The Founder’s Story

After hours of anxious waiting, when we finally make contact with our family on the Mississippi Gulf Coast the day after Katrina hits, my sister Priscilla’s plea is frantic. “You have to come get Mom,” she tells me. “It’s chaos here. There’s no water, no electricity. And it’s so hot. It’s miserable.”

 Miraculously, my mother’s house in Moss Point, a small community situated just behind Pascagoula and several miles inland from the Mississippi Sound, is unharmed by the storm. She has lost lots of tree limbs, a few shingles and some window screens, but holed up there on high ground, she, my sister’s family and two other families weather the storm Sunday night and Monday morning.

My mother has recently been diagnosed with mid-stage Alzheimer’s. We are acutely aware of how devastating such a crisis can be for someone struggling with the challenges of a disease that, even under the best circumstances, is confusing and anxiety-provoking. I know we have to get her out of there, but how? The horrific images we are seeing on TV, along with the warnings to stay away, convince me that I am not going to be able to drive into the area and just whisk her back to Nashville. Then we lose phone contact.

After a couple more fleeting, interrupted communications, Priscilla and I make a plan. We figure, as a resident of the area, she can drive out and back in, provided, of course, the roads are passable. So we will rendezvous in Montgomery. I tell Priscilla to drive to the first Montgomery exit she comes to on I-65 North and turn right. Go to the first gas station she sees on the right, and wait for me there. If we both leave around 8:00, we should arrive about the same time with me driving from Nashville and her coming from Pascagoula. Then we lose phone contact again.

So Wednesday morning, I take off from Nashville alone, hoping for the best and praying for that gas station to be there. When I arrive at the designated rendezvous point later than I expected, there is, indeed, a gas station, but no sign of Priscilla and Mother. After forty-five minutes of sitting, standing, trying her cell phone, pacing in front of my car and wondering if this isn’t the most harebrained scheme I’ve cooked up in a long time, my cell finally rings. It is Priscilla. She has just turned off I-65 and is driving down the highway. Where am I? I tell her to keep coming, and, yep, she sees the gas station, and then I see her car and she turns in. Hallelujah!

It’s a joyful reunion as they spill out of the car: Mom with her cat Andy; Priscilla and her 15-year-old daughter Annie; and Priscilla’s neighbor with her daughter, who is Annie’s age. They emerge tired and dirty, but smiling (and delighted to have been in the air-conditioned car for three hours instead of the 98-degree heat of the coast with no electricity). After a brief visit, we load Mom and Andy into the car to head back to Nashville. Reluctantly, we leave the hurricane refugees in Montgomery to find a laundromat and spend one night in the luxury of a cool motel room before they head back to the hot, cramped quarters of 3872 Riverpine Drive in Moss Point.

I quickly see that my mother is exhausted and disoriented. She has no interest in my suggestion that she close her eyes and nap; she is too distressed given the dramatic events of the last few days. So, instead, we turn to music. First we listen to a CD of big band tunes (music she still dances to), then to Willie Nelson’s Stardust album, a wonderful collection of standards she grew up with and loves. We both sing along, but she’s the one who knows all the words. After Willie stops singing, I turn the CD player off and start singing all her favorite songs, one after another, with Mom still singing along: first, The Prisoner’s Song, her father’s favorite; then You Are My Sunshine, Keep on the Sunny Side, The Sewanee Song (“Oh it’s beer, beer, beer that makes you want to cheer on the old Sewanee mountain farm!”), I Come to the Garden Alone, Blue Moon, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, All of Me, Amazing Grace.… After exhausting that repertoire, I start reeling off songs from Broadway musicals. Together, Mom and I sing our favorites from Annie Get Your Gun, South Pacific, The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, Mary Poppins. Between them, we laugh and talk and I tell her stories of my memories of her and my dad and our family life unfolding to all that music.

