Tag Archives: friendship

My 2020 Vision

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And so many interpretations of that idea…

I am running out of time.

We all are.

Not to sound nihilistic, but it is a fact.  When a person is born, the meter starts running.  We are given a finite, and unknown to us, number of years/days/seconds in which we are to fulfill our life’s purpose.  Some of us never even determine what that purpose is, much less fulfill it.

I remember when we perched on the cusp of THE YEAR 2000, and Y2K Fever was rampant.  Doomsayers warned us that computer systems would fail, grinding the economy to a violent, albeit temporary, halt.  End-time prophets advised us all to lay in extra supplies of food, water, medicines, and cash, to protect us from the coming mini-apocalypse that the start of The New Millennium would bring.  All that the paranoid pundits feared amounted to a lot of nothing.  I am grateful that the predicted collapse didn’t happen.

That was 20 years ago!  Now we perch on the eve of another year that has a zero on the end of it, and I’ve been thinking about the phrase “20/20 vision”.  Medically, the term refers to perfect eyesight.  I have not enjoyed decent eyesight without correction since I was 9 years old and began wearing glasses.

But I have also been thinking about my vision for the coming year…MY 2020 Vision.  I won’t lie; I have no idea what may be coming.  I know that I should be doing all the things: I need a full-time job, in the most urgent way imaginable, and I need to be looking much harder to find one; I should be writing every single day; I should be seeking out the best books and reading them constantly; I should be exercising my body and my voice daily as well to condition them and keep them supple; I should be intentional in keeping my relationships strong, expressing appreciation for every person who inhabits my family/circle/village/tribe.  And all the things seem to require way more energy than I have.  Every day I know I’m running out of time.

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This time last year my emotions were mixed as I anticipated the end of a job I had held for almost 18 years.  I felt uncertain, but also hopeful, looking forward to a road trip that I christened #OperationTakeAMinute.  I enjoyed that trip, but looking back now, part of me feels like it was a waste of time and resources.  I lost a month of time with my precious dog, #OurBoyRoy, and my husband.  (The photo below is from last New Year’s Eve.  We had to let #OurBoyRoy go to Heaven in July.)

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I spent money I should have saved.  It was an indulgence that felt necessary at the time; now I wonder if it was the right thing to do after all.

Hence I recall another adage about vision and sight:

Hindsight is always 20/20.

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And I’m running out of time.

#My2020Vision

 

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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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.

Preparation, Packing Up Patsy, And A Pause

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Fixin’ to get started…

In my last post here I began to describe my post-work road trip adventure which I named #OperationTakeAMinute.  Getting to the nuts and bolts of actually leaving took a little more time and preparation than I had originally planned, but trips often start with a hitch or two.  So mostly I was able to roll with the unforeseen events as they unfolded.

My first task was to empty Patsy, my car, completely.  I had carried so much stuff back and forth to work for so long that it was imperative that I remove everything and start with a clean slate for packing.  So I took an afternoon and a couple of storage bins, and set about loading the bins and hauling them into the house.  After this I washed and vacuumed Patsy and got her looking and feeling pretty spiffy.  No longer could she be described as The HoarderMobile…at least, for now!

Usually when we take trips, we drive my husband Jeff’s car, which is always less cluttered than my own.  As a result, packing up the car is usually an easy and well-organized task.  My trip, by myself, in my car, was a bit different.  First of all, I needed to get Patsy serviced, including addressing a safety recall on her front passenger airbag.  No big deal, I reasoned, and it was important for her to be safe and road ready.  The dealership that had to replace the airbag, however, neglected to inform me that this would be at least a twenty-four hour turnaround, which meant not only a delay in packing, but that I would also have to drive a LOANER.  For the record, it makes me twitchy and anxious to drive any car other than my own, including my sweet husband’s.  I am sure it’s a control issue on my part.  Deep breaths…still plenty of time to pack.

