Easter Tuesday

painting by Anne Cameron Cutri

Not that I am an amazing, or even adequate, housekeeper, but I do sometimes think of Lent as a time of cleaning (myself) up before a BIG EVENT. My pattern is to start out with a bang, vacuuming up all those Ash Wednesday ashes, paying close attention to the neglected baseboards and ceiling-corner-cobwebs. As the days and weeks tick by, that first rush of energy and enthusiasm is replaced by The Half-Hearted Slog, where I decide to stop dusting altogether--no one will see the top of that bookcase anyway. The kitchen junk drawer I was so keen to organize, is now crammed with even more junk, from other random places in the house. My Lenten prayer practices shoved in a drawer too, un-practiced.

Holy Week is the final push, where my usual church attendance doubles, even triples. I sincerely hope this year I will emerge from this sacred season with a new closeness to God, a new confidence in my faith, a new resolve to tackle the world’s problems (which, btw, I am more excited to tackle that my own personal ones). This is the point in the metaphor where I do my whirling dervish thing, broom in one hand and glass cleaner in the other, madly prepping for Easter, in my home and heart. 

 

Good Friday is the day when I realize that, though I haven’t done nearly enough, it’s time to stop anyway. I’m as presentable as I’m going to be, and the doorbell is ringing. Death will come calling for me some day, as it does for everyone--even for Jesus. I sat in St. Peter’s Lafayette Hill on Friday night, at a beautiful service anchored by two pastors, and by music presented by Sheridan and Ya-Jhu, and their combined congregations’ choirs. At the conclusion, after one by one the candles had been extinguished, we left in darkened silence. I thought of my own mortality in the light of eternity, and I felt, not dread, but a profound sense of peace. 

 

Then came the liminal day (Holy Saturday) of waiting, followed by the Sunday joy of resurrection, of an empty tomb, of hope fulfilled. Yesterday, Easter Monday, was one final pause before the kids went back to school, before normal daily life resumed. 

 

But what about today? Is there such a thing as Easter Tuesday?

 

I believe there is. I think today is much like the Tuesday after Labor Day (for us, the first day of the new school year.) Just as every summer has disrupted our routines, and in some way changed us, so we wake up each Easter Tuesday as different people. Not perfect people; we still have our cobwebs and dust in the corners. But we’ve made it through another Lent, and, if we allow it to happen, we can keep at least some of our own “resurrection” going, on into the rest of our lives. We can hold onto some peace. And joy. And hope. 

 

So Happy Easter Tuesday. And Wednesday. And beyond.

Here's an arrangement by Sheridan, performed by Trio Barclay on their new album "Trinity."

A Few of My Brilliant Things

 

It happens often. You hear the glad tidings: “Coming Soon! 2 Fast 2B Furious 15! Your favorite action stars collide in this hilarious, horrifying addition to the ancient and beloved series!” Then, after seeing it, you feel totally let down.

That was my fear before traveling to NYC on Wednesday to see Every Brilliant Thing, a solo show starring Daniel Radcliffe (with a good bit of audience participation.) Reviews were very enthusiastic. I knew EBT dealt with themes of depression and suicide (and I am all for more awareness and stigma-busting of these issues). I’d seen Radcliffe’s terrific performance in the musical Merrily We Roll Along, and was, of course, aware that he WAS Harry Potter in all those movies. So, perhaps, I’d set myself up for disappointment.

 

Thankfully, the show delivered. Radcliffe was so engaging and charming, and his interaction with audience members was delightful. He showed great range, embodying everyone from a sad seven-year-old trying to keep his suicidal mom alive (and pouring out his heart to a sock puppet), to a spouse realizing the impact of his own depression on his marriage. He sang and danced. He cried. At one point, he ran exuberantly through the theatre, high fiving everyone.

 

The script has been performed quite a bit over the past decade, but it had never made it to Broadway. Radcliffe says he’d planned to take time off from acting but, after reading Every Brilliant Thing, he felt called to do this play. 

 

What did he—and I—find so compelling? The unifying image of noticing, then writing down, all the little and big things that make life worthwhile. What started as a plea from a little boy to his mother to keep going (Brilliant Thing #1: Ice Cream!), grew to encompass the beautiful moments in all of life: “Waking up next to someone you love.” As the show went on, and the numbers of brilliant things multiplied into the hundreds of thousands, many shouted out from the audience on cue, the power of this idea became clear…for all the pain in life, there are still so, so many reasons to keep on living. 

 

The show’s website invites people to share their own “brilliant things,” and keep growing a master list. Here are just a few of mine:

 

*Hearing your baby laugh for the first time

*Watching sunrise over the ocean on a beach, alone

*Reconciling with an old friend after a serious argument

*Permanent Press!!!!

*Mahler's Symphony #2

*Having your spouse bring you coffee in bed every single morning of your marriage

 

I am sure you could each make your own list of the brilliant things in your lives, and I encourage you to do just that. Share it or don’t, that’s totally up to you. Just the act of noticing is enough. On Wednesday afternoon, in a sad and difficult time for our world, a simple little play reminded me that MY life is filled with brilliant things, places, and people. And I'm so grateful.

