On the Hunt

Rose Brooklyn show 2013

                                                              (click the link above for a bit of her performance)                                       

                         

Honestly. What is my problem? 

I am neither hoarder nor pitch-er, but dwell in the twilight zone between. This means that I save tons of random stuff BUT I take care to always throw away the important things. This becomes evident during my infrequent deep digs, on the trail of a special photo, school paper, CD, etc. that I just KNOW is here somewhere. When the spirit moves me, I upend my life in search of The Missing Item. As the hours pass, the hunt takes on a frantic quality, the importance of the quest blown all out of proportion. It’s sort of like looking for a soccer participation trophy, circa 1995, with the same zeal as looking for the Holy Grail.

Often, one lost thing leads to the next, and then the next. Case in point: a few weeks ago, Rose and I began working on updating my website. In addition to streamlining the descriptions of my essays, I decided to add to the “video” section. The first few additions were easy (film from my virtual Story Slam performance, my presentation in my This is My Brave production.) But then…

I became obsessed with locating the video of an interview I gave when my second book, Underway, came out in 2012. I KNOW I had it at one point, though in what form I haven’t a clear memory. The ensuing rabbit hole was littered with searches of YouTube, Vimeo, every single promising file on my computer. I even went back through every last email from 2012 that had an attachment which could possibly be the video. No luck.

From there, it was an easy leap to Rose and HER missing materials. Where, oh where, was the tape of her Berklee College of Music audition (2007)?? I cannot imagine losing track of my daughter singing “Your Daddy’s Son” so sweetly (and successfully-she was accepted). And yet I obviously did. When I came up empty there, my next search was for her solo show in Brooklyn in 2013. Shockingly, there wasn’t a trace of it on my laptop. Julie to the rescue, however; she sent me a few clips she’d filmed that night of her sister onstage, performing original electronic music. But…but…where was Rose’s senior recital? Heck, Steve and I had driven all the way to Boston for it and, as I recall, been super-impressed with her work. Not, apparently, impressed enough to save a single snippet.

So here I am, reflecting on MANY hours I’ll never get back, looking in vain for things that I really, really should have kept tabs on. I am surrounded by a multitude of saved test papers from 4^th grade and Preschool cut-and-pasted “artwork” instead. 

Guess I’d better toss the junk in a box once again, and resign myself to the loss of my treasures.

But wait. Don’t I still have the VHS tape of Evan playing jazz piano in that high school concert? Surely I’d never throw THAT away! 

Or…would I?

Thank the good Lord I saved THIS gem!! (Btw those aren't zeros, they are O's for Outstanding!!)

A Little Tubing Trip Down the Ol' Alimentary Canal

Get well flowers from Pat and Ashlyn

For my first blog post of Summer 2021, an appropriate subject would have been the delightful pastime of floating on an inner tube lazily down a river. Believe me, I’d much rather write about THAT kind of tubing trip! Instead, buckle up for the dramatic saga of my NG (nasal-gastric) tube and its perilous journey down the alimentary canal, AKA my digestive tract.

Looking back with my usual impeccable 20/20 hindsight, I should have taken my recent bouts of heartburn as a warning. I think I just didn’t want to be bothered with antacids and the like. I remembered my mom’s lifelong battle with acid indigestion. Instead of changing her diet, quitting smoking, etc. Joanie opted for chugging Maalox straight from the bottle. That form of self-medicating had zero appeal—I much preferred to tough it out. The stinging sensation always passed eventually, and hey! It wasn’t nearly as bad as labor! Btw that is my benchmark for all my illnesses and injuries—does it top the exquisite agony of childbirth? Not quite? Then it’s nothing!

But neglecting myself caught up with me last Monday night, when I woke up and suddenly began (trigger alert) vomiting blood. My first response was to just go back to bed, but then it sank into my thick skull that this could possibly be something serious, so it was off to the ER at 4 AM. What followed was 14 hours of misery, languishing in an emergency room cubicle bed because the hospital had no available rooms. I figured I’d be stuck with needles and X-rayed and tested for this and that, and I was. I did NOT factor in the NG tube (cue the foreboding music in a minor key).