A pause in the process happened the night before I was to hit the road, and a somber reminder of how short life is, and how important the people are who make up our circles.  The Sunday before road trip time, I received a call from a college friend and classmate named Kim, asking if I could sing for her husband’s memorial service on Thursday evening.  Her husband, Dave, was also a friend and classmate from school, and to learn of his passing was a shock for all of us.  Kim asked another of our schoolmates, Keith, to preach the service, which turned into a mini-reunion, bringing smiles, hugs, tears, memories and gratitude for Dave’s life, talent and legacy.  At the conclusion of the service I drove home knowing that packing up the car was not a priority for the rest of the night.  I would load up in the morning.  And I did, and that was fine.

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Friday morning came and I was literally throwing stuff into my suitcase (and overnight bag and plastic bags from Walgreens) and into the car.  This is NOT how I typically prepare for a trip!  But I felt reasonably sure I had everything I needed, even if I was not precisely sure where it all was.  I had time to reorganize while I was on the road and if I truly needed something I didn’t pack, I could buy it.  So after a quick visit with my cousins Alan and Susan, their daughter Katelyn, and HER brand new daughter Breann, I was ready to hit the road for real.  #OperationTakeAMinute was off and running on Friday, February 8, 2019…and so was I.

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#OperationTakeAMinute

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The purpose and the planning

After seventeen and a half years working for the same company, my employment ended officially on Friday, February 1, 2019, but my last actual work day on-site was Saturday, January 26.  It was a strange, emotional day, one I had known was coming for six months, when notice was given to me and my department-mates that our jobs would be coming to a conclusion.  Walking out the door that last time, leaving my ID badge on my manager’s desk, felt a bit like I was leaving a piece of myself behind.

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I knew that, after working for so long in one place with a team of people I had come to love like family in many cases, I would need some time to recover after it was over.  That is how #OperationTakeAMinute was born.

My friend and #FirstEverWorkHusband, Martin, was the first person to suggest a road trip.  I had never even considered such a thing.  I am not the person who does any of the driving when Sweet Pea and I take vacations.  For years I couldn’t even stay awake when we traveled by car.  But after thinking about it, talking to my sweet husband, and getting ideas from some friends, I began to think that a road trip would be a great chance to clear my head and get some rest.  Truth told, the last six months had left me feeling much more beaten-up than even I realized, and the despair had taken hold more strongly than I wanted to admit.

If this thing was going to do me any good at all, I reasoned, I would need to do some of the things I never had time to do because I was always rushing to get back to work.  Well, rushing back to work was not really an issue at this point.  So I talked to my “choir boss” at church and asked for a little time off from singing responsibilities there, and he was most gracious and accommodating.  We sat down with a calendar and determined when would be a good window for me to be gone.  Then my planning began in earnest.

I started deciding my route and stops, who I wanted to visit, places I might like to see and photograph along the way.  The more the path and its timeline took shape, the more excited I became.  A forward momentum was happening that I had been missing for a long time, and I was starting to feel…hopeful.

In the television industry, time is truly of the essence.  Not just hours and minutes, but seconds—and every second is divided into 30 frames of video.  Since 1994 when I began my first television job in master control, time has dictated much of my existence.  It seemed only fitting to name my road trip adventure #OperationTakeAMinute.  A minute, to catch my breath, recover, and prepare for the next chapter of my professional—and personal—life.

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Little Things

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…mean a LOT…

For most of us, it really doesn’t take a lot to bring a smile, a laugh or a moment of warmth.  A small gesture can yield large dividends in terms of improving morale or offering someone a boost.  If you are like me, those little things are memorable.

When I see someone leaving work to go get lunch, I’ll often joke, “Bring me back a cookie!”  One day my friend Jason did!  Happy making.

