Coach - Facilitator - Trainer
Detail from Map (1961) by Jasper Johns -- MOMA, New York City -- Photo by Gina Lynette
Their love is worth the same as your love. Their partnership is worth the same as your partnership. And they are equal in your eyes to you. That’s the driving issue.
— Gov. Andrew M. Cuomo on Marriage Equity
My best friend was buried on Good Friday of our junior year in high school. She’d been in a horrible crash with her boyfriend on a sunny spring break day. They were heading to the video store to grab a movie. They never made it. Chuck died at the scene. Marcie lived a couple more days. But I knew she was on her way out. I felt it.
Of course, I had no way to know how I knew. I just did. But, having a super-rational side, I brushed away the notion and just chalked it up to the dread of something bad happening turning into the reality of it.
I love her and carry her with me now. Sometimes I’ll catch a whiff of her — in a song or a photograph, or most recently, a silly fill-in questionnaire book we’d shared in 4th grade that fell out of a box I was throwing away — and my heart will stop for a moment. I’m full of the joy of knowing her and the sadness of missing her all at once.
Several years later I had the same feeling. The difference this time was that I didn’t know of anyone who was in peril. I was just banana crackers and trying to do anything I could to shove away the panic. I had an 8-deck game of solitaire going, the TV on, the radio blaring, and was begging my then-mother-in-law for company.
I got the call the next morning. “Granddaddy is very sick. We don’t know if he’ll make it through the day. Come home.” I made the trip from Boca Raton to Knoxville in about 11 hours. I didn’t call home the whole time because I didn’t want to know I was too late. He was Blind and in a coma, so his greeting me with a sweet and strong “Hi Gina!” as I walked into his hospital room was bliss and shock all at once.
I love this man more than any other human on earth. He was my saving grace as a child and my Tuesday date for years as his Parkinson’s and my Lupus stranded us in the living room reading Sam Venable books and laughing about how many dishes of ice cream we could sneak past Grandmother. He was a good guy. A really good guy.
He died as I talked with him — Christmas music playing in the background in spite of it being September — and I knew he was okay. I wore my wedding going-away-dress to give his eulogy and planned a picnic for the twelve who gathered to scatter his ashes in our mountains. It was the saddest and sweetest week of my life. He still visits me — as birds — from time to time. Yeah, I’d think me nuts, too. But it’s true.
Like the time the Bald Eagle swooped over B and me as we visited the WWII memorial in DC. Grandpa spent The War in India and Grandmother worked at The Pentagon. Grandpa Eagle hung out with us as we read every plaque in the WWII Memorial and then perched in a huge tree for a couple of photographs. When we finally decided to walk on to the Lincoln Memorial, he took off, circled the WWII Memorial twice, and flew over the Reflecting Pool and beyond the Lincoln Memorial out of sight.
The most personal death I’ve lived through was that of my first child. We were happily readying our home for her arrival when I got that feeling again. I shoved it aside as hormones. I went to the doctor to be told everything was fine. I checked and rechecked every twinge and poke. And then the time came when I just couldn’t sit still with the knowing. My wasband took me for a drive and a walk and it happened — I lost her.
Losing a child in pregnancy is the strangest of all deaths. On some level you are the only person on this planet who knows this child. And she’s gone. And you miss her — the her you never got to meet or kiss or comfort — while you know her every heart beat. No one knows what to say to a grieving mother who has lost a child before their birthday. So, they tend to say all the things that only make it harder. How far along were you? (Far enough to love her.) There must have been something wrong with her. (She was perfect.) You can have another. (But I wanted her). So I smile, walk away, and say a little prayer of gratitude that they’ve never had to live through such a thing.
It is a personal, private grief that still catches me off guard when I hear someone say her name — Sarah Katherine. It happened most recently at a graduation. I’ve burst into tears on playgrounds when seeing girls her age playing. I also have moments of happiness as I imagine her brushing past. My own, personal guardian angel.
It wasn’t until a friend’s father became very ill and landed in the hospital for the final time that I reluctantly gave in to the reality that I, somehow, know when people are preparing to go. Still living in Florida, I happened to be in Knoxville and driving by the hospital when I had a strong urge to call Stephen in LA. He answered and told me where he was — sitting in the building I had just passed. I spent the next week loving Stephen through his Dad’s final illness and the following week supporting him through his Dad’s funeral and memorial and interment. That’s when I was given the somewhat odd nickname, “Angel of Death.” I’ve tried to take it as a compliment.
There have been other deaths that have caught my attention. It isn’t always someone I know, but the feeling that someone is going is never unfounded. I usually get a call asking for my support about the time I’ve made it through my speed dial list trying to figure out who it might be.
So, it was especially heart-rending when my baby sister called me for help this week. I knew, of course, who she was calling about. She wanted answers — Would he live? Why did he have to suffer? What could she do to stop it? Was it wrong to pray for a different outcome?
