Category Archives: inspiration

Practice Makes…?

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The old adage versus the new perspective…

We’ve all heard the old saying:

Practice makes perfect.

Here’s the thing, though.  “Perfect” is impossible for human beings.  Whether the pursuit is related to our health, profession, or artistic endeavors, perfection is an unrealistic goal.

I am primarily a musician, but I also enjoy several other creative pursuits including paper crafting, photography, and writing.  When I commit myself to a project, I want my efforts to be the best I can make them, realizing that my best is never going to be perfect.  Coming to grips with that is an ongoing process…and it is a change in paradigms.

So often we are goal-oriented, when perhaps it is better to be process-oriented.  Case in point: a student who crams at the semester’s end to receive an “A” on an exam, but forgets the information soon after the test is over. Process orientation is more focused on learning bit by bit, along the way, and letting the exam take care of itself when the time comes.  Information learned along the way tends to “stick” better.

I have begun to realize, and to share with others, an adjustment to the old adage:

Practice doesn’t make perfect.  Practice makes progress.

When I was young, I thought my life was going to be all about the destination; as I have gotten older, I realize it’s really about the journey…the process, and the progress.  As long as I am growing, moving forward, doing my best (whatever my best happens to be on a given day!), I am on the path that is meant for me.

That’s really the best I can ask for.

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(Pictured above, a recent creative project…in progress!)

Body, Mind, And Spirit

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It’s all connected…

First of all, I AM NOT A MEDICAL OR MENTAL HEALTH PROFESSIONAL.

I recently posted a question on social media regarding the connections among body, mind, and spirit.  The few responses I received were insightful, and in line with much of my own thinking, although from a different angle than I was originally considering.  I have always wanted this blog and its content to be positive and uplifting, but never at the expense of authenticity.  My thoughts on the interconnectedness of body, mind, and spirit were leaning in a different direction when I posed the query.

For months I have been dealing with some health issues in my body.  The tests I had in the fall revealed no major problems, only a diagnosis of IBS (irritable bowel syndrome).  I have followed doctor’s instructions in order to treat those symptoms, without much success.  But I’m doing what I can and, frankly, since I am still seeking a full-time job, I am not inclined to go spending a lot of money on more tests that won’t show anything wrong with me.  I am managing the best I can.

But as my body has started experiencing other symptoms in recent months, my mind and spirit have also taken a bit of a beating.  Scripture tells us that we are indeed “fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 139:14).  We are also told that, “A merry heart does good, like medicine, but a broken spirit dries the bones.”  (Proverbs 17:22). I understand that to mean that, among other things, all our systems are connected to one another.  One system cannot be impaired without others also being altered.

My family doctor and I have discussed this delicate balance more than once.  Ongoing physical pain can exacerbate problems like depression and anxiety, both of which I have dealt with for decades, as well as concentration and the ability to learn and retain information.  Conversely, ongoing depression and anxiety (or other mental health conditions such as bipolar disorder, obsessive/compulsive disorder, etc.) can manifest physically, increasing symptoms such as headaches, digestive disorders, appetite changes, sleep disturbances, and chronic pain in any or all parts of the body.  Spiritually, it can become difficult to pray, read and study scripture.  Sometimes a person can begin to question their faith in the God Who made them.

It’s all connected.

The question sometimes becomes like the “chicken/egg” riddle: Which came first?  It can be difficult to figure out.  Does one’s body hurt all over because they are depressed, or is one depressed because they hurt everywhere?

There are no simple answers.  It’s all connected.

The Bible shows us many examples of imperfect heroes of faith.  The prophets Elijah and Jeremiah appeared to suffer from depression (possibly situational, possibly clinical, or even both).  The Apostle Paul talked about his “thorn in the flesh”.  The Psalmist(s) sometimes despaired of life.  And poor Job…that guy suffered in every way imaginable.

I heard someone once say the following:

“I’ve heard it said that we are human beings having a spiritual experience; I submit to you that we are spiritual beings having a HUMAN experience.”

It’s ALL connected.

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Tides

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A week of extremes…

As I write this, I am in a northwest Florida condo with a gorgeous view of the Gulf of Mexico.  The temperature is 66 degrees, the sun is bright, and the surf is a bit more active today than the Gulf is most of the time.  Foamy whitecaps dot the surface of the blue-green water, and the sugary white sand is completely devoid of people.

Five days ago I was working at my current temporary assignment at the library and watching a postcard-pretty snow fall just beyond the reference desk windows.  Oak Ridge was whited out, but the streets and pavement were clear and safe, just wet.  It was every bit as beautiful as the setting I enjoy now; it was also about as opposite as one could imagine.