 

After I wrote a blog post mentioning that my childhood neighbors had taught me how to pray the rosary, but I had long since forgotten how, a sweet surprise from my friend Jenny showed up in my mailbox

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A couple of Saturdays ago I showed up to work and found a note left for me, in high-tech style, from my buddy Rand.

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#Workhusband Steve brought me a feather.

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In fact, I have a lovely little bird figurine at home that holds a collection of feathers too large to laminate for bookmarks.  Each feather in this arrangement was a gift from someone.

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My point is this: each gesture I mentioned here probably was not much to the person offering it…but the impact of such thoughtfulness was immense for me.  It doesn’t take much to make someone’s day.  I want to challenge myself to show such little kindnesses each day.  Little things really mean a lot.

A Place For Me

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Faith formation, hospitality and being included

Last weekend I was blessed to participate in a once-in-a-lifetime event.  Through a series of music and church connections, I “wrangled” an invitation to sing in the Diocesan choir for the Dedication Mass of the Cathedral of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus in Knoxville, Tennessee.  Ground was broken for this space 3 years ago, the Cathedral for the Diocese of Knoxville, a diocese which was established in May, 1988 by Pope John Paul II.

I am not Roman Catholic, but I think I understand the momentous nature of an occasion like this, which makes me doubly grateful for the privilege of participating.  Glenn, the director of the music, not only allowed me to sing, but welcomed me.  His welcome took me back to my childhood when I was so often welcomed by other people of the Catholic faith.

About halfway down Ford Street lived Beth Sedgwick and her daughter, Mary Lim.  These sweet ladies were devout Catholics, wonderful neighbors who welcomed me in to visit whenever I popped by after school, or earlier in the day if it was summertime, always unannounced.  Usually with a dog in tow, I’d knock on their massive front door, and Mary Lim, long ago paralyzed in a car crash, would usually roll to the door in her wheelchair and let us in, laughing as the dog jumped up to give her kisses.  I began visiting them with my brother Reed at first, then later on after he got busy and I got a little bigger, I would go and visit them on my own…except when a dog accompanied me, of course.

They would usually be sitting at their dining room table, with the newspaper, needlework, decks of cards and crossword puzzles, and there was always a place open for me.  These women taught me about praying the rosary when I asked what “those pretty beads” were, although I have long since forgotten how to do it.  There was lovely religious artwork throughout their home, and anytime I asked about a picture or a crucifix, they patiently explained its meaning to me, knowing that I and my parents were Christian, but not Roman Catholic, and there were elements in their artwork that I didn’t understand.  Mostly, though, they taught me about their faith—-and about my own—- simply by welcoming me in.

Flash forward nearly 4 decades, after our little neighborhood was replaced by the South Knoxville bridge, the Sedgwicks had long since passed away and much life had happened for the rest of us.  I found myself surrounded by the glorious space of this new Cathedral, many unfamiliar faces, and a small group of friends from both Knoxville Choral Society and Ebenezer United Methodist Church who helped make it possible for me to witness this dedication and participate in it.  Enveloped by music, warmth and the fragrance of incense, I felt Mrs. Sedgwick and Mary Lim with me, swelling with the solemn joy they would have felt to see this new space dedicated and the Diocese united in both humility and celebration.

I am not Roman Catholic…but because I sing, there was, once again, a place for me.

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Lines

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Keeping them open…

I am not a seasoned traveler by any means.  But the week after Christmas I traveled, on a plane, by myself, to visit with my friend, chosen family and #firsteverworkhusband Martin.  My local airport is not enormous and checking my big bag and passing through security went smoothly enough, as the lines were fairly short and moved quickly.  Then I went on to my gate and eventually to board the plane, where I waited in another line.  I have a sweet and understanding husband who graciously allowed me to take this trip, and escorted me as far as he could before kissing me goodbye and probably experiencing some stress about me proceeding on my own.

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Airports are poignant places as I look around at the other travelers.  I wonder what their stories are, who or what they are traveling to see, if their trips are carefree vacations, happy reunions or sad goodbyes.  It’s the storyteller in me, I suppose, that craves to know these details, the storylines of the people around me.