“I know you’re the Angel of Death. Help me understand this.”
Oh, sweetie, I wish I could. I can make some guesses, but every person who lives on this abundantly gorgeous planet eventually leaves it. The timing seems as personal as any other aspect of our existence — and as universal. It happens when it happens. I tend to believe there is purpose and meaning in this going — even if the ones left don’t have the insight to know what that is.
I’ve been touched by enough people who have made that transition to know that regardless of how well-prepared or surprising their leaving is, they leave behind a need for the ones who love them to make a journey of their own. There are volumes written on grieving, so I won’t repeat that work here. I will say that it is a sacred space.
I’ve also been touched by enough people who have sent me the feeling that they were going before they made their exit to trust that the soul knows. And it prepares. And, somehow, it’s ready.
Even if we aren’t. Even if they are young. Even if we want just one more bowl of ice cream with them. Even if they are loved. Even if they’ve fought hard to live. Even if we light candles and wish it were different.
But that doesn’t stop us from loving and hoping and living.
Until it’s our turn.
Sundercloud
If you spend your whole life waiting for the storm, you’ll never enjoy the sunshine.
– Morris West
Champ
I love my dog.
I know. I know. Lots of people love their dogs. Lots of people love all animals. It isn’t like this sets me apart from anyone. Except that I don’t have a reputation for being a “dog person” because I don’t tend to get all excited when I encounter strange dogs. And that’s because I’ve had some ugly experiences with other folks’ dogs.
Don’t get me wrong… I’m not anti-dog or heartless. I get teary eyed when a friend loses a pet and I’m dismayed by animal cruelty of any kind. I just don’t tend to run up to greet every furbaby that crosses my path.
So, it kind of surprised some folks when I started talking about getting a dog last summer. Call it timing. Call it craziness. I wanted a dog for the first time in about 20 years. I really wanted a dog. So, I called my dear friend, Ona, who has been working in animal rescue for about as long as I’ve been raising kids.
Ona knows my crew. Her advice was to adopt an adult dog. She had a long list of really good reasons — some of them I’d thought of myself. They have a predictable temperament. They are typically housebroken. They’re usually fixed (critical with overpopulation). But the most compelling reason is that they are harder for rescue groups to place into forever homes.
"Collies are the most beautiful dogs!"
Always one to be part of the solution, I took Ona’s advice and started searching Petfinder for adult dogs we thought might be a good fit for us. I started looking for medium-sized short hair doggies — thinking I wanted a dog large enough to go on long walks with us, but small enough and — um — low maintenance enough to live in our home without requiring a complete remodel.
I started sending Ned Andrew links to dogs that I thought were potential housemates. He would look and comment and not get particularly excited. He was sort of unsure about this commitment. We do have four kids, full-time jobs and he does a lot of those daily tasks that running a household requires. But after several weeks of discussions, he sort of casually mentioned that he’d always liked Collies — that they were the most beautiful dogs.
Within 20 minutes, I’d culled the entire offering of Collies in the southeastern US and sent a few links to Ned. “No, hon,” Ned would say, “not that kind of Collie. A ‘Lassie’ Collie.” Okay — 5 clicks later, I had a list of Rough Collies. If you aren’t familiar with Collie types, let’s just say that by “Rough” they mean “incredibly furry and likely to shed a large cat each day.” Undaunted (but a little incredulous — seriously? You’re okay with 11″ fur on every surface? Ooookay.) I started reading the stories posted on Petfinder. And then I found Champ’s listing. I read his story — that he was a 5 year old sweetie whose family had been transferred overseas and couldn’t take him with them.
Already in tears, I sent the link to Ned who immediately asked what would be involved to adopt this boy. I contacted the folks in Alabama. Emails and an application and phone calls and more emails flew back and forth over the next couple of days as we first found out more about Champ, then expressed interest, passed inspection, and arranged to meet him that week.
Champ meets the Little Kids in Alabama
Champ’s family was eerily similar to ours — with kids the same ages and adults with shared interests — and we instantly connected. We spent an hour or so talking with Champ’s family about him and their panic and then sadness as they realized the impossibility of his going overseas. He was 2 inches too long to fly in a standard pet crate. He would have to be shipped — at a cost of over $6,000 — with no guarantee that he’d make it alive. They just couldn’t risk his being hurt or killed — at any price — and had put the sale of their home and everything else on the back burner as they frantically searched for a new family for Champ.
We walked to our car, chatting away about how gorgeous, calm, loving, and wonderful Champ was. It was our intention to be thoughtful about our choice and to go back to Tennessee and talk it over before making a decision. But as we continued our walk down the street toward our car, I started feeling a little panicky. That was *my* dog back there and I didn’t want him going to another family. But I squashed that thought.