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It has been a week of extremes.  My #FirstEverWorkHusband Martin’s mother passed away on Halloween.  Fort Walton Beach was their home for many years, and Charlotte was a driving force behind the local Stage Crafters Theatre company, so it was decided that her memorial service would be held there.  Hence our trip to Florida in December.  Even though a month and a half has passed since she died, it is still a fresh grief for them, and the gathering of family and friends from decades gone by and miles away seems to have brought a fresh tide of emotion.

At least, it has for me.  I grieve the death of a woman I never met, but feel like I knew.  I grieve because my friend/person is grieving, and, as Truvy said in the film Steel Magnolias, “…no one cries alone in my presence.”  I grieve remembering my own Mama’s death, the anniversary of which was a week ago today.  December always brings a fresh tide of memories.

Since we had not seen each other since I visited him in February during #OperationTakeAMinute, Martin invited me to go with him to his dialysis session on Friday, so we could talk and visit away from the crowd of family and friends.  When I arrived to collect him, he presented me with one of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received…a pair of large, beautiful feathers he had found during the months since my last visit and had saved for me.

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We arrived at the clinic, did paperwork, got him connected and me gowned up, and, as much as possible, we enjoyed short periods of conversation mixed into wordless times of simple shared presence.  About halfway through treatment he began to have some chest pain and, long story short, we ended up taking an ambulance ride to the nearby hospital to have him checked out.  Fortunately, his heart is medically all right.  I am grateful.

While we were in the emergency department, a portable X-ray unit was brought in to examine him in his triage space…and a fresh tide of memory flooded over me as I relived a moment from when Mama was in the hospital and a portable X-ray unit was brought to her room to check her, a moment when she was not stable enough to transport to them, so they came to her.  It was my sweet husband’s one meltdown moment during the whole of Mama’s hospital stay.  A moment of his deep attachment to my Mama, and his mother-in-love.

It is an odd thing, how present grief can churn up past grief, like the foamy whitecaps of a turbulent surf.  The tides are constant, sometimes tranquil, sometimes violent.  But the ebb and flow never cease.

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That Baby I Held That Day

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And a memory of 9/11 I never wrote about…

Everyone remembers September 11, 2001.  Even after 18 years my recollections of the day can still bring tears to my eyes if I linger on them for more than a few minutes.  I have shared bits and pieces of how the day and night unfolded for me…but I have never written down part of the story.

I was working the primetime 4pm-1am shift at the local Fox TV station, and I had been up late the night before.  Jeff and I were still very much in mourning for Mom Cutshaw, who had died in June, but trying to resume business as usual, whatever that means after a parent has died. My cousin Alan rang my phone that morning telling me a plane had hit a building very close to where my brother, Reed, worked, and to get up and turn on my TV.

I did, and we all know what unfolded throughout the next hours.  More planes crashing, more death.  I called my boss, Tom, and told him about Reed, and he asked if I needed to stay home.  I said I’d keep him posted.  I and my family were fortunate; we only had to wait hours to hear that Reed had gotten out of the city and was safe, at least physically.  I know people who didn’t hear about their loved ones for days.

I reported for work, grateful and shaken, to sit behind my console and watch solid, unrelenting coverage of the tragedy…endless replays of the planes crashing, the buildings toppling, people jumping from buildings rather than be burned alive…and commentary from newspeople, pundits, analysts.  My friends and TV brothers that afternoon and night in addition to Tom were Larry and Dan.  I was so grateful for these “boys” who kept me company, gave me bathroom breaks and propped me up, as I hoped I was able to do for them.  We were all overwhelmed, sad, angry, and feeling kind of…lost, I guess.  Late in the afternoon, Dan’s sister came by for a quick visit.  And she brought her little 3-month-old son, Cameron.

Lord, how I do love to shnoogle me a little teeny one, what we in the South sometimes call an “arm baby”.  I asked Meriam if I could hold her little treasure and she obliged with kindness.  I held that sweet new life close to me, humming, with leaky eyes and silent prayers…Lord God, what kind of world is this child going to grow up in?  Protect him.  Protect us all.  Lord, I am so sad…

That baby brought healing to me, more than any words of comfort spoken by ministers, vows of justice sworn by our government officials, tributes offered by the rich and famous.  That baby was born just before Mom Cutshaw died…just before all those people murdered on 9/11 died.  Holding that little, sweet, innocent new life reminded me that life indeed goes on, and that God indeed cares, even when nothing in the world makes sense.

That baby is now 18 years old, old enough to drive a car, vote in elections, serve in our armed forces.  And while I have not seen him in the years since I held him that day, I have often prayed for him.  I have shared the story of how he blessed and comforted me on a day when all of us were left feeling so very lost.  I haven’t seen his Uncle Dan in many years, but I remember him in prayers, too, and their whole family.

I owe them at least that. I owe them a debt of gratitude.  Especially that baby I held that day.

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(The baby’s hand in this photo does not belong to Cameron, but to my great-nephew Forrest, from a chance I had to hold him when he was an “arm baby”.)