After a quick and smooth flight I landed at my destination, a much larger airport than the one I had left behind less than two hours before.  Text messages from Martin told me that he was waiting to meet me at baggage claim.  After almost 5 months since seeing each other in person, his warm smile greeting me made all the angst and craziness melt away, as it always does when we see each other.  Hugs exchanged and my suitcase retrieved, we got into his car and merged into the lines of traffic headed back to his apartment.

We laughed and talked nonstop the entire time I was there, never once encountering an awkward pause or running out of things to say.  Friendships like this are priceless indeed, the connection of soulful, goofball kindred spirits who understand each other well.  Conversations started forever ago and new ones begun, like lines in an ongoing play or novel.

Part of our time was spent at the clinic where Martin undergoes hemodialysis three days per week.  As an ESRD (end stage renal disease) patient, he must dialyze regularly in order to survive until he can receive a kidney transplant.  As much illness as I have seen among my family and friends, I have had little experience with kidney failure or dialysis until now, and Martin kindly arranged with his clinic for me to be able to sit with him during his treatments.  Usually visitors are discouraged but since our visit allowed us limited time together, I was permitted to be there.

Because of possible blood contamination, biohazard and liability concerns, I was not present when he was connected to, or disconnected from, the dialysis machine, and I  was required to gown up while I sat with him.  I joked about how flattering my “prom dress” was, which got laughs.  I was able to observe him and the other patients, his clinic family, as they sat through treatment.  On Friday, the man in the chair next to us had an episode of chest pain resulting in a bit of quick, efficient scrambling by the team in order to stabilize him and get him feeling better.  Sunday’s treatment brought Martin the news that one of his fellow travelers on the dialysis path had passed away, the first time he has lost a member of his clinic family, a woman only a few years his senior.  The ride from the clinic was a little quieter, and a little bit somber as we both tried to wrap our heads around the news.  Had he learned of her death in time he would have attended her memorial service, but it had already taken place.

For several hours after treatment, the possibility of bleeding is a concern so he has to stay bandaged up.

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Among the other painful aspects of treatment, pulling the tape off a hairy arm sometimes smarts!  After he removed the tape and gauze, he let me photograph his arm…it bears the marks of several years’ worth of puncture wounds and the scar from where his fistula was created.  His access is apparently a bit tricky; the arterial line is near the surface and not usually a problem for the technician to find, but the venous line goes deeper and has a turn, so it sometimes makes for a difficult “stick”.

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Once connected, he rests (or attempts to rest)  in a reclining chair for approximately 4 hours, during which every drop of blood is removed, scrubbed free of toxins and then the clean blood fed back into the body.  It’s really remarkable technology…but it is a punishing process.  Martin’s minimum removed fluid since we have reconnected has been 2.5 kilograms (5.5 pounds) and he has had as much as 5 kilos taken off, which is 11 pounds and change.  In four hours.

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I sat silent for a few moments and frown lines must have shadowed my face, because Martin said, “Don’t look at my access with sadness; it is my lifeline until I can get a kidney transplant.”  Still, I remember him telling me about times when his access has been blown out when one of the needles infiltrated, leaving its assigned spot and forcing treatment to be halted…bruising, swelling and pain in the arm, and the itching that sometimes aggravates him after treatment.

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Storylines…waiting in lines…lifelines…my holiday got me thinking about the lines of our lives in a whole new way.  Five days of nonstop talking with Martin reminded me that the most important lines are those of communication between us and our loved ones.  Life is short.  Talk to the people you care about.  Keep the lines open and clear.

 

Decision Points

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That moment when…

Recently my friend and #firsteverworkhusband Martin and I were discussing our respective artistic disciplines, mine music and his acting/directing.  In the course of that conversation he began talking about how Hamlet has a couple of moments in the play when his course of action is set, or “decision points”.  I’ve been ruminating about this concept off and on since the initial conversation, and recently I messaged him again to elaborate on the idea from the actor/director perspective.