Pre-ordeal, this procedure was variously described to me by the attending medical personnel as: “pretty unpleasant,” “ a little uncomfortable” and my personal favorite, “not the most fun.” So what? thought I. Couldn’t be as bad as labor!

Turns out, it was—or at least the insertion of the ungodly long piece of tubing into my nostril, down my throat and esophagus and into my stomach gave my old contractions a run for their money. It didn’t help that the nurse assigned to this task was more drill sergeant than Flo Nightingale. His was a “tough love” approach, barking orders at me as I gulped and gagged and swallowed. When I finally got it down, I croaked, “how long will this be in?” He gruffly responded, “As long as it takes!” and disappeared, never to be seen again. 

In the end, it was nine miserable hours before the tube was removed, after an endoscopy. Ouch!

I shouldn’t complain; many other people have endured The Notorious NG. And turns out I only have a little gastritis, remedied by some dietary adjustments and time. I’m home now, with just a sore throat and swollen neck to remind me of my “not the most fun” tubing adventure. 

Happy Summer! It can only improve from here! Right?

Finally got a room for the  overnight stay...

Birdcalling

 

I guess there’s something about getting older that makes you zero in on earthly things you’ve been taking for granted. While I am still no one’s definition of Nature Girl, I’ve recently been focusing on (at least registering) the symphony of sounds in our yard. In addition to the usually pleasant tones of Aiden and Peter’s voices at play, or Stevo’s colorful language when the BBQ grill coals don’t heat up fast enough, I discovered that there is plenty of noise from actual BIRDS on the Seyfried property!! SINGING birds!! As I assume these chirpers and trillers have been making music for a while now, the missing link has been me, the would-be listener.

But I’m making up for lost time, thanks to a terrific picture book I bought for the boys, The Little Book of Backyard Bird Songs. In addition to full color photos and great descriptions about the local feathered friends, there are buttons to push that play their individual calls. As of today I can distinguish between the cardinal’s and the blue jay’s voices (the cardinal is very tuneful; the blue jay sounds just like an obnoxious heckler at a comedy club). We have a number of mourning doves hanging around, and “mourning” is an accurate name for them. Their cooing is indeed plaintive! I’m tempted to hire them to play my funeral, fluttering around the church and inspiring intense grief from the gathered, much like the hired mourners of old. With my luck, however, they wouldn’t make a sound, and would just anoint everybody with bird poop, so maybe I’ll rethink that plan. I’m still slightly confused between the calls of the house wren and the robin, but I’m sure that’ll come clear with a bit more study of my--I mean, the boys’--little book.

Animal communication is fascinating. Julie and Rose tell me that when they bring their dogs together for a Brooklyn walk, Ruby (who is normally silent and undemonstrative in the extreme), runs in happy circles, tail wagging wildly, when Lumi rounds the corner and comes into view. Is Lumi aware of Ruby’s rare display of emotion? I’m guessing so, on some level. And of course there are many touching stories of chimps who use sign language (I think they only do that with Jane Goodall, but I might be mistaken), elephant babies who pine forever for their lost moms, etc. So people have company in the talky/feely department!! Who knew? (I didn’t, or at least never gave it much thought). 

Lest you think I am becoming the female equivalent of Doctor Doolittle, rest assured I am not. I have no ambitions to “talk with the animals,” and plan to chat mainly with human beings. But enjoying the orchestra of birds in my own backyard, and imagining their rich treetop conversations, charms me, and reminds me to pay more attention to the natural world in general. 

Off to the deck with my coffee, ready for another concert performance. This is pretty cool!

Birdsongs Seyfried Yard

Viva il Pomodoro!

 

You say "tomato," I say "awesome way to get organized"!

When is a tomato not a tomato? 

When it is a timer!

The “Pomodoro” method of time management has been kicking around for several years. Developed by Francesco Cirillo, who was inspired by a red, tomato-shaped timer (“pomodoro” is “tomato” in Italian), it’s basically “slicing” your productive/creative times into 25 minute segments of focused work, followed by five minute breaks. You re-set the timer and repeat as many times as you like (or need for your project), remembering to take one longer break after every four Pomodoros. 

I found out that 25 minutes is apparently an optimum chunk of time for full concentration, which makes sense to me—my mind begins wandering off 25 minutes into a movie, or a church service, or even a conversation! Those little five minute breaks (enough for a drink of water) are sufficient to refresh and regroup for the next round of tasks. 