Catching Dreams

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Or even remembering what mine used to be…

Last year after returning from a vacation trip to Houston for our niece’s wedding, a friend at work asked me, “Didn’t I hear you say something once about collecting feathers?”  I responded that, yes, I indeed collect feathers.  He mumbled something and shuffled to his desk a few seats over from mine.

A moment later he returned with a gift that surprised and warmed me to my core—a Native American dreamcatcher.  I yelled, “Squeeeeeeee!” And hugged him so hard I think it startled him.  He explained that he donates to a mission/orphanage out west somewhere and they had sent him this beautiful dreamcatcher as an appreciation gift for his contributions.  He wanted me to have it.

I was floored, humbled, and touched by his thoughtfulness to share such a beautiful item with me.  This guy has always been a friend to me, but his exterior can be gruff.  He does not like people to get too close to him.  I have often described him as a “cactus with a marshmallow center”!

The legend of the dreamcatcher is that a person is supposed to hang it over their bed at night.  The woven web in the center catches the sleeper’s dreams, trapping the nightmares while allowing the sweet dreams to flow down the strands to the feathers below, allowing them into the mind of the sleeper.

I have always heard tell that my Mamaw’s Grandma Sayne was full-blooded Cherokee.  I have never been able to verify this, although with technology evolving all the time and so many records available online now, it might be possible to do so.  A first cousin I have never met in person reached out to me on social media hoping to learn more about our family, and he might be the person to unravel this branch of our family tree.  Even a tiny portion of Cherokee in my lineage would make sense of a lot of things about me, how I see my world, and the things I value.  Perhaps confirming such a family history would help me to remember the childlike dreams of my past…those days when I thought anything was possible.

As it is, I look at this sweet gift, a reminder of a friendship from a workplace Shinsky and I no longer share, but memories I will value for a lifetime.  I will pray that both of us will conjure and fulfill new, meaningful and happy dreams moving forward.  I will give thanks for his heritage and for mine, for years of shared work and a future that I cannot yet see.

Spin Cycle

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And I don’t mean laundry…

A little over a year ago was when I and many of my coworkers learned that our company was moving several departments away from our facility here.  We were not moving with them. Ample notice and generous severance softened the blow a little bit, but, for me, it also made it easier to live in denial for a longer period of time.

The last six months of work came and went, followed by my road trip, #OperationTakeAMinute.  That month on the road was unlike anything I had ever attempted before, especially traveling by myself.  It was a wonderful, soul-healing time spent visiting some family (blood and chosen) and a few intentional nights alone as well.

Upon my return I began the process of rebuilding my resume’ and searching for a job.  Thus began my experience with Temporary Employment.  My recruiter with the staffing agency has been wonderful to help me find leads.  I spent a couple of months at an assignment that I hoped would become permanent, but timing, circumstances, and internal changes with that company were not conducive to me remaining there.  So I waited for the next assignment while submitting applications and resumes everyplace interesting that I could find (and some less interesting places too!).  This past week I began a new assignment, with hopes for something permanent elsewhere.

After working for so long in one place, this new situation feels a lot like I’m living in the spin cycle.  I have often felt like a dirty garment, tossed into a dark place, drowned in soapy water, agitated and thrown around, eventually to be spun at dizzying speed to get most of the water out.  Then the whole thing starts all over again to rinse the soap—and the dirt—away,  It’s actually kind of a violent process!

BUT…this has to happen for the clothes to get clean.  Perhaps that is what this period of transition, instability and uncertainty is supposed to be doing for me.  Perhaps this process is cleansing me.  I sure hope so.  I hope this life stage is cleansing me to get me ready for the next opportunity, whether that opportunity is professional, spiritual, personal, or something else.

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This Little Light Of Mine

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Sometimes feels like it’s about to go out…

I remember when I was a little girl, learning the old song, “This Little Light Of Mine, I’m gonna let it shine”.  And like every other song I learned as a child, I sang it with my whole soul.  My light, like my voice,  was LOUD and PROUD.

These days it seems like there is such darkness in the world.  People are angry, disillusioned, sometimes even hateful.  Darkness of heart and soul feel oppressive.

I struggle with that darkness of heart sometimes.  I’m struggling with it as I write this.  As I said to someone recently, I know that happiness is a choice…but so is authenticity.  So I won’t lie and say that I am OK right now. I don’t feel OK.

BUT, in times like this, when my own light seems to be fading, I am reminded of the light cast into the world by other people…creative, loving, optimistic, funny, encouraging people.  I can borrow their light in order to strengthen my own.  My friends share so much of their light with me, it would be difficult for me to stay in the dark for too long.

And in my sincerest prayers, I would ask God to forgive me for my darkness, especially when I have exposed it to other people.  In the words of another old song, I want to “brighten the corner” where I am.  Lord, help me to reflect The Light Of The World to those around me, especially those who struggle with times of darkness.    Amen and Amen.

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