stellar worry dolls

When I was in grade school, my grandmother gave me a collection of worry dolls. They were tiny little things, maybe half the length of my pinky finger, and it felt like they were made of sticks and strips of cloth. But each was distinct from the others who shared a small box, and I understood them to hold some kind of special magic.

I’d never heard of worry dolls before. I was told that I could take them out at bed time, and mutter a single trouble to each one before putting them back again. And that overnight, I guess, the worry dolls were supposed to solve the problems? As a child, I didn’t yet understand the power of simply turning something over so that my busy brain could take a break.

That was decades ago, and I have long since lost those worry dolls. I hope they landed in the hands of someone who is making constructive use of them. Instead, I now have the stars.

And I’ve been relying on them rather heavily, when I can catch sight of them through the clouds.

I’ve developed a habit of going outside by myself at night and talking to the sky. I greet the Moon, and the stars, planets, and constellations I recognize overhead. It might look odd from the outside, but this practice provides a meaningful way for me to process my day, name the hopes and anxieties that have been weighing on me, and release those cares to so many silent, twinkling sentinels before I go to bed.

Is there anything Sirius can do about the problems and concerns I’ve whispered in the dark? No. It takes roughly 8.7 years for that star’s light to reach me as I stand alone in the back yard. Any solution it might offer would come nearly a decade too late.

But I’m not looking for answers, or even inspiration, really — though it’s not uncommon for a quagmire I’d previously set aside to come suddenly untangled without warning. I get story ideas when I loiter in starlight. Disparate concepts sometimes draw together and start orbiting each other like a binary star. In the quiet, I remember household chores and administrative tasks that have fallen through the cracks.

More than that, I benefit from the perspective the night sky offers: that I am merely one of multiple billions of people on a single rocky planet orbiting an average star, which is one of hundreds of billions of stars in the Milky Galaxy, which is just one of perhaps trillions of galaxies in the universe. My problems are ultimately insignificant. Instead of making me feel small and lost, though, I find this reminder to be a true relief. It’s freeing.

So in addition to my nightly gratitude list, I have stellar worry dolls to help set my mind at ease. Do I feel silly telling my troubles to faraway, incandescent orbs of burning gas? That can happen. I keep my voice low so I’m not overheard. And I don’t expect a magical resolution. The stars aren’t listening, but I talk to them all the same.

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Image:
1. Hubble’s View of Dazzling Globular Star Cluster NGC 639, by NASA Hubble Space Telescope