bounce into the lobby so happy to be there. Sometimes when I was lucky, she would sit with me while I worked on my laptop before class. Like most little people, she couldn’t quite get the “L” right in my name, so she called me “Ori.” I adored it.

One morning as I was sitting in the same place where she liked to sit with me at the Y, I received a text that Easton had unexpectedly passed away from a brain tumor. She hadn’t been herself for a couple of days, but we all thought she just wasn’t feeling well. Turns out she had super rare ATRT brain tumor that crushed her brain stem. It was May 5, 2017. She was 2 1/2 years old.

You don’t know how you’ll react when tragedy strikes, especially a brutal tragedy like this. When I read the text, I let out a loud gasp that attracted others to make sure I was okay. I then cried my eyes out, over and over. From then on, it was all about supporting her family and being grateful for every second I had with my own kids.

Somehow Liz managed to keep living life. I know it’s not easy, but she does it, and she does with such grace and empathy for others. I, along with a lot of others (many from our awesome exercise class), are walking this journey with her. It’s a journey where we can’t hold Easton or watch her grow up, but regardless of that, it’s a journey where she’s always with us. And that’s where the winks come in.

Little things happen all the time; little good things, and every time one of them happens, we says it’s a wink from Easton. Sometimes it’s a sponsor coming through for an event to raise money in her name for kids with cancer or kids who can’t afford to go camp. Sometimes it’s numbers that might correspond to her birthday. Whatever it is, we know that it’s Easton winking her beautiful eyes at us, letting us know that she’s okay and that it’s okay for us to be okay, too.

One day after an Easton wink, I thought of the name Winks of Goodness because every single thing about Easton was good. I bought the site and promised myself that I would do something with it, something good. So here we are, looking for all of the goodness in the world. Whether it be large or small, there is good in every day because every day is a gift. Little Easton taught me that.

This morning I was waiting in line to drop off The Tots at school. I always love watching students walk into school, their backpacks stuff with finished assignments and freshly pack lunches. This morning I saw a friend of mine’s little girl walking in wearing a colorful outfit with a matching bow. This little girl is absolutely gorgeous, and she almost always has a smile on her face. You would never know that she has special needs.

I think she has epilepsy, but I’m not certain of the correct term, but she has a little bit of a different walk, her walk. This morning she was holding another little girl’s hand who was a couple of years older than her. The older girl was making sure she walked into school safely. I teared up as I saw this because I know this other little girl wasn’t her sister. She doesn’t have a sister. This other little girl was a friend making sure that her friend got to class this morning. It was such a beautiful thing.

Later on I saw that the little girl had suffered seizures the day before and had to visit the ER. I just sat there thinking of how brave she was. She came to school ready to go after what I’m sure was quite an ordeal at the hospital. (Is any ER not an ordeal?)

But here she was, and here was her friend. I want to hold onto this image and think about it when I wonder if people still care about each other in this world anymore. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but sometimes, like this morning, proof is right in front of you. I’m just thankful I was able to see it.

This morning a friend messaged that one of my old colleagues lost his son over the weekend. The last time I saw my colleague was 16 years ago, so to me his son was still 4 years old. Turns out his son was 20 and living in Colorado. He died in a snowboarding accident.

As we all do in this social network world we live in, I checked my colleague Facebook status to learn more about what happened. Instead of details, I found the most beautifully written tribute to his son. He started his post by saying that February 3 made him smile because it was the last time he talked with his son.

None of us can imagine the pain a parent feels losing a child at any age unless they’ve been through it. One of my best friends has been through it and though I have walked with her through her journey, I have no idea the pain involved. That’s why my colleague’s post spoke to me. Instead of writing what people usually do when someone passes away, he immediately remembered the good. Right off the bat. That’s a wink of goodness in the midst of turmoil.

The older I become, the more I relish these winks and avidly seek them. Sometimes they’re large, and sometimes they’re so tiny we need a microscope to point them out. The important thing is that they’re there. Every day, there is a wink from somewhere guiding our way and pushing us to go on when we don’t think that we can.

My heart breaks for my former co-worker and his wife and younger son. There nothing anyone can say to ease their pain or shock, but what he said about his son moves us in the right direction. “February 3 makes me smile.” We have to hold onto to those moments because those are the ones that matter.

The other day I saw a meme that read, “I’m sorry for whatever I said to you during winter.” I laughed because I have a long track record of dreary days eclipsing my mainly sunny disposition. There’s something about the light of the sun that makes everything okay.

Luckily for folks who live in the South, sunny days during the winter are commonplace. That’s what makes people move here, and that’s why I never left. Anytime I had big city dreams of New York or Chicago, the word winter came to mind, and I continued basking in the February sun.

The trick is that these sunny days won’t last. In a week or two, a cold spell will come, and we’ll all grab our coats that we hoped had finished their shift for the year. A snowfall will try to erase any memory of our 70-degree days with its icicles and school closings. But not matter how cold and dark it gets, I will cling to the images of spring-like days just as a bride-to-be would hold the perfect dress at a clearance sale.

