I am having trouble sitting down and writing about Cindy. I don’t know where to start, as the loss of her continues to deepen in layers. Her mortal remains were laid to rest today in a peaceful forest in Maryland.

As that was happening there, I was looking through notes and photos to compile a post. I ran across this dream I had just a year ago, which I shared with her at the time. I almost didn’t, but then I read it to her over the phone. She laughed her musical laugh, and said, “I wonder what that’s all about.” I felt like I knew, and was surprised that she didn’t.

We have been at an apartment, mine I think or yours, and left, and have forgotten a key, or have extra keys, one of us goes back for something.

We sit on a bench outside the Home like mischievous children, giggling.

We are suddenly somewhere else, on Independence Avenue downtown, mystified; strange things around us.

Then we are back on the bench, wondering what just happened, marveling at the oddness. Then we find ourselves somewhere like Tuscany, and begin to understand that we are experiencing some miraculous journey.

We are in the National Cathedral—is it on Independence Avenue?—among the stones and stained glass; and then we are somewhere different. Your Angel appears. He is a tall and burly, gentle man, with grey hair, wearing comfortable grey clothing.

Then we are on a curved balcony in a modern metal building, and a slender young Spanish man climbs the stairs to join us. I worry he’s an intruder but it turns out that he is my Guide. Your Angel is in charge; my Guide assists. We are standing on a sidewalk on a village street, dry and yellow.

All along you and I have been entirely together in this journey, sharing our wonder with looks and touches, inquiring. You turn into a medium-sized grey speckled dog, with the kind of big head that I love. I hug you close. You turn into a bird.

You are golden-feathered, in size and shape like a small pheasant. You fly up into my arms. Your Angel gathers us all, my Guide and I and you and the dog and the bird, into a mutual hug, and we are off.

We arrive at the opening of an underground temple. I must crawl through the gold-bricked opening alone, carrying you the golden bird. I come to stand in a round, ornate room, filled with soft golden light, glittering with small mirrors, jewels, and myriad beautiful symbols in all colors of all traditions. 

A gentle goddess, lady of light, instructs me. Of all these small wonders, I must choose the one which is you, and bring it out into the day.

Cindy and I went to high school together. She was the kind of girl people would gawk at and forget what to say. Or at least I did. She was beautiful, kind, smart, and a tier or two above me in the social hierarchy. She was Homecoming Queen, assistant editor on the yearbook, and voted “Best All-Around Girl” in Senior Superlatives: I worked on the other side of the school as editor of the newspaper, and was voted “Most Intelligent.” We didn’t know each other well, but enjoyed a cordial, mutual respect, and both loved our AP English class.

We went our separate ways after high school, and the only thought I occasionally gave her was one of ironic envy. Her family had gotten the Australian exchange student Bronwyn instead of my family, because my brother had been a butt to the teacher in charge a couple of years previously. My mother and Bronwyn had a special relationship, and she took comfort in our home when her first placement wasn’t working out. I located Cindy again in 2010 after tracking down Bronwyn, once the internet made that kind of inquiry possible. Remember when it wasn’t? Sadly, we lost track of our friend down under, but we had found each other.

When I visited my father in his dementia for what turned out to be the last time, Cindy drove an hour to spend an hour with me. The memory remains vivid: It was a perfect October day in Northern Virginia, clear blue sky with a few clouds, ambient temperature just right for light sweaters, geese on the lake at the Home where the Colonel lived. Cindy and I strolled three times around the lake, to the delight of my dogs; ideas, experiences, and aspirations flew unrestrained between us, and by the time she had to leave, our common ground had become the solid foundation for a relationship in which she became so much more than a friend: a teacher, mentor, healer, employer, and collaborator. 

The next fall, she invited herself to come do a (more or less) silent meditation retreat at my house. We spoke only a little at lunchtime, and from dinner into the evening. I did whatever during the day, and prepared meals for us, while she moved about the yard and through the woods stopping to meditate wherever she found a good spot. I walked her (in silence) down to the canyon the first time, and left her there. An hour later while I was washing dishes, she walked in and held up her phone to show me a picture: a large and perfect bear track in fresh mud. Without a word I dried my hands, and followed her back into the woods where it took her a minute to locate the track in a draw a way off from the designated trail. A moment of awed – and silent – delight. At our next meal we talked about it, how she had ended up off the trail, how she had found her way back, the thrill of wild unknowing when she saw the track, and how her heart beat all the way home.

One thing led to another. She enjoyed her retreat so much that she suggested, “This would be a great place for teachers to come for retreat!” And so she returned annually for several years, and each time our dream came closer to fruition. We offered our first retreat in summer of 2019, and planned on four more the following summer. But then came Covid lockdown, and we knew it wouldn’t happen that summer. A few months later she was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma. As her obituary says:

“Those closest to Cynthia had the privilege of witnessing her graceful cancer journey, which she viewed not as a battle, but as an opportunity to live well and with full acceptance. Handed a diagnosis of a rare, Stage IV Cholangiocarcinoma with a dismal prognosis, she maintained an incredible perspective of acceptance of each stage, and deliberately chose optimism, peace, and perseverance. Upon diagnosis, she dove into research, becoming an expert and active participant in her treatment. She participated in clinical trials and tried new and non-standard treatments with success. She ate well, invited in spiritual guidance, and stayed present in whatever was happening in her body at any given time. Most importantly, she continued to live and love well throughout the past four years, spending treasured time with [her daughter], as well as close friends. She laughed a lot, pursued the work that she loved, and continued to teach and see clients, far outliving the initial prognosis.”

After a sudden decline, she slipped gracefully from her body on June 13, 2024, in the presence of beloved family and friends. She continued to teach us even in her dying, her death, and her after-death choices. In the Buddhist tradition, her body rested at home for three days where her life was honored and her spirit loved. She gave us all a sacred and intimate opportunity for goodbyes, and opted to surrender her corpse to aquamation rather than cremation, currently one of the most planet-friendly choices.

What I’ve written doesn’t scratch the surface of who this remarkable woman was in life and the legacy she leaves. Her profound influence on my life is as immeasurable as her kindness and compassion. Cindy believed, “We are all here to love as well as we can…each other, all beings on the earth, the earth itself. We are here to evolve so that the barriers to loving fall away, so throughout our lives we love more boldly, with more clarity, with a deeper knowing that we are all one.”

She laughed when I referred in one of our early discussions to “my cold, black heart.” I cannot imagine who I might be or what purpose my life would have now, had she not come back into it when she did, with her boundless and unconditional love, her inspiration and enthusiasm. Above all, she believed in me: in my innate goodness and in my capacity to thaw and open what she perceived as “your tender, broken heart.” My gratitude for Cindy is as boundless as her love. I am only beginning to comprehend the magnitude of her absence; even though her presence will live on in the work and lives of hundreds of students around the world, and in the hearts of all who had the good fortune to love and be loved by her.