It's very trying on a marriage when you're doing a one hour show

In the quiet, reflective words of Gavin MacLeod, a man who lived his art with devotion and humility, there is a truth both tender and tragic: “It’s very trying on a marriage when you’re doing a one-hour show, week after week after week. You don’t have enough time for people that maybe you should have top priority.” Beneath the simplicity of this confession lies the eternal tension between duty and love, between the calling of one’s craft and the quiet responsibilities of the heart. MacLeod, whose life was spent under the bright lights of stage and screen, speaks not merely as an actor but as a man who has seen how ambition and affection can often struggle for the same breath.

His words unveil the hidden cost of greatness. In every age, those who labor under the demands of their calling—be they artists, warriors, rulers, or dreamers—find that their time, that most sacred of offerings, slips too easily through their fingers. The one-hour show, week after week, becomes a symbol for all of life’s relentless pursuits: the career that consumes, the passion that isolates, the success that demands sacrifice. What MacLeod reminds us is that even noble labor can become a thief, stealing from the hearth what it gives to the world. The greatest danger is not in failure, but in forgetting what should come first.

The origin of these words is deeply personal. MacLeod, remembered fondly for his roles on The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Love Boat, lived much of his life in the glare of fame. He experienced both triumph and heartache, including divorce and later reconciliation with his beloved wife, Patti. Through the trials of his work and the distances fame demanded, he came to understand that success is hollow if it costs the ones who love you most. His words are not a complaint, but a confession—a gentle warning to those who chase dreams without anchoring their hearts in home.

There is an ancient echo here, for even the heroes of old faced this same trial. Consider Odysseus, the wanderer of Homer’s epic. Though he fought bravely in war and endured countless perils on his journey home, it took him twenty long years to return to his wife, Penelope. The gods themselves tested his loyalty, and though his adventures brought him fame, they also brought him sorrow. What good, then, is the victory of distant lands if the fires of home grow cold? MacLeod’s words, though spoken in the context of modern art, carry the same ancient lesson: a man’s truest success is not found in the applause of strangers, but in the constancy of love.

Time, that most elusive of treasures, must be spent wisely. A marriage, like a garden, cannot flourish without tending. A child’s laughter, a spouse’s companionship, an evening shared in stillness—these are not trivial moments but the foundations of the soul’s peace. When MacLeod speaks of people who should have top priority, he is naming the sacred order of life: that love must outrank labor, that relationships must stand before reputation. For though fame fades and fortune flees, love—if nurtured—endures beyond the years.

Yet this wisdom does not condemn work, nor passion. The ancients taught that each man must fulfill his purpose; the tragedy lies only when purpose blinds him to presence. The artist may still create, the leader may still serve, but both must remember that devotion must be shared between one’s calling and one’s companions. To give all of oneself to the world and nothing to those who love you is to build an altar to emptiness. The balance between work and love is not found once—it must be fought for daily, as a warrior guards his most sacred trust.

So let this be the lesson to all who labor beneath the weight of their ambitions: make time for love. When your days are long and your strength is spent, remember those who wait quietly for your presence. Let not your dreams become a wall between you and those who dream beside you. Return to them often; speak with them; cherish them. For one day, the curtain will fall, the applause will fade, and it will not be the world that holds you in your final hour—it will be the faces of those who loved you despite your absence.

And thus, in the gentle wisdom of Gavin MacLeod, we find an eternal truth: fame is fleeting, but love is forever. The true art of life lies not in performance, but in presence; not in striving, but in remembering. To succeed in your work is noble—but to succeed in love is divine.