My parents instilled a great love for all kinds of music in us six children. It was a constant backdrop to our daily existence. Even though neither were professional musicians, they both had lovely singing voices. Dad, an Episcopal clergyman, chanted the liturgy as beautifully as I have ever heard it sung. Mom played the piano a little, and still has an impeccable ear for harmony. At home, we had a player piano in the basement that scrolled the words of the old standards on paper reels, invoking impromptu sing-alongs. My parents also had a great collection of LPs covering a wide variety of music genres, so we often listened to Harry Belafonte, Burl Ives or Frank Sinatra, scores from Broadway musicals and classical pieces. My favorite, though, was when the whole family sang together to pass the time on long summer vacation car trips. It seemed like we would sing for hours. I loved speeding down the highway in three-part harmony: Mom and Dad and baby Mary, in front, and my three brothers and sister Priscilla leaned up against the sides of the station wagon with the seats folded down in the cavernous back-end, our legs stretched out in front of us, singing at the top of our lungs. One of the sweetest was Now the Day is Over, our twilight hymn, with Dad taking the lovely descending harmony line in counterpoint to its simple melody. Music, for me, was a demonstration of the emotional glue connecting our family. So it was nothing new for Mom and me to sing our way back to Nashville.

We arrive home Wednesday night, exhausted. As I tuck Mom into the guest bedroom for a good night’s sleep, I reassure her again and again that everything will be just fine. My last thought is, “I hope so…” as my head hits the pillow. Then I admonish myself for that fleeting glint of doubt and give thanks that my family is safe, that we are home safely and that Mickey, my dear husband of only two-and-a-half years, loves my mother as much as I do, and sincerely wants her with us. (Now that’s a blessing.)

I stay home with Mom on Thursday. We wash her clothes, go out to lunch, have a relaxing afternoon. Friday morning, I get up at my usual time to get ready for work. Mom has already been up for an hour; she is disoriented and agitated. (Andy-Dandy, the cat, on the other hand, is sleeping with abandon on top of the dryer in the laundry room, taking to his new digs like he owns the place.) When I tell Mom that I am going to work and she will stay home with Mickey, she has tears in her eyes, imploring, “Do you have to go to work today?”

I sigh. “No, of course not…” I tell her. “I can stay home with you.”

“Oh, good, thank you,” she says earnestly. I hug her tightly. I call into work to tell them I need one more day off, and Mom and I spend the morning over a leisurely breakfast, drinking coffee, talking about the hurricane with all the trees down, the wind howling through the night, how hot it was afterward.

“…And all those strange men sleeping on the living room floor. I didn’t know any of them,” my mother exclaims, referring to family friends of many years.

Her speech is halting. She struggles to articulate the thoughts that I know are reeling around in her brain. I sense there is a lot going on in there; she just cannot find the words anymore. The strain of the week has taken its toll on her. She is weary, and what she really needs, I realize, is rest. So, after breakfast, I suggest that a little nap might be just the thing, and this time, she does not argue. Gratefully, she crawls back under the covers. I pull them over her shoulders, give her a kiss and, within minutes, she is sound asleep.

As I walk into the kitchen to clean up the breakfast dishes, it occurs to me that I have to find something for my mother to do during the day while she is here. Although Mickey volunteers to stay with her the two days he is home during the week, I know he cannot assume full-time responsibility for her daytime care; and it is painfully apparent that she cannot be alone. I wonder how in the world she has managed to this point in Mississippi by herself. Then I remember the last visit with her. Mickey and I had made a weekend trip to Moss Point only six months earlier to help Priscilla convince Mom she had to stop driving her car, something she did not want to do. On that visit, we found frozen dinners thawed in the refrigerator and a package of cole slaw in the freezer. From our other observations and reports from a neighbor, we were convinced it was not going to be long before some other arrangements for Mom’s daily care would have to be made. We just didn’t anticipate a hurricane making the decision for us.

