Category Archives: Uncategorized

Nov13

Old Scores

Posted on November 13, 2013 by 805diva

Musicians’ tools of the trade…

This past weekend was a musical extravaganza for me, very busy and extremely rewarding. Knoxville Choral Society and Chamber Chorale, accompanied by members of the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra, performed our annual Fall Concert on Saturday evening at the historic Bijou Theatre downtown, and presented an encore performance Sunday afternoon at the Community Church in Tellico Village. I was indeed blessed to take part in these concerts and to have been chosen as a soloist. I no longer take these blessings for granted because I know my days as a soloist are limited. I’m getting older every second, after all, and nothing lasts forever.

Between those performances I also had the communion solo for two church services. So it was a very busy weekend, and I will admit that by the time it was all finished, I was pretty worn out. Still, this kind of activity gives me much more than it takes out of me.

Part of the concert program was the Christmas portion of Handel’s “Messiah”, a familiar and beloved sacred choral and orchestral work, and a demanding one. My “Messiah” score is the one I have used for every performance I have ever done since college. It is 31 years old. I purchased it as a college freshman because my voice teacher wanted me to learn some of the soprano solos in it, and even though we did not perform “Messiah” that year, he knew I’d need the score for the next year (and for the rest of my life!). So he told me to go ahead and buy it. It may be the single most-used piece of music I own to this day.

Even when I have sung portions of the work with church choirs that used a different edition, I have always used my own score. It is old and worn, with some dog-eared page corners and rusty marks from paper clips of years gone by, like little scars on the page. It contains markings from the conductors I’ve worked with and from the voice teachers who have coached me, as well as my own unique system of symbols and notes to remind myself to watch, to straighten my tone, to shape a phrase or to raise my eyebrows so I don’t go flat. It’s a sort of shorthand developed over decades. I have my own language of markings, and every other musician I know has theirs as well. It’s as unique as a fingerprint, and just as personal.

As I have asserted before, I am a collector, of objects and of memories, and I am sentimental about all of them. My “Messiah” score is much more to me than a piece of music. It is Scripture set to music, the story of Jesus in types and shadows, and as substance and promise fulfilled. It is also a sort of scrapbook, a memory album of the many times I have raised my voice to offer the gift God gave me back to Him, alone as a soloist and with a chorus of other musicians. So much more than words and notes on paper, my ‘Messiah” score is a trusted friend, filled with my memories of musical offerings past and dreams of the ones yet to come.

Nov7

Falling

Posted on November 7, 2013 by 805diva

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Why this is a hard time of the year…

I awoke to gentle rain this morning and would have loved to stay in bed, cocooned in sleepy warmth. But there is work to be done and a living to be made, so I reluctantly dragged myself from my cozy bed and got my day started with the regular routine of vitamins, bath, makeup/hair and getting dressed and out the door. Our Boy Roy is a morning dog, so as usual he got up when I did and kept me company as I went about my morning.

The rain intensified as I drove to work and as the rain fell, so, it seemed, did the remaining leaves on the trees. It’s always a little sad when the last of the leaves drift to the ground, especially when a rain seems to beat them down prematurely. But it is November, and the leaves can’t hold on forever. The rhythm of the seasons is unstoppable, and as fall deepens and winter approaches, the last of the leaves must inevitably let go.

This time of year brings memories of Mama in the hospital and a different letting-go process, as she began to release her earthly life and turn toward her Heavenly one. From her hospital window we could see the shifting seasons as the vibrant autumn leaves fell softly from the trees outside, whipped by wind sometimes, or battered by rain. Inside her room the only color seemed to be pale…pale walls, pale sheets, Mama’s pale face. Her whole life she had been so vibrant, until sickness drained all the color out of her.

So it is with the death of the leaves in the fall, and with Mama’s dying process that I always seem to re-live at this time of year. I like to imagine that Heaven is filled with all the beauty of all the seasons, all at once. We can witness the majesty of snow without being cold, the rich reds and golds of fall, and spring and summer’s lavenders, pinks and greens will be more saturated than we can begin to imagine here, with no harsh winds or battering rains. Our loved ones’ faces will be rosy and glowing with perfect health and wholeness, and the Sun of Righteousness will shine His radiant light throughout Heaven’s kingdom.