 

Hooray for permanent press--ixnay on the ironway!

Mother Nature Issues Her Final Warning

Me in Kailua, Hawaii in 2011

Oahu, Hawaii, where my sister Carolyn has lived since 2012, has traditionally been the kind of place where meteorologists phone in the exact same forecast (“sunny and pleasant”) on repeat 24/7, 365 days/year. In recent weeks, though, Mom Nature has unleashed record rainstorms and flooding and misery there, and at this writing she hasn’t let up yet. This on top of the deadly wildfire that wreaked havoc on Maui just two years ago.

Needless to say, I have my plane ticket to Honolulu, to celebrate C’s 65th birthday next month. I check the weather obsessively, which is ridiculous this far out. I read Hawaii tourism updates, which currently say things like: many roads are still impassable, sunrise tours to Haleakala cancelled, ocean too dangerous to swim—followed by: “But don’t let that stop you from visiting beautiful Hawaii!” (written in tone of true desperation). 

I’ve never lived in a tropical clime. I count on lousy weather throughout the year, from winter ice storms (Atlanta) and blizzards (Philly and Boston), to heat and possible hurricanes (Delaware shore in August). As I watch my energizer bunny hubby Steve shovel the driveway yet again, or venture out in dangerous lightning storms to buy coffee (because, face it, life has to be worth living, which requires caffeine), I contemplate a time when yours truly might be called upon to battle inclement weather. After contemplating this for about 30 seconds, I decide to reject this possibility. 

 

But if I were to go it alone at some point, the right climate would be extremely important to me. And while I pay lip service to enjoying the glories of autumn leaves and sun glistening on snow, in reality I’m only truly happy with clear skies and 75 degrees.

 

But where IS that paradise? It’s getting harder to pinpoint. Blistering winter temps in San Francisco! Polar vortex—in southern Texas! Europe’s summers are now sweltering, parts of Asia are seeing record-setting monsoons. The UN issued a statement this week, saying our planet is being pushed to its limits for human habitation. That seems like an understatement—especially with the rapid, gleeful dismantling of any and all regulations aimed at protecting the environment. Scary, scary stuff…though apparently not to our leaders, most of whom are well into middle age and beyond (won’t affect us, we’ll be dead! Is their motto) They are behaving like heedless revelers who totally trash the party location, then leave the mess behind. 

 

I’m a mom, and I so identify with Mother Nature right now. If the powers that be choose to do nothing, well then, it’s time for some (very) Tough Love! Let’s send the oil company execs to deal with the drought in Sub-Saharan Africa! Let’s make our hapless Congresspersons fight the West Coast wildfires themselves! In other words, it’s time for the kids to start doing some chores around here. Ma Nature is fed up. 

 

No pizza or video games until this planet is PERFECT, you hear? Now get a move on!

The Humming Bluebird of Happiness

It’s the most annoying time of year, when all my bird-loving buddies wax(wing) rhapsodic over the “hummingbirds” and “bluebirds” and other mythological creatures they enjoy, flocking to their backyard feeders and baths. I mean, come on, guys! I did not just fall off a turnip truck! There are no such birds! I should know, because I have done everything in my power to attract them. I have set up bright red feeders, because legend has it hummers favor bold color choices. Also for those elusive and picky little buzzers, I have whipped up batches of sticky-sweet nectar from sugar water, but they’ve just drawn bees and grown mold. So tell me—where ARE the hummingbirds? Oh right, they’re in YOUR yard. I rather doubt it! 

Then of course there is the so-called bluebird. These apparitions magically appear when you hang a certain type of feeder in a specific place (on a pole, facing east for the morning sun), and provide the chirpers with a diet of fresh (not dried) mealworms. Let me just say that I do not go to this trouble for my own home and family’s food. I have no clue which part of my dwelling gets the morning sun, even after 36 years of dwelling here. And if FRESH mealworms were not conveniently located, my kids were always happy to eat the dried ones! 

 

I haven’t gone so far as to plant specific flowers for birdie-luring, because that would be excessive. Do I really want to encourage a passel of spoiled feathered brats? “Oh, you prefer sumac, tupelo and chokecherries, little friend? Planted at various spots around the yard, with open space between? Your wish is my command, Mr. Bluebird—oh wait, Ms. Hummingbird would like a word. You vastly prefer trumpet flowers, lupines and cuphea? But of course! Any other special requests? Transforming peonies? Hindu lotus flowers? Yggdrasil trees (said to connect the nine Norse worlds)? How about a Bodhi tree (Buddha’s favorite)? Oh, and don’t forget a birdbath large enough to accommodate five or six of you. With a gurgling fountain, s’il vous plait? Why the heck not? I have absolutely nothing better to do with my time and money than indulge a flaky and finicky crew of STUPID BIRDS!!!!”