Until we got into the car and I started to drive away. I made it all of a block before I pulled into a culdesac and took a poll. Did we want Champ as part of our family? Yes. Yes. Yes. YES! I pulled out my checkbook and wrote out a check while Ned called the rescue folks to tell them that we were coming back to place a hold on Champ. That is, if we’d passed inspection. We were told that the family was so hoping we’d want Champ because they wanted him to be with us.
Champ stayed with his Alabama family for a few more weeks, and as the transfer date drew closer, they drove him up to Tennessee to stay. It was a bittersweet day as we welcomed Champ to our home while knowing how hard it was on this family. They clearly loved their dog.
Where's Champ? In the way!
Fast forward a year.
I love this dog. But you know that. He sits at my feet as I work and follows me from room to room throughout the day. He guards the house — announcing the arrivals of everyone from the UPS guy to neighbors to Ned as he pulls in from his day downtown — and the kitchen appliances as we cook dinner. We joke that the only answer to the question, “Where’s Champ?” is “In the way.” Because he’s always right where you’re planning to go next.
I sweep up daily piles of soft, Collie fur and cook him homemade food to mix in with his dry doggie kibble. He’s not particularly fond of dog food, but he does love broccoli and burger! We take long walks twice a day — often as a family — and he’s introduced us to just about everyone in our neighborhood.
His previous family warned us that people love Champ and will stop their cars to pet him — and they do. They also warned us that he would be up pacing and panting with every thunderstorm — and he is. We lovingly call him “Champ the Weather Dog” because he can predict a thunderstorm 45 minutes before we get any signs of one. This means we’ve spent many, many stormy nights hanging out in my studio and many, many mornings after napping on the sofa.
Being on duty is exhausting!
Champ’s kept me company this past year as I lost my Grandmommy Wandi, struggled with the decision to homeschool B, and dealt with those daily realities that having four kiddos introduces to our calendars. He’s very nearly my best friend.
So, you can imagine my panic — sheer panic — when we found him non-responsive on Wednesday morning. The faithful guy who tracks my every step wouldn’t open his eyes or lift his head. We determined that he was breathing, but barely. After loads of coaxing and a fair amount of worry, he finally responded and then got up. We took him for his walk and he was slow, but seemed okay. We got home and he took a nap. When I was readying for an appointment, I noticed he wasn’t following me and went to check on him. He was completely out and, again, non-responsive. I could not rouse this dog. I called for help from Ned, the neighbors, and contacted the vet. I planned to carry him — all 80 pounds of him — to the car. Just as I went to lift him, he opened his eyes. I was able to coax him down the stairs and outside.
Once at the vet’s office, he was awake but very, very slow. She examined him, took bloods, and we waited for the results. Everything looked fine. He was incredibly groggy — spreading out flat on the floor even in the ordinarily-fascinating exam room — but we had no explanation.
Wherever we go, he goes!
We did have a $264 vet bill, but — please, don’t tell Ned — I would have paid double that to know that Champ would be okay.
I took my first deep breath of the day.
He has continued to improve and seems about 80% himself today. The vet called to check on him and is just as confused as we are about what caused him to be so — well — so out of it. Hopefully it was just “one of those things” and it will never, ever happen again.
Because, man, I love this dog.
I mentioned Jennifer Lee’s The Right-Brain Business Plan in a Happy Quote last week and promised you’d hear more about this book and Jennifer’s smart insights.
Well, here we go…
Just to get your toe wet, we’re starting with a simple concept.
What’s that, Gina?
Values
Okay. Maybe not so simple. But it is a fundamental element of any business, project, faith, school, book, blog… well, it’s a foundational element of life.
As Jennifer points out, “When you’re aligned with your values, you’ll feel fulfilled and energized, and that is what people will resonate with the most.”
So, if you aren’t sure what you — or what the folks you interact with — value, you’re leaving some pretty important stuff up to the prevailing winds. So, in interest of full disclosure, I’ve typed my value words into a cool little Wordle (thanks, Jonathan!) for all to see. And, while I have to admit that it’s a pretty graphic, it’s more than just words to me. These concepts bring up strong emotions when I read and think about them. That’s how I know they are my values — they are important to me and when I am not living according to my values — in my passion and purpose — I’m not happy.
But when I am in the flow — WHEW — get outta my way because nothing is gonna stop me from realizing my goals.
Except for one tiny truth: my proverbial cross to bear, the mixed blessing, my Achilles heal is that I am hardwired — trained from infancy — to put others first. So, nothing I ever do is completely about me and my goals. After years of therapy, we’ve pretty much decided that it isn’t going to be. Evidently, I’ve inherited a PhD in Empathy from my Grandmommy Wandi and, like the procrastination thing, I’ve decided to stop fighting it.