Nov1

Piercing Memories

Posted on November 1, 2013 by 805diva

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Style, substance and sentiment…

Aunt Ruby pierced my ears the first time when I was 7 or 8 years old. I don’t remember exactly when she did it, but I remember the setting vividly. I sat at the end of the kitchen table in the house on Arnold Street. She rubbed my earlobes with alcohol while Mama looked on, probably expecting me to change my mind at the last minute. After each earlobe was sterilized, Aunt Ruby took a blue ballpoint Bic Stic pen and marked a spot on one ear and then the other, making sure they were straight and even. After this, she sterilized her sewing machine needle with alcohol and poked holes in my lobes as quickly as possible, (she never bothered with trying to numb them using ice cubes) inserting a pair of her own 14-karat gold stud earrings as my starter pair. She had cleaned them with alcohol as well, and instructed me to twist the posts around several times a day and to dab more alcohol around them daily to avoid infection while they healed. I was not to remove or change earrings for 6 weeks, again, to minimize the risk of infection.

I remember that it hurt a little, but it was not too bad, and there was only a tiny little bit of blood. Most of the shots I’ve had in doctors’ offices have hurt worse than getting my ears pierced. I couldn’t wait for my Daddy to come home from work so I could show him my newly pierced ears. I felt very grown-up and sophisticated, like I had taken a step toward adult ladyhood.

Mama always joked that her body would reject anything that was not at least 14-karat gold, and she always wore good earrings because her ears were sensitive. And she insisted on my wearing good earrings as well to avoid irritation and infection. She began to build me a small but good quality jewelry collection and taught me how to appreciate and care for good earrings, rings and necklaces. Once I got older and realized that my ears were less sensitive than hers were, I ventured into the world of fashion or “costume” jewelry. I’ve even been known to wear colorful thumb tacks in my ears if they matched an outfit!

When I left for my freshman year of college, I received 2 pairs of earrings as gifts. From Dad I received a pair of gold ball studs to go with the add-a-bead necklace Mama had been adding to for me (they were all the rage at the time). And my brother, Reed, gave me a pair of small, beautiful pearl stud earrings almost exactly like the ones of Mama’s that I had borrowed so many times for dressy occasions.

Summer after my junior year of college I had Aunt Ruby pierce my ears a second time. I was engaged and my sweet husband-to-be had given me 2 pairs of earrings while we were dating, and I knew I wanted to wear both pairs on our wedding day. Once again, I sat at the end of Aunt Ruby’s kitchen table with alcohol, Bic Stic pen, and sewing machine needle at the ready, the accoutrements of the familiar ritual of piercing and bonding. Again there was a sting and a bit of blood, and the familiar instructions for keeping my new piercings infection-free. This was June of 1985. I remember the date because a friend from school got married the next week and she noticed my new piercings at the reception.

Flash forward 20 years to 2005. It was October and the weather was cooling off. Aunt Ruby was 80 years old at this point and her eyesight was failing. I’d been wanting one last piercing in my left ear for quite a while and I figured I’d better go ahead and have her do it before she got to the point that she couldn’t anymore. This last ritual did not take place at the kitchen table on Arnold Street. Aunt Elaine’s husband was dying with cancer, and Aunt Ruby was staying with them for comfort and moral support. So my last piercing happened in Aunt Elaine’s bathroom. It was, I am positive, Aunt Ruby’s last piercing as well. She didn’t have the hand strength she had enjoyed when she was younger, and she had a little more trouble getting the sewing machine needle through my earlobe. Again, a little sting and a bit of blood, piercing and bonding.

I am very sentimental about my piercings because of the stories behind them. Aunt Ruby pierced countless ears of family members and neighborhood girls (and the occasional boy). Each earring has a story as well. Some were Mama’s, some gifts from The Aunts, some from Jeff, my sweet husband.

And you might ask, why 5 piercings and not 6? It’s a good question. The best answer is that I’ve always felt a little bit askew, like nothing about me really “matched”. The 5th piercing reminds me that it’s OK to be a little off-center, a little quirky. Aunt Ruby loved me, quirkiness and all.

Oct21

Beauty, Truth And Goodness

Posted on October 21, 2013 by 805diva

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Thinking upon these things…

This weekend was Homecoming on the campus of my alma mater, Carson-Newman University (although it was still Carson-Newman College when I graduated), an event which I always anticipate with excitement and joy. This particular weekend was unique in that on Friday, current and alumni members of A Cappella Choir gathered in the sanctuary of First Baptist on the corner of campus to rehearse and record a Christmas CD. Approximately 180 singers assembled, graduates from the 1950’s all the way up to last year, as well as current student members of the choir. This event was held in honor of Dr. Eric Thorson (“Doc”) and his 30th anniversary directing A Cappella Choir.

I looked forward to this for months, imagining the fun of seeing old friends and sharing memories and fellowship, as well as the chance to make music with them and a number of my current crop of Delta Omicron students for whom I serve as Chapter Mother. I knew it would be a special time together. In my head I knew this…but I had no idea how glorious the experience would actually be. I am still overwhelmed and processing all of it as I write and share here.