So I forget about the dishes and, instead, walk into the sunroom and sit down at the computer. I have to find a solution; I have to find someplace for Mom to go during the day where she will be with other seniors and have fun things to do. She needs companionship and stimulation. She can’t sit and watch TV, or wander around the house all day long fretting over Andy-Dandy. Nor can Mickey care for her every day; that’s just too much. So, I Google “Senior Centers, Nashville, Tennessee.…”

One listing very close to our house is for Senior Citizens, Inc. on Belmont Boulevard. So I call. It is the only call I make. After three minutes of conversation, I am certain the young woman who has answered the phone is an angel, sent “Priority.” I tell her about Mom being displaced by Katrina and our need to find something constructive for her to do each day. She tells me about the program: that the seniors come every weekday from 9:00 until 2:30; that their participants love being there; she is certain my mother would enjoy it, and she’s sure they have a place for her…when would I like to schedule an appointment to come meet with the director? Blinking back tears of gratitude, I ask if Monday would be okay.

Mickey takes Mom for her preliminary interview. His report of their meeting with Bonnie, the director, is comical. After listening to all the information about the program and nodding and smiling a lot, my mother says, “Well, I’m sure this is a nice place, but you see I live in Mississippi and I’m going home in a couple weeks, so I won’t be coming back. Thank you.”

Fortunately, we are able to convince Mom to give it a try. “Just go one day and see if you like it, Mom, what can it hurt? You can just go and try it. I mean, what else are you going to do all day? You can’t watch TV and read and just sit around. You’ll be bored silly. Just try it, one day, okay? What do you have to lose?” Reluctantly, she gives in, and Mickey drives her the next morning and picks her up that afternoon. Not knowing the van leaves at 2:15 to take most participants home, Mom is the only person left when Mickey arrives at 2:30 and is met with Mother’s panic-stricken, “Where have you been?” Fifteen minutes of uncertainty is an eternity for her. In an unfamiliar place, convinced that she has been forgotten, she frets herself into a stew. She is not going there again. But, once more, with gentle encouragement and reassurances from Mickey that he will be there at 2:00 so she is the first one picked up, she goes again on Wednesday. That night, when I ask her if she thinks she’d like to go on Thursday, she replies enthusiastically, “Oh yes, they are such nice people.”

Mom has been going to the Senior Citizen’s Inc. Adult Day Services program ever since. Except now the van picks her up and brings her home so she doesn’t have to wait for Mickey. Each morning, she gets up with a sense of purpose, looking forward to her day. Recently, over dinner, as we were talking about how fortunate it is she has such a great place to go each day, she said, simply, “I like to be busy.” She often remarks how lovely the staff is. We are so fortunate to reap the benefits from the heartfelt care they provide for their program’s participants and families. (Now, that’s a blessing too.)

After several months it is clear Mom cannot return to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. So many of the activities she had enjoyed, the water aerobics class at the hospital, her monthly bridge game, and visits from friends with time to stop by or to take her shopping, or out to lunch or a movie, are put indefinitely on hold while everybody struggles with the effort of slow recovery. We all make the decision that she will stay with us permanently in Nashville.

 A couple weeks after Mom begins attending her day program, I ask the director if I can bring my guitar and dulcimer and come for an hour of music with the group. With a resounding yes, we schedule a morning program for the next week. The “show” is a big success. I sing standards and hymns, camp songs and turn-of-the-century ballads. I weave between the tables, taking requests and encouraging them all to sing along. Afterwards, walking back to my car on this beautiful September morning, I am filled with joy and enthusiasm. It was such fun. Everybody loved it, especially me. Buzzing with excitement and deeply touched by the warm connection I have just made with these delightful seniors, I decide to commit to going once a month for an hour of music with Mom and her group.

Mother, who also enjoys the warm glow of the spotlight, wants to be in on it, too, so she talks me into a tap duet as the grand finale for the October show. My mother’s dream as a young woman was to be a Rockette. Now, she was never the right height or weight, nor did she have the dancing ability to actually be a Rockette, but it is a fantasy she still holds dear. So we dust off our tap shoes, Mom in the new pair she purchased for herself after she turned 80 and me in a pair of her hand-me-downs, and work up our song-and-dance number, School Days. I am delighted to report we are an incredible hit. As a matter of fact, we are persuaded to do two encores, both School Days of course, as it is our only tap routine. But, I must say, we still do a rousing rendition, always met with a wildly enthusiastic response from the audience.