So, in short, the good news for everyone around me is that I am passionate about integrity, authenticity, inclusiveness, accessibility, self-determination, joy, and connection. My purpose is to nurture and guide folks safely and smoothly through change — transitions and transformations. I help people define and pursue their unique and authentic purposes.
Ahhhh. Feels so good to know who you are… feels even better to actually be who you are.
Which leads me to this: Where does your passion meet your purpose? What makes you sing? What makes you banana crackers when it doesn’t happen?
What do you value?
You have full permission to dream big, create passionately, and craft a plan that makes your heart sing and helps your head know where your business is growing.
— Jennifer Lee
The Right Brain Business Plan
At some point soon, this book will show up in Gina’s Reading. In the meantime, I wanted you to have this quote to chew on. It’s delicious, no?
Doodle 9 -- Pen on Cold-Press Watercolor Paper -- Gina Lynette
If life’s too busy to doodle, life’s too busy. Doodle!
— Gina Lynette
(And who says I can’t quote myself? That’s what I thought.)
Haven Kimmel’s A Girl Named Zippy: Growing Up Small in Mooreland, Indiana is such a funny, smart book! Back when we were still living 200 miles apart, Ned and I read it out loud to one another over the phone and laughed so hard we cried–and sometimes cried so hard we needed to laugh some more.
I highly recommend this deliciously honest memoir as well as Kimmel’s novel, Something Rising, Light and Swift, but can’t say the same for her second memoir, She Got Up Off The Couch: And Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana. It may deserve another attempt when Zippy isn’t so freshly lingering in my memory. It just seemed forced in comparison to Zippy‘s easy pace and tone.
Ned has been begging me to read Kimmel’s Iodine for years because he loved it so much and — he claims — didn’t understand a word of it. He’s thinking I can translate it for him. I’m thinking I’m going to need more room on my nightstand.
As you may have surmised, I am the co-parent to several kiddos. A couple of them I birthed and a couple of them were pretty neat bonus gifts in my marriage to Ned Andrew. All of our kids come with a diagnostic code or two that makes parenting them a little different than the manual would indicate.
B is our only boy-child. He’ll tell you, right up front, that he has autism. What he might not tell you is that he’s scary smart. As in finish-the-Weschler-IQ-test-without-hitting-a-ceiling smart. As in that’s-okay-I-don’t-need-to-go-to-class-I-memorized-the-textbook-the-first-week-of-school smart. Yep. He’s that kid. He can’t tie shoes (seriously) but he could invent better ones.
I homeschooled both of the little kids (as we call the two I birthed) for four years back when I lived in East Tennessee. When we moved to Middle Tennessee in 2007 — so that I could take that job — we made sure to relocate to a county that has an amazing reputation for including kids with disabilities in their general classrooms. It worked for B’s remaining elementary school years. It didn’t once he got to middle school.
I may sit down and write a long post as to why at some point, but I’ll have to work through some more stuff with my therapist before I can do that in something other than 40 point all caps and without using words that would inspire my grandma to soap my mouth. Let’s just say it wasn’t a good fit and move on, shall we?
Which brings us to the alternatives. It looks something like my being home with a child who learns at the speed of light and moves even faster. I wasn’t sure I was up for it again. I really do enjoy my work and was just getting re-launched in my coaching and facilitation bliss. But I also love, love, love my son and want him to be happy.
So, we came home. I purchased an online curriculum that allows him to pretest on every lesson. We have an agreement that if he scores a 90% or above on the quiz, he can skip the lesson. If he scores below that, he has to study until he scores at least an 80% on the test. This was weird for me at first because I am so not into grades and scores, but, please recall, that my kiddo has autism. He needs to know the rules and they need to stay the same. Every day. Always. Except when I am teaching him to be flexible. But that’s another post.
We have a semester behind us. Officially 100 days — the state requires 90 — of learning our way. I have to admit that I am enjoying it and B is too. We have a rhythm to our days — we work together in my studio in the morning and then he takes off for his Minecraft/Electronics/Lego NXT/Boy Mess in the afternoon. He educates us on all sorts of fascinating topics each night at dinner. (Yep. We all eat dinner together.) Since we have a no-electronics-after-dinner rule in our house, after his bath, he gets tucked in with a book and typically reads 3-4 titles a week.
Gone are the 10:30 am phone calls from the school to come retrieve my bruised and crying child from yet-another take down by their staff. Gone are the endless projects that require my boy with a significant learning disability in written expression to take that 8-lane-highway brain of his and express his thoughts via bicycle. Gone are the homework battles, the 4-hour IEP meetings, and the worry that all we are accomplishing is the isolation and desolation of this person.
Nope. Homeschooling was not my first choice, but it was definitely a good decision.
Edna Didn't Get The Memo -- Colored Pencil on Coloring Book -- Gina Lynette
The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man.
— George Bernard Shaw
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