We began the day with a welcome and some announcements from Doc, and for our sound check we sang the college hymn, “God of Beauty, Truth and Goodness”, a beautiful hymn commissioned for the 150th anniversary of the college. My ears and heart were filled with the sound of all of us lifting voices to one another and to the God we honored with our hymn. And tears began to flow as I remembered so many wonderful times in the choir when I was a student.

My years in A Cappella happened on the cusp of a changing era. Prior to Doc’s tenure with the choir, A Cappella was directed and led by Charles Harrison Jones, affectionately known by decades of students as “Fessor”. This man was a legend and lots of my peers were so intimidated by his reputation that they would not even audition for him. I guess I didn’t have sense enough to be scared, because as a freshman I auditioned and was accepted into A Cappella in the fall of 1982, my first semester of college. In the second semester I was accepted into a select group from choir known as “Renaissance”, which sang featured selections as we toured during spring break. Fessor could be intense at times, and he was a big personality with a conducting style as unique as his DNA. I remember how he used to go down the row and have people sing phrases individually, sort of like a vocal pop quiz. One day he did this with the sopranos, and when he got to me, I sang my phrase and he pointed and me and shouted “GOOD!” And I shouted back just as loudly, “THANK YOU!” Someone told me later on that they couldn’t believe “a freshman had the nerve to do that!” It was just me being me, even way back then. And Fessor appreciated that. My freshman year was his last year directing A Cappella, and I have always been so proud to have sung in Fessor’s last A Cappella Choir. After he retired and I had graduated, he was directing another choir and he graciously hired me as a soloist for a couple of concerts, which were my very first paying gigs as a singer. He referred me to another director who hired me for more work. Fessor demanded musical excellence and valued work ethic and character. He was a gifted musician, and one of the humblest people I ever met.

My sophomore year was when Doc took the reins of A Cappella upon Fessor’s retirement. Doc also had the “joy” of being my academic advisor for my college years. I have always said that he did a tour of duty getting me out of school on time and deserved combat pay and a medal for doing so! In his own humble way, he always chuckles and says it was no big deal. HIs conducting style was, and is, very different from Fessor’s, and there was a period of adjustment as he began his tenure with the choir. As different as their personalities and conducting styles were, they shared a passionate commitment to excellence in musicianship and a self-effacing humility. I consider myself doubly blessed to have sung in Fessor’s last A Cappella Choir and Doc’s first one. Now I sing with Doc as he conducts Knoxville Choral Society and Chamber Chorale, and it is a joy to have the opportunity to continue my musical journey in this way.

On Friday as we sang the college hymn for sound check, the voices of generations of alumni and current students washed over me in a wave of emotion. I felt a surge in both my soul and body and almost came completely undone by the magnitude of it all. And I distinctly felt the presence of our beloved Fessor, who passed away several years ago at age 92. He was with us in that room. And I believe that both he and the Lord were pleased by our efforts as we sang and recorded our Christmas offering, adding “The Benediction” at the end. I had the best seat in the house, on the front row between 2 of my very talented Delta Omicron students with a row of my peers from the 1980’s right behind us. Past and present folded around me like a warm hug.

“The Lord Bless You and Keep You” by Peter C. Lutkin has been A Cappella’s closing benediction for decades, even since before Fessor’s time with the choir. It is as sacred to us as scripture, which, in fact, it is. The words are taken from Numbers 6: 24-26. It binds us to one another, to members past, present and future. We hold hands as we sing it, a tradition that I believe my peers in the 1980’s started, although I could be mistaken about that. We never use music. We don’t need it. The singing of it evokes memories of tours, concerts, musical and spiritual moments shared, friendships forged, lessons learned and, I believe, a foretaste of what Heaven must sound like.

Beauty, truth and goodness indeed.

Oct17

Steppin’ In It

Posted on October 17, 2013 by 805diva

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Because life is short

Sometimes walking along the path of life, I step in it. You know the “it” I mean…the metaphorical pile of poop that stinks up my shoes and makes a bit of a mess. The only way to avoid steppin’ in it is never to take a step at all.

Before Mama died, I was much more insecure about reaching out to people who might reject me. I was afraid of getting hurt and looking foolish. Mama’s death changed my perspective about many things, including risk. In the 18 months following her death, 5 of my co-workers experienced the death of a parent. In each case I had a choice, either to risk reaching out in compassion or to stay inside myself and my own grief. And in each case I opted to reach out…to take the risk of opening myself to another hurting person. And I never regretted it.