I often try to build the monthly music around a theme: love songs in February for Valentine’s Day, Irish songs around St. Paddy’s Day (Mother being an O’Malley and Mickey, a McConnell). At Christmas, my trio, The Caroling Troubadours, do festive seasonal favorites. I usually can come up with something fun. One day I went in and we all thought of our favorite Broadway musicals. I sang as many and as much of the songs from each that I knew, making up funny words to the bits I didn’t know.

Like so many others, I moved to Nashville to sing, write and perform. Like so many others, I was earning a good living as a working musician in the city I left (Dallas) when I decided that, to be really serious about the music industry, I needed to move to one of its three centers: New York, Los Angeles or Nashville. I tested the waters of both coasts and made several treks to Nashville to plug my songs. I chose Nashville because it was always so friendly and hospitable. I could land here comfortably and enjoy living in this beautiful, welcoming city. Plus, being a chicken at heart, New York and Los Angeles both scared me just a little as a single woman with very few “connections” in any of these three places, wanting to succeed in the dog-eat-dog arena of the performing arts. Although I came to Nashville just as starry-eyed as the next would-be overnight sensation, I knew I had to earn a living. So, I rolled over my skills acquired from my freelance work in the Texas oil industry to work freelance as a paralegal in the Nashville legal community, all the while pursuing my career with a vengeance.

Ten years of following my dream with determination while honing my songwriting craft, attaining a modicum of success as a performer and writer, and weathering the inevitable disappointments led me to realize I just was not happy. After some intense soul-searching I reached a decision to turn a corner I never imagined possible and pursue another career. I knew it had to be something I would enjoy, something that I could do well and that it also had to be something I felt would make a difference. All of those elements were basic to my music and performing. I have always loved to sing. It is a gift that has set me apart since I can ever remember. Moreover, I hold the belief that it is important, in one’s life, to pursue paths that nourish the heart and soul. For many years, the passion in my pursuit of music felt spiritual: it brought joy to me and to others and it was a thought-provoking conduit for introspection, self-exploration and self-actualization. However, those ideals got lost in my struggle to achieve success in the Nashville music industry somewhere along the way of the real world.

The final blow came when my mentor and dearest of friends, Walter Hyatt, died in a plane crash. I lost my passion for the fight. My identity and sense of self-worth were so inextricably tied to the artistic achievements I always knew I would attain that now, when none of it meant that much to me anymore, I couldn’t believe it myself. I just no longer had the heart to struggle for that spotlight I always was so sure would be mine. All I wanted to do was find something that I thought was worthwhile again. I hoped in that pursuit I would also find myself again. That is when I went back to school and got my master’s in social work, a decision I had already made when Walter died suddenly, but something I had not yet told him. He must have had an inkling I was moving in a new direction, though. Only a month or so before his death, and seemingly out of the blue, he turned to me during one of our writing sessions with his singularly intense gaze and said, “Sarah…don’t ever stop singing.”

I am not sure when it dawns on me, but at some point during that first year of doing the programs for Mother’s group, I have an inspired idea: wouldn’t it be great if every senior center in Nashville, every retirement facility, even homebound seniors, had regular, monthly live programs of the music they love? And with so many talented music professionals in Music City, U.S.A., it’s a no-brainer. We have the talent; we certainly have the need, not to mention what a reciprocally rewarding experience it is. I have come to know these engaging, delightful individuals whose paths I never would have crossed otherwise. Over time, through sharing music we have become special in one another’s lives. My experience of community is so enhanced by this small, monthly commitment, my life so enriched through this endeavor, I know it will prove the same for many, many other performers and seniors. So I let the thought percolate a while and ultimately, with Mickey’s encouragement, decide to move forward.

