Yoinkers, Hoarders, and Sunrises: A Lesson in Abundance

When it comes to being a Morning Person, I go in an out of phases. Every year or so, I’ll listen to a podcast or read a book that touts the benefits of waking up at 5AM and engaging in some sort of self-care or self-development for the first four hours of your day. I’ll get instantly inspired (I’m a habitual Fresh-Starter) and commit myself to rising before the sun every day.

And then, inevitably, within two weeks of the new routine, I will get sick. Nausea, headaches, fatigue. It throws off my entire system. My body simply does NOT like rising before even the sun can be bothered to. Rising with the sun, on the other hand, is a whole different game.

I love sunrises. The way they ease you into the day, like a warm hug or a gentle pat on the shoulder. They embrace you and say, “Let’s do this together.” And when they’re over, you’ve still got your whole day in front of you.

Recently, I was lucky to witness one of the most spectacular sunrises I’ve ever seen. I was vacationing on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. We were staying at the Westin resort there, right on the ocean’s edge. Our room was a basic island-view room overlooking the dog … let’s just say “rest area.'“ Charming, I know. But if we leaned over our balcony a bit, we could see a sliver of the ocean around the corner of the building.

Each morning, I would get out of bed and peer around the corner to assess the sunrise. Was it worth getting out of my snug little bed to go see? The first few of mornings, it was not — the weather was cold, windy, and overcast. Better to stay in bed. But by the fourth day, those clouds were beginning to clear, and the sunrise was there to send them on their way via a gorgeous display.

Even from my balcony, I could see how pink and bright the sky was. I quickly put on some clothes and snuck out of the hotel room (not wanting to rouse my slumbering spouse) and down to the beach. With each step closer to the sand, the majesty increased. I first noticed the contrast of the sunrise against the palm trees. Living in Maryland my whole life, the sight of palm trees has always represented relaxation and fun for me. That morning, the palm trees were beautifully silhouetted against the puffy pink and blue of the clouds.

Sunrise on Hilton Head Island, SC

I stepped closer to the beach, past the dunes and grass. It was hard to tell where the sky ended and the ocean began. You could almost flip the image upside down and have it still look realistic. Like when you lie down on the edge of a dock on a clear day and can imagine that you’re floating around in space, and looking down on the sky from above. The oranges and pinks and purples and grays and blues and whites seem to go on forever. Looking at it, taking it all in, I felt just as vast and endless, and yet so small. I was at peace. For those precious minutes, I sensed that there was no end to the possibilities of my day, year, or lifetime.

In what seemed like an instant, the display morphed into blue skies and puffy white clouds — a normal, everyday sky. As I started to detach from the experience and plan out my next moves, three women walked by. One of them pointed to the sand, not two feet from where I’d been standing the whole time, and said, “There’s a big one.” I followed the direction of her pointing finger, and my gaze landed upon a perfect, round, unbroken sand dollar, about the size of my palm.

YOINK! The woman plucked the treasure from the sand, adding it to her overflowing grip on several other sand dollars in her other hand, and moved along. I was instantly ripped down from my sunrise-induced bliss. I was so disappointed that I hadn’t gotten that sand dollar, which would’ve made the perfect token of my sunrise moment. Not that I even knew how to properly … cure? dry out? preserve? … a sand dollar. But still. That should’ve been MY sand dollar, and that greedy woman, who already had more sand dollars than she could ever possibly need (as far as I was concerned), had yoinked it away without another thought.

I paused in my sudden mental rant. How could I go from absolute awe and appreciation to feeling foolish for missing out on that discovery and like I didn’t have enough, when, literally seconds ago, I had felt that I had more than enough?

I reminded myself to appreciate the sunrise. If I’d had my head down looking for sand dollars, I would’ve missed that sunrise.

Gorgeous sunrise on Hilton Head Island, SC

There was a lesson here. But my brain was not ready to learn it. I needed sustenance.

I headed to the lobby coffee bar to treat myself to a latte and a pastry. I hadn’t had a pastry yet on this vacation, and I’d been eyeing the chocolate croissants all week. The line was typically long (especially with social distancing), but this morning, I was early enough that there was only one person in front of me — a tall, thin man wearing pressed khakis and a crisp blue-checked button-down shirt. The man stepped to the counter and produced some sort of hotel voucher, asking the cashier how much it was worth. “$30,” she said. The man placed his order. “I’ll take four chocolate muffins and four chocolate croissants.”

NO! My chocolate croissant! But I quickly assessed that all was not lost. There was one chocolate croissant left. But then, the man spoke again.

“I’ll take that last one, too.”

NOOOOOO. My flaky dreams were dashed. In the think of a thought, my estimation of him shifted from that of a well-dressed, perfectly nice man to one of a preppy, entitled ruiner of my joy. He had taken MY croissant. And what did he need 9 pastries for, anyway? He was a greedy monster who’d robbed me of the simple pleasure of a buttery, chocolatey croissant. I officially Hated Him, and I couldn’t wait until he was out of my sights.

And then I laughed, right there in the café line. Because of course he was going to take all of the chocolate croissants. Because this trip happened in 2020: the year of “just when you think you’re going to catch a break, 2020 says, ‘Actually…’”

It was even more obvious now that a lesson was desperate to teach itself to me, if I was going from perfectly happy one moment to perfectly crappy the next. I knew there was a lesson here. Don’t sweat the small stuff? There will always be sand-dollar yoinkers and chocolate-croissant hoarders, so enjoy the sunrise? I called my bestie, the only other human who I knew would be awake at this hour. This was her take:

Sand dollars and chocolate croissants are limited. Sometimes you’re lucky to get one, sometimes you’ll miss out. But as long as you wake up on this side of the dirt, there will always be a sunrise for you. Sure, the view of it and the majesty you experience is subject to change, but you know it’s always there. You always get one.

ABUNDANCE.

I felt a bit better after talking to her, but there was one part of her theory that I didn’t like: the consumerism. The “gimme gimme.” The “wanting.” I can tell that’s something I need to work on. But she has a damn good point all the same.

These days, there seem to be fewer and fewer certainties. So when you come across a certainty — like a sunrise — it can be your anchor. A constant. A North Star. Even if all the sand dollars get yoinked, and all the chocolate croissants get eaten by someone else, you have your sunrise. And that is enough, in the end.

Sunrise on Hilton Head Island, SC