Right now I have several friends who are dealing with illness and grief in their lives, and since their lives touch mine, I am touched by their suffering. My heart hurts for all of our feelings of helplessness and lack of control over circumstances. Self-preservation nudges me to isolate myself from their suffering in an effort to minimize my own.

But my heart of hearts urges me to step into their pain, to lean into human frailty and to try to shore up those around me who suffer. As I walk alongside, my shoes may become soiled with their blood, sweat and tears, and my arms may ache from trying to help carry their load. But it’s the only way I know to live.

My life is constantly teaching me lessons about how fragile we humans are, how fast time passes and how important it is not to leave things undone. I do not want to die regretting the thing I DIDN’T do or say. Sometimes saying what needs to be said or doing what needs to be done means steppin’ in it…and if that’s the case, then so be it.

Jesus knows the path we walk, including through the valley of the shadow of death. He knows what we step in. He washed the disciples’ feet, after all. I like to imagine a welcome mat at the pearly gates where we can shake off all that we’ve stepped in here as we prepare to enter Heaven.

Sep25

His Eye Is On The Sparrow

Posted on September 25, 2013 by 805diva

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Why I collect feathers…

Yesterday I took the dog to the vet for a quick checkup, and as we were leaving, I spotted a beautiful, large bird feather on one of the shrubs outside the office. With great joy I said, “Look, Roy! It’s another feather for Mama!” I am a collector, of objects and of memories. I don’t remember exactly how my feather collection began, or even when, except that it was several years ago. And it is not as though I have an organized system for keeping and viewing them, or for documenting when I found each one. I tend mostly just to stick them in books or my Bible (along with the occasional pressed flower or leaf), although I have included a few in art projects and used some to make bookmarks. Someday when I am long gone, others will inherit my books and find my collected feathers inside as a little surprise. I hope they will get a smile from them.

I know that these feathers come from birds, but I still like to imagine that they are dropped from the wings of some guardian angel that God has placed along my path. A childlike notion, but a comforting one just the same. God knows we all have moments when we need comfort, and I believe He sends us comforts that speak to us where we are, in a language we can understand.

In telling his followers not to worry about the future or things they could not control, Jesus explained that God has numbered the very hairs on our heads, and not even a sparrow falls to the ground without The Father’s knowledge. And He values us much more than many sparrows.

An old gospel hymn simply and sweetly reminds me of this promise, and I can’t remember whether I learned the song or the Bible passage first. Both of them seem ingrained in my consciousness since before I can remember. The chorus of the hymn explains my life, testimony and reason for singing better than anything I could have written myself:

“I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free, For His eye is on the sparrow and I know He watches me.”

Indeed, nothing in my life is beyond His watchful, loving care. He sees when I am hurting, or joyful or at loose ends. He sees my frustration and fear. And sometimes, He places a feather in my path to remind me that He is looking out for me.

Sep17

The Eye Of The Beholder

Posted on September 17, 2013 by 805diva

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What IS beauty, anyway?

We live in a world that is both beautiful and hideous. We live in a society that is focused on selling us the idea that we can be “beautiful” if we will simply purchase and use certain products, starve our bodies into becoming a specific size and/or shape, and hide anything about ourselves that could possibly be perceived as a defect or an imperfection. To me, these impossible standards of beauty are part of why our world is hideous.

Perfection is impossible…and if it were possible, it would be boring! The iconic supermodel Cindy Crawford once told about a conversation she had with her mother in the very early days of her modeling journey about whether or not to remove her famous mole. Her mother offered the insight that the mole made her face unique and memorable, and if she removed this unusual feature, all that would be left would be a scar.

How many of us, in our efforts to fit into some arbitrary definition of beauty, have at some point or other, obliterated the very characteristics that make us identifiable and unique? I am all in favor of beauty measures that help us to feel better about ourselves, that enhance the qualities and features that we like in both face and figure, and especially those that make us healthy and strong. But I think the days of torturing ourselves and fighting against our looks need to be over.

God made us in His Image. He made us beautiful. At the end of His creative work, He declared all of it, including and especially humankind, very good. Who are we to say otherwise?

Sep12

To Every Thing…

Posted on September 12, 2013 by 805diva

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…there is a season

I am beginning to feel the welcome approach of fall. For the past few weeks I have been detecting little glimpses of seasonal change in the world around me and, after a wet, muggy summer, I am more than ready to greet autumn with open arms. My dogwood tree is always the first harbinger of the coming shift, with its shiny berries looking like the red-hot cinnamon candies that Aunt Mary used to enjoy putting into her hot tea. After the berries burst forth, the leaves begin their gradual change from brilliant green to the warm rusty orange and golden brown I so enjoy seeing. Each day the sun’s touch on the leaves paints on more color.