My impulse to share my idea with Aubrey Harwell, an attorney who has put me to work on projects ever since I moved to Nashville almost twenty years ago, proved to be invaluable. His hearty endorsement and enthusiasm, and his suggestion that I meet with Janet Jernigan, the Executive Director of Senior Citizens, Inc., provided the momentum. When I met with Janet, I found her to be a like-minded social worker who shared my vision for a program dedicated specifically to taking music to seniors.

Today, I have the privilege of launching and directing Music for Seniors in cooperation with Senior Citizens, Inc. (now Fifty Forward) and its arts affiliate, Senior Center for the Arts. The program is initially funded through a generous grant from The Memorial Foundation, and we are now in the first phase of implementing an organized network of live programs by Nashville musicians. Each is paired with a facility or homebound senior for an extended series of once-a-month programs, providing delightful entertainment to our aging population and tapping the incredible talent in our city. The program presents opportunities for musicians to work as paid professionals, doing what they love for one of the most appreciative audiences you will ever find. Perhaps most important of all, it connects us. As the participants share their music, their stories and their time each month, they impact each other’s lives in a profoundly positive way. I know it happens; I have experienced it first-hand.

My heart tells me that birthing Music for Seniors is the reason I was called to go back to graduate school. Finally, there are many common elements in both good music and good social work: to enhance and enrich, to be honest and meaningful and to find joy in individual expression and in community with others. These are the golden threads that will weave success into the fabric of this program. The silver needles are the dedicated performers who will do the work.

The success of Music for Seniors over its first years certainly has been remarkable based on our growth and on feedback we receive from the community and from our musician participants alike. So we look to a new year with the optimistic hope that we can continue to impact the lives of more and more older adults and enlist an ever-increasing number of participating musicians to share in this important outreach.

Inherent in this work, however, is the inevitable sadness of loss. Each year some of the friends we have made and laughed with, while sharing music and fun, come to the end of their lives. So it is this year, as we close on this bittersweet note: My own mother and dear companion, Marguerite Martin, died in August at age 90. Forever my champion and biggest fan, my mother’s unending support and her love of music inspired this program. So I want to share her obituary as it appeared in The Tennessean in Nashville, and in the Mississippi Press Register in Pascagoula. Each Music for Seniors program is a tribute to Marge. Her legacy of kindness, of an effervescent spirit and of a boundless capacity to enjoy music, dancing and those whose paths intersected her own, endures through the work of this program. She was quite a woman, and it is quite a blessing to have been born her daughter.