Memories of sun rays breaking through trees, trying to get green leaves to make an entrance are what keep me going through the doldrums of winter. Confused cherry blossoms who finally say, “What the heck” as they spread their pink blossoms before Valentine’s Day remind me that the coldness won’t stay. It’s only visiting for a while.

Perhaps that’s where winter does the most good. Maybe it’s sole purpose is to remind us of how much we love basking in the sunlight, so when spring finally does arrive we appreciate it as much as we should.

Every year I select a word to direct my year. (This is so much more fun — and productive — than a New Year’s resolution.) Previous words have been “Enjoy” and “Smooth.” This year’s word is “Light,” and so far it has served me well.

The best part about this word is that it’s versatile. Sometimes it’s literal, and I simply plug in the white string of lights I recently purchased for my office. Sometimes the light finds me through my children. Just this morning, my 8-year-old son shined a light for me when I asked him what he liked best about reading The Wizard of Oz. “I like how they help each other,” he said. My heart lit up.

The other day I was in a terrible frame of mind. It seemed like the days leading up to that day had been filled with bad news. My mother-in-law was diagnosed with cancer, and one of my best friends announced she was moving to another state. That morning I ran into a friend at the Y, and we somehow delved into a deep conversation about living our lives with intention. I confided in her some of my insecurities about the “me first” world we’re living in, and she had such beautiful insight. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so awful anymore.

An hour later after my workout, I saw a woman in the lobby of the Y who looked a little familiar. Turns out she’s a close friend of my friend who is moving away. We consoled each other on our loss and proceeded to have an impromptu lunch at the local Mexican restaurant down the street. I never make impromptu plans, so this was a big deal for me, but I knew I had to do it once I started talking with her. She was a light; a light that I desperately needed.

So as we venture into this year by the day, I look for lights to help me make it through. Some days are completely filled with brightness, so I try to conserve some of that for the days that seem to have no light at all. It’s hard to do, but when the darkness comes, it’s nice to have a reserve to lead you in the right direction.

I had two perfect days in a row, and the best part is that they took me completely by surprise. On Saturday, John took the kids out, so I had a couple of hours to myself. In addition, it was the first sunny day we’d had in a long time.

That said, I threw on my paint clothes and set up my art supplies on the patio. I clicked my phone to the 1980 Top 40 countdown on Sirius XM’s 80s on 8 and had my own personal field day. During the countdown, they played my number one favorite song of all time. I didn’t even know my song came out in 1980. (Don’t you want to know what it is.) It was pure bliss.

On Sunday the magic continued with another day filled with sun. My daughter wanted daddy time, so my son and I jumped on our bikes and headed to the tennis courts. We hit balls for almost two hours under the sun. I was wearing a tank top in January. This is why people move to North Carolina. This is why I never left.

After we played, we rode our bikes around the park on a trail and had the best time. Eight-year-old Graydon commented on how this was a great way to relieve stress. Bingo, kid!

We didn’t spend any money, and we didn’t plan any of this happiness. It just happened, and therein lies the magic. We spend so much time making grand plans about things that may or may not happen. Maybe they should happen, maybe they shouldn’t. All I know is that the past two days have been filled with smiles, hugs and goodness. I just want more of it, please.

I’ve never been a New Years fan. It just seems like the perfect set up for disappointment. The media always makes it out to be a life-changing experience, when it’s really just the transition from December to January. (At least that’s what I try to tell myself.) Deep down, I know it’s the threshold of another year filled with mysterious highs and lows that are waiting to be discovered.

Because of a multitude of things going on in my life – aging parents, aging in-laws, our country’s dismal political scene to name a few — I threw myself into the holidays. I refused to listen to anything but Christmas music in my minivan, and I baked more than Entenmann’s. I wrapped presents early, and I tried to wrap them nicely, meaning I purchased sticky bows. I played Christmas carols on the piano and gazed at twinkling lights every chance I got. I soaked in every second of the holiday season’s blissful existence. Then Christmas was over.

I tried to convince myself that we were still holly and jolly during the week between Christmas and New Years, but deep down, I knew the magic was drawing to an end. Soon I began to see trees beside recycling bins and marked down candy canes at the grocery store. Christmas was leaving, and there was nothing I could do to prevent its exit.

On top of the forthcoming joy exodus, it rained and rained and rained. My demeanor had no choice but to spiral into a pit of depression and anxiety. The morning I dropped my children off at school after the holiday break, I felt as if I were walking down a foggy street in a film noir movie — permanently. There was really nowhere to go but down. Then I got a text.

“She’s there to clean,” it read. During all of the excitement of Christmas, I forgot that our cleaning lady comes the first Thursday of the month. I rushed home to let her in and quickly begin dismantling the holiday messiness and clutter of our home so she could dust. It was like ripping a huge BAND-AID off of the holidays, quick and painful but also soothing.

Suddenly I began to feel like me, and I started to realize that the world was not in fact ending. Yes, the Christmas music is gone and the lights are back in the storage closet, but now I (hopefully) have 365 days to fill with a rainbow of emotions and activities. I have a new year to paint a new picture. That one text was the equivalent to Olympia Dukakis slapping Cher in the face in Moonstruck. “Snap out of it,” Olympia said. And just like that, I did.