As lovely as the changing dogwoods are, my favorite trees to watch this time of year are the maples. Several different varieties of maple grow around here, and they turn the most spectacular colors, from lemon yellow and tangerine orange to vibrant reds and rich shades of burgundy. I remember one year when we were living in Florida, my sweet husband and I came back to the Knoxville area in October for a visit, and the leaves were so vivid that everyplace looked like a postcard. It was the most wonderful welcome home I could have asked for, and a more lovely fall than I had seen in many years.

Of course, the beauty of nature was only part of the sweetness of that visit home. Jeff and I took a picnic in the mountains with Mom and Pop Cutshaw, stopping by a little stream to have our lunch. At one point I noticed that Pop was wandering off by himself and I started off after him, until Jeff told me that he was probably looking for a place to pee! Such a funny memory now. We did a little shopping that day and I bought a handmade basket to take back to our little home in Florida to decorate our apartment, reminding me of home and that wonderful visit. I still have it more than 25 years later. We took lots of pictures that trip and the colors were incredible that year.

This time of year holds lots of happy memories for me. There are the reflections of falls gone by when I was a college student, walking the rolling hills of the campus, feeling the first hints of autumn’s chill on my way to class, breaking out my favorite sweaters and hanging pictures on our dorm room wall. There have been Homecomings where I have been united once more with friends and professors from my school days. I love the change in the air and on the trees this time of year. And I love the gentle rhythm of the seasons, the reminder that God indeed has the whole world in His hands, and as long as there are summer and winter, seed time and harvest, His hands are where the world will stay.

Aug27

Hands That Loved Me

Posted on August 27, 2013 by 805diva

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Healing tears and comforting touches

This time 2 weeks ago we had just said goodbye to Aunt Ruby after spending the day at her bedside, keeping vigil and waiting for her to make her trip to Heaven. It seems both like a lifetime ago and like it just happened.

I cried little cries several times during that day, as we all did. And I cried when she left to go Home, as we all did. But I have not yet really broken down and had the big cry, the ugly one.

This is unlike me, and it feels like something is wrong. I realize that every loss has its own unique set of circumstances, and that grief follows no specific, or even logical, timetable. Having lost many loved ones in my life, having volunteered with hospice for several years and having completed a ministry course which put me face to face with people experiencing their own losses, my mind knows that I will process my feelings in their own good time.

I just feel…half-dead. I remember the events of the day clearly and vividly, the faces of my family as we all communed together in that sacred space, waiting and watching. I remember all of it. But my feelings have been feeling flat.

This loss hits me in a new place, as each new loss does. But this new place feels foreign, strange and unfamiliar in a way I can’t quite describe. I may need some help to sort this out, in the form of counseling or a major sabbatical from some of my volunteer activities…or both. Or something else. Or all of the above.

Of course, after Mama, (and sometimes even before Mama) the person I would talk to about this kind of thing would have been Aunt Ruby. Aunt Ruby told me when I was younger that it was OK to cry, and to just let my tears roll. She was the only person in my life who ever gave me this permission, and it was priceless. What I would give now to be able to sit at her feet, my head in her lap, and have her comfort me. I can feel her stroking my hair and hear her soothing voice telling me that it will be OK, that God gave us tears for a reason, that crying helps us to heal…to just let my tears roll.

And so they roll now. I didn’t start this post thinking that it would help the crying process to begin, but I am grateful that it has. I can feel Aunt Ruby with me as I sit here, telling me that it’s OK to let go, it’s OK to cry…and that I need to if I am ever going to heal. I don’t know if I will ever meet another person with her wisdom or her serenity, and I am going to miss being able to sit in her presence and enjoy those moments.

She possessed an enormous heart, a mind that never stopped wanting to learn, and eyes that always saw something worthwhile in me no matter what anyone else saw. And her hands sewed warmth and care into every piece of clothing and every quilt she ever touched, baked nourishment into every biscuit she ever served, and canned future provision and generosity into more green beans and tomatoes than anyone could begin to count. She soothed my tears and fears with those hands. Precious hands…hands that loved me.

	bednarzterry on Interview
	Caitlin Daniels on Angels Among Us
	Ann Rita on From The Twelfth Floor
	805diva on The Broken Year
	Ann Rita on The Broken Year

patchworkandpotpourri

Pieces of Life

Category Archives: Uncategorized

Old Scores

Falling

Piercing Memories

Beauty, Truth And Goodness

Steppin’ In It

His Eye Is On The Sparrow

The Eye Of The Beholder

To Every Thing…

Hands That Loved Me