MARTIN, Marguerite Sherman O’Malley – Born January 29, 1921, and died peacefully in her home in Nashville on August 26, 2011 after a debilitating stroke ten days earlier. Marguerite (Marge) is preceded in death by her mother and father, Annie and Martin O’Malley; her beloved husband, The Rev. Harold Odest Martin, Jr. (Episcopal priest); and her daughter-in-law Nancy. She is survived by her sister, Annette Ciannella (Rev. Domenic, Episcopal priest), Long Island, N.Y.; her children Harold III (Sally), Satellite Beach, Fla.; Jonathan (Fiona), Vero Beach, Fla.; Peter, Grapevine, Texas; Sarah (Mickey) McConnell, Nashville, Tenn.; Priscilla (Ted) Battley, Pascagoula, Miss.; and Mary (Ed) Alleman, Kady, Texas; her grandchildren Alicia and Patrick, Matthew and Luke, Charles, Andrew, Will and Annie, and Abbie, Maryanne and Martin; her great-grandchildren Teagan, Aidan, Finley and Emily; and numerous nieces and nephews. Marge was born in Baltimore, Md., and graduated from Eastern High and YMCA Business School. She met her husband, Harold, at St. Andrews Episcopal Church, Baltimore, where they were married. His career then took them to Green Island, N.Y.; Houston, Texas; Greenville, Miss.; Milwaukee, Wis.; Pascagoula, Miss.; and Bossier City, La., before retiring in Moss Point, Miss. Marge worked as a medical and executive secretary and physicians’ office manager. Her philosophy, “Bloom where you are planted,” reveals her sunny, optimistic nature. She was a loving wife and a devoted, fun-loving mother and grandmother. She had a strong faith and abiding love for her church and its community. Sweet and empathetic, with an easy smile, a great sense of humor and an open and caring nature, Marge cultivated close friendships with people of all ages. She was tender and patient with children, attentive to the elderly and loved cats and dogs, with many adopted as family pets over the years. An award-winning author of short stories and poetry, she was an avid storyteller, reader and letter writer. She enjoyed art, drawing, painting and flower gardening, and participating as a local thespian in Pas-Point Players little theater. Talented in culinary arts and a gracious hostess, Marge also loved to entertain. Her home reflected her artistic sensibilities, her love of family and her appreciation of all things beautiful. As a young mother, Marge served as a leader for her sons’Cub Scout troop and was an active participant in the PTA. Throughout her adult life, she enjoyed volunteering at the local hospital, playing bridge with friends and served many years as a Daughter of the King and as an associate of St. Mary’s Convent, Sewanee, Tenn. After retirement, her favorite activities included attending movies, theater, opera and symphony concerts on the Gulf Coast and laughing with her friends in their water aerobics class in Pascagoula. At age 84, displaced by Hurricane Katrina just six weeks after being diagnosed with mid-stage Alzheimer’s, Marge moved to Nashville to live with her daughter Sarah and devoted son-in-law Mickey. She quickly made new friends, capturing the hearts of all at FiftyForward Adult Day Services program, which she attended daily. Based on her love of life and enduring passion for music and dancing (boy, could she jitterbug – and was still tap dancing at age 87!), Marge inspired the not-for-profit program, Music for Seniors, launched in Nashville in 2007 by her daughter Sarah. Services will be held on Thursday, September 1, at St. Pierre’s Episcopal Church, Gautier, Miss. Visitation with the family will be from 11 a.m. until noon, followed by the funeral service with Holy Eucharist, and committal at Gautier Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that memorial gifts be made to Music for Seniors, in care of FiftyForward, 174 Rains Avenue, Nashville, Tennessee 37203.

Another beginning:  July 1 we move forward with our exciting work as an independent 501(c)3 arts organization. We have grown from a start-up program to our current robust operations as a stand-alone nonprofit organization. From our start, with just three musicians delivering monthly programs to two senior centers, to now scheduling and delivering an average 57 monthly programs through Outreach and our public FREE Daytime Concert Series. We currently serve 50 locations and are lighting up the lives of over 1,200 older adults every month.

 I will forever be grateful to Janet Jernigan, who was Executive Director for over 25 years of FiftyForward, a long-standing and outstanding Nashville nonprofit recognized as the premier provider of innovative and comprehensive services for adults 50+ in Middle Tennessee. Believing in my vision, FiftyForward provided Music for Seniors with fiscal oversight, funding opportunities and wide-spread community exposure for seven years. During those crucial first years, Jernigan guided me in my role as an “accidental arts administrator!” Leading by example and offering wise counsel when needed, Jernigan provided me, and Music for Seniors, with a solid foundation in nonprofit best-practices and an abundance of opportunities to promote our success.

In June 2018 I attended a Tennessee Arts Commission statewide conference for arts organizations and educators and took part in a financial seminar designed to help participants think strategically about money matters. As an arts administrator one quickly learns that attracting funding to the organization is a constant quest. It’s really all about infusing others with enough zeal for what you’re doing that they want to help you – by opening their wallets. And those are not easy articles to open.