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I LOVE that!  “The get off your a$$” moment.  We went on to discuss how art imitates life and how sometimes the decision point is actually the result of a lengthy process of evolution.  As I am prone to do, I applied this to life in general, my life in particular.

In another conversation recently, I remarked that I feel like, in some ways, I’ve spent the last year or so in The Twilight Zone.  There has been, in my internal world, change, stress, upheaval, as well as love and great joy.  I have had decision points—moments of clarity that came after a process of evolution, in my feelings, thoughts and expectations.

Reaching that “get off your a$$ moment” can be painful.  But eventually, the decision has to be made.  Anything can prompt “that moment when…”

You get the answer to an important question…

or that question goes without a response.

After feeling ill for months, you finally get a diagnosis.

You realize a person, relationship, habit, job, whatEVER, is unhealthy for you and a change has to happen.

Or you discover love in the most unexpected of places.

The Decision Point is the result of a process.  However long the process takes, the moment of decision is just that—a MOMENT.  One that can alter the trajectory of the rest of your life.

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Duets

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Longtime friendship, faith and music…

As an incoming college freshman in the fall of 1982, I was meeting tons of new people and enjoying the process of finding my place in what was essentially a new world.  I realized quickly that some of these new people would be acquaintances with whom I’d share the occasional class, some would become close friends throughout the 4 years of school…and some would remain in my life for the rest of my life.  Then there were the few who came into my life, vanished from it and reappeared years later.

Marc was one of that last category of people.  We met as freshmen at Carson-Newman College (now University) and, as we were both music majors, we had a number of classes together.  I liked this fellow right away. His boyish good looks, beautiful tenor voice, easy smile and sweet spirit drew me to him immediately and we became fast friends.  Spring semester found us both singing in A Cappella Choir and sharing long hours on the bus together as we toured during spring break.

He decided the following year to change schools, and we lost touch after that.  I often joke that he “abandoned” me, (which always gets an eye-roll and a quick retort!) but I realized he was following God’s path for him, just as I followed mine by remaining where I was.  I thought of him so often in the years that followed…but I never followed through on trying to find him.

Flash forward to 2011, the beginning of the season for Knoxville Choral Society.  I was talking with my friend Tina and heard the name “Marc” and asked what Marc and where?  She pointed in his direction, I turned, and he and I both looked in shock at one another, recognizing long-lost faces and voices and yelling, “YOU!”  And pointing at each other like we were school children.  Hugs and laughs and stories followed…and the reconnection was forged.

He started singing at Messiah Lutheran the year before I did, and after I joined him there, we were blessed to sing in the choirs together, and to join our voices on many duets.  Our voices blend in a way that I can only describe as magical…and together, we have been able to create and enjoy some truly memorable moments.  When we sing and things are working right, the joy I feel is almost overwhelming.  He left Messiah and went to Ebenezer United Methodist, where I ended up accepting a call a couple of years later (I fear he will tire of me “following” him from church to church!)  And there, too, we have shared duets and delights, and I hope those continue for a long time to come.

Musicians are people first, and as such, we bring our issues with us every time we sing.  Sometimes those things keep us from achieving our musical and spiritual best. And sometimes, for lack of a  better description, we are blessed to be able to “sing them out”, experiencing catharsis, cleansing and healing.  Those moments, I believe, are little glimpses of Heaven on Earth…and I am so grateful to be able to share them with Marc in a way that only the two of us can fully comprehend.

Today, on Marc’s birthday, I share this thumbnail sketch of him, our friendship,  and our partnership in music and in faith.  And I share some pictures from the last few years, a little sad that there are none of us together from our college days. But I am so grateful for the renewed connection with him, my partner in crime…and in duets.

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