After learning about this nifty technique, I of course put it right out of my head until the other day, when I noticed that Ya-Jhu had purchased one for Aiden. I oohed and aahed, and she promptly gave it to me (not to worry, she’d bought a spare). 

So now I have a glistening ruby red timer ticking away on my desk. My maiden Pomodoro voyage was during a session of an online writing group I joined recently, The London Writers' Salon. The LWS (which is indeed UK based) is a virtual space for writers to gather and spend 50 minutes silently working on their own projects. I have loved it (it’s on Zoom, and we keep our cameras on for accountability); just knowing I’m in the (quiet) company of at least 120 writers from around the world is really inspiring. 

I am not exactly a Math Whiz, but even I could figure out that the LWS sessions are exactly two Pomodoros long. I try to choose “bite-sized” activities (a blog post, a meditation for church) that I can polish off in that time period. It’s often a race against the clock to get it done before the bell rings, but so far I’ve been successful. 

I am determined to see this experiment through (unlike my “Best Self” daily journal that I update only sporadically, so I guess I’m not really my “Best Self” after all, or setting the alarm on my phone for an hour and then totally forgetting why I set the darned thing). The whimsical shape of my little timer keeps me from taking it all too seriously, but the relentless ticking reminds me that I have a job to do and 25 minutes to do it. Plus “pomodoro” gets me reminiscing fondly about our trip to Italy a few years ago. That food! Did I ever tell you about the incredible seafood dinner we had in Venice? In that adorable trattoria in that little square? 

So delicious!

Oops! Off track, perhaps, but I hit my 500 words, so I pronounce this post complete!  And with five minutes to spare! 

Garden Spot

My five, in the verdant paradise that is our back yard these days

For most of the 32 years we have resided at our house in East Oreland, our back yard has served most reliably as a punchline in my stories. My confession that I have the black thumb of doom. The former owners somehow sensing when another of their exotic plantings has expired on our watch. The tale of the dead tree that almost crashed through our family room window. 

Then there are the incidents that have not made it into print (until now), like the sink hole that appeared on the lawn, gradually (then not so gradually) sinking deeper until I had nightmares of Aiden or Peter disappearing into it. Steve finally did something about it, purchasing several times as much fill dirt as was needed. The look (and safety) of the back yard instantly improved, but the eyesore of the extra pile of dirt remained for months in our driveway, available (free!) but unclaimed. 

We planted tulip and iris bulbs once or twice, quite haphazardly, over the decades. Each spring we were either disappointed when nothing at all bloomed, or amazed when random daffodils and peonies blossomed instead (relics of the Master Gardeners who'd previously resided at 122). Surprise!

Eventually, the excuse that “we are at the shore all summer” wore thin. For one thing, we were no longer away from mid-June until Labor Day; it was more like 6-7 weeks tops. Also, Sheridan, Ya-Jhu and the boys are at the beach for some, but not all, of that time. Finally, Steve travels back and forth a lot, overseeing our busy Family Stages performance schedule in the Philly area. But still our property languished, until…

Until the pandemic, and its enforced idleness, inspired my hubby to make something of our little plot of land. Last summer he redid our back deck, an achievement that has brought us endless joy, as we have been able to see family and a few friends for safely distanced gatherings outdoors. This winter he planned our VERY first vegetable and herb garden, and planted it in early spring. Things are coming up: radishes mostly so far, but also parsley, chives, basil, mint, tarragon. It is a real luxury as a cook to just step outside and snip the herbs I need for a recipe (rather than shell out $$$ at the market for miniscule amounts). 

I love watching my grandsons watering the plants and oohing and aahing over the sprouting seedlings, an experience I had never had in my entire life. Evan, who was home recently for a visit, has become quite the plant and tree aficionado, and pointed out a variety of spruce that I had heretofore identified as “that big one over there”. 

I am humbly grateful that there are now Farming Seyfrieds, and can’t wait for the zucchini and peppers. As we finally emerge from the pandemic, hope for the future springs up, just like the feathery carrot tops. 

And as I survey our small Eden, I see that it is good. 

Garden of Eden (embroidered panel, British, 16th century)