But I came away from that session knowing what I needed:  growth capital!  To achieve my vision of expanding the organization beyond Middle Tennessee – as has always been my dream – I needed to find funders willing to support that endeavor. We’re really fortunate to have cultivated ongoing relationships with private foundations and government funders who generously support our ongoing operations. Nashville, Tennessee is a great place to be an arts organization because we have both the Tennessee Arts Commission and the Metro Nashville Arts Commission committed to fostering and supporting outstanding arts programming for all ages, in our city and across the state. With so many states and municipalities cutting arts funding, I feel really fortunate to be headquartered here – where great value is placed on the arts AND our governments provide crucial funding to help us make it happen.

Those who fund nonprofits love funding specific programs. They can see exactly where the dollars are delivered. Our arts commissions fund our operations, not just programs. This means we can put the resources toward everything needed to run the company: rent, phones, internet, staff – you name it, we need money for it! So that’s a blessing too, because operating support provides an important base for operations. We depend on it to achieve our mission.

But finding and convincing funders to provide resources for growth means they have to be willing to take a chance on helping us with something that’s just a great idea. It’s like starting from scratch again. Of course, now we have a proven track record that includes viable, successful programs with proven impact, but still – we’re asking somebody to take a leap of faith with us, based on our vision and passion. Oh yeah, and now, we need LOTS more money than we’ve ever had for our local operations – to make it work!

Before I went to that conference, I didn’t even know how to articulate what we needed. But I emerged armed with “growth capital!” That’s what I needed and that’s what I was going to find. I had no idea how I was going to find it, but I was ready to begin the search.

Within a week, Matt Bridges, our program director, forwarded me an e-mail about the WeWork Creator Awards. He alsoforwarded it to our development director who walked into my office and said, “Sarah. Here’s your growth capital.” Bingo. I just knew she was right. I had this feeling – from the beginning – that WeWork was going to see the value in what we were doing and provide us with significant funding to make my expansion dream come true.

Now, I had already taken off the entire month of June as a mini-sabbatical. I wanted to write. I needed to think. I wanted to sing and play my piano and guitar for pleasure. I just needed a break. And my staff had graciously allowed me the gift of that freedom. To get away from the angst of the daily oh-my-God-how-am-I-going-to-do-that? routine and give myself the psychic space to refresh and regenerate. I was careening toward burnout and I knew that I had to do something to recharge and reconnect with my passion for the work. Because, quite frankly, the work was weighing very heavily on my soul. Not the big blue-sky wonder of the work. But the daily, slogging grind of being responsible for ensuring that all the bits and pieces fit into the wheel to keep it turning. Just looking at my to-do list made me anxious – took my breath away. I felt like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up the hill only to find it back at the bottom again the next morning. And I wanted to write. I wanted to tell all the stories in my head that swirl around and keep begging for release.

My creative month took a couple of left turns. But that’s part of the joy of being open to the creative process. You can’t control it. You just have to go with it and trust that it will lead you to new and exciting places. When I started my summer sabbatical, I thought I was going to work on my book. Then, the Tennessee Arts Commission conference and the WeWork Creator Award application due date, an imminent deadline, diverted me from New York to Growth Capital. And I was off!

I wrote for two full days applying my best narrative skills. I knew I needed to distill the organization’s value to the world and my ten plus years’ experience at the helm into this one application. WeWork would have no choice but to choose me – representing Music for Seniors – as a finalist. So I wrote and wrote, and edited and cut and pasted and shaved characters to craft THE most cohesive, passionate and convincing argument I could. Because I knew this was going to happen. I just knew there was no way WeWork could NOT choose us. My heart’s desire was on that paper, in those words, blowing open the doors of the universe to bring this to me, to Music for Seniors, to all the older adults who sit in lonely rooms lost and forgotten by family, ravaged by dementia, longing for connection and to participate in the game again. I knew – and I still know – that connecting them, connecting all of us to them, through shared live music – is magic. Is personal empowerment. Is a gateway to joy and the best of what it means to be human together. Singing the songs of our lives in small, unified choruses can lead us to the heavens.

I didn’t say all that in the application. WeWork would have thought I was nuts. But that is the sentiment I did my best to convey, couched in the most academic (proven!) blueprint for success – with just the right peppering of that seething undercurrent of crazy that convinces readers that the zealous narrator might just be on to something.

A video was also required. So – with the invaluable assistance of my wonderful friends at Winding Rhythm Film, Danielle and Charles Powell – we extracted and refined all of it into one 60-second “elevator pitch.” Standing casually outside the door of my office next to a bookshelf of strategically placed photos illuminating the essence of our work, I evoked my best inner-actress for the job.

The next morning, I attached the video to the application. Hit the submit button. And waited.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

In-between the waiting, I was now back at work, getting on with the business of Music for Seniors. But in the back of my mind, every day I was expecting to get that exciting news from WeWork to tell me Congratulations!

Well, the e-mail finally arrived.

 Hi Sarah, Thank you for your inspiring entry to the Nashville Creator Awards. We truly enjoyed learning about your ideas and the work that you’re doing. Unfortunately, after careful consideration of your entry, our judging committee has chosen not to move forward with your application. Due to sheer volume, we will not be able to provide individualized feedback, but we do appreciate your time and effort.

Blah blah blah. Obviously a standard rejection just like they sent to probably hundreds of other disappointed recipients. I was crushed. I was so sure this was going to happen. But I continued forward with business as usual.

Then I saw the announcement in the paper of the upcoming regional finals – in Nashville, at Marathon MotorWorks on September 13, 2018. My first reaction was, “Harumph. Why should I go? I’m not going to go. They probably didn’t even read my entry.” (Because, of course, if they had, I would be at those regional finals.)

Then I turned a pivotal corner. “No, I’m going to go. I’m going to be there the minute it starts and sit in the front row if I can, as close to that stage as possible, right in the middle. I want to find out what I need to do to make sure that I’m on that stage next time!”

So I did just that. The event started at 6:00, and it was a beautiful, amazing, vibrant and well-orchestrated evening. WeWork pulled out all the stops. First, the tickets were free online. My husband, Mickey, and I arrived right at 6:00 – I had determined I would be there for the whole thing! I did not want to miss one opportunity to arm myself with information. So with my notebook in hand, we entered the gate to the parking lot. It was filled with tents, booths and activity. Leaving the check-in station we were handed a craft cocktail, welcomed and encouraged to explore and have fun! Which we did. There were exhibits of goods produced and services offered by dozens of WeWork tenants. There were food trucks and drink stations delivering a wide assortment of delicacies; all compliments of WeWork. A big main tent, probably a half-block long, was filled with aisles of companies looking for talent, and soon crowded with job seekers. The entire site was peppered with conversation areas complete with tasteful rugs and comfortable couches and chairs around big coffee tables. No detail had been overlooked. If anyone attending had not really known about WeWork before coming, well, they knew now. It was a festival of industry and joy, and it was impressive! It said, hey Nashville this is WeWork and this is how we work.

The awards show began at 8, and we were told the doors would open at 7:30. Around 7:15 we found our way to a sitting area close to the door and stayed there. I wanted to be at the front of the line when the doors opened. I bee-lined to seats as close to front center-stage as possible. I was determined. This was my best chance to figure this WeWork Creator Awards out.

The show started with a charming ramble from Ashton Kutcher, who then introduced Adam Neumann. After a few words of welcome and inspiration, Adam clapped his hands together, and said something like, “Well, I’m going to do something we’ve never done before and this will be fun. I’m going to randomly pick two people from the audience to come pitch their idea on stage . . .”

I didn’t hear anything else. I shot straight up, jumping out of my seat with both hands in the air, shouting “ME!” Adam saw me and pointed to me first, then to another person farther back in the room . . . and the rest, as they say, is history. You can view my eight minutes onstage right here on our website, or search YouTube, “Ashton Kutcher meets Music for Seniors.”

I returned to my seat afterwards. With tears in my eyes, I hugged Mickey and he kissed me and put his arm around me. I looked him right in the eyes and said, “You realize everything has just changed!”