 

I’m sorry, got a little emotional. It’s just my jealousy showing. Everyone else makes the slightest effort, and the exotic species beat a path to their gardens. Whereas I could create a fabulous BirdieWorld, and I still wouldn’t attract anything rarer than sparrows and the occasional robin. Because, like everything else in nature, the common denominator of failure…is me. Really. I pass by, and the sunflowers droop, the lilies wilt, the daffodils lose their daffiness. And the bluebirds and hummingbirds (if they exist at all!) fly far, far away. It’s the Curse of Elise, and I need to own it.

 

So I’ll have to content myself with looking at photos of beautiful birds, and listening to songs about them. That will at least be… cheeper. 

For Rent

 

Me as Jane, Aladdin's wisecracking genie

I spent my entire first 20-year career (I career in 20-year batches) performing in our children’s theatre plays, always pretending to be someone else. I portrayed everyone from Smee the pirate in Peter Pan, to Marie Curie in Science People. These were not subtle impersonations; my interpretations were super-energetic and rather slapstick-y. But to our four-year-old audiences, I WAS Cinderella, Alice in Wonderland, etc. I felt like quite the celeb on the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk when a tiny tot would point and shout, “Mommy! It’s Snow White!” 

 

I’m long retired from show biz, and I no longer hide behind comic characters. I still identify with actors, though, especially those who are just scraping by, waiting for the elusive Big Break. Steve and I watched Rental Family the other night, starring Brendan Fraser as just such an actor. Fraser plays Philip, an American living in Japan, whose main claim to fame is playing a tube of toothpaste in a commercial. He ends up working for a company called Rental Family, which provides performers for actual life situations. Philip is tapped to be the “father” a little girl has never met, to increase the child’s chances of being accepted at an exclusive private school. Over time, he becomes emotionally involved with the family and—well, I won’t spoil this excellent movie for you. 

 

I had assumed the premise was not based on real life, but soon learned that, in Japan, these agencies really exist. You can saunter in and rent a groom for your wedding, or mourners for your funeral. Japanese society has certain rigid rules of conduct, and these pretend place-holders serve an important function—to be cover for a person operating outside the norms.

 

America has no such emphasis on conformity, so I doubt the idea would be popular here. In the USA, you can basically do whatever the heck you want, as long as you aren’t breaking the law (and, as we’re discovering, even lawbreaking no longer matters much).

 

But, if things were different, I could imagine myself as a person-renter. Several times in my life, I’d have loved to hire a surrogate to have a difficult conversation with a co-worker, or to beef up attendance at my birthday party, or to take my driver’s test for me.

 

How about you? What aspects of YOUR life would you love to outsource to a stranger? How about a “boyfriend” to break up with, and fool your folks? How about hiring a “chauffeur” to impress a visiting client? Do you agree that constructing a fabulous You 2.0 would be fun?

 

On second thought, I have a tough enough time keeping reality straight. Instead of paying for extra people to role-play and enhance my image, maybe I’d better just focus on being unexciting me, doing my best in real life interactions. 

 

I won’t look like a big winner, for sure, and I most definitely will continue to mess up. 

But on the bright side, the honesty will be good for my budget. 

Scamalot!

my sweet and too-trusting mother

While I certainly do miss her, I am grateful that my mom passed away in 2006, before the Internet became the morass it is today. It was bad enough that any random anonymous caller could (and did) keep Mom on the telephone for an hour. I can’t imagine what a financial pickle my mother would be in, were she to have been on the receiving end of scam emails. I feel so badly for my friends who are navigating this mess with their own elderly parents these days. 

And most disgusting of all are the creeps who call, pretending to be a relative in trouble (a nephew in police custody needing bail money, or a sister begging for $$$ to get home quickly from East Westvania). 

 

Not to brag, but I bet I'm probably the target of more scams than you are. I’ve learned to spot them, but early on I nearly fell for this scary message: “I’m from Microsoft, and you have a computer virus. If you let me take over your computer screen, I will fix it for you.” My favorites are the sloppy con people who send you emails with fishy addresses like Yourbank@geemail.com; “Gee,” I don’t think so! 

 

And lemme tell you, the tricksters are getting trickier every day. No more the easily-spotted, often misspelled pleas from Nigerian princes! No, with the help of A.I., the writing is smooth, and shows a very unsettling knowledge of their mark (moi). Here’s a recent email from one Carole M. Larson, Book Consultant (whatever the heck that is):

 

Hi Elise Seyfried,

 

I recently came across Everyday Matters and was genuinely drawn to its warmth, humor, and grounded spirituality. The way you illuminate the sacredness of ordinary life parenting, aging, faith, and daily routines creates a deeply relatable and comforting experience for readers who are seeking meaning in the midst of everyday chaos.

 

Books like Everyday Matters tend to resonate quietly but powerfully over time. Rather than relying on trends, they find loyal readers through trust, word-of-mouth, and thoughtful discoverability especially among faith-based audiences, parents, and readers drawn to reflective, spiritually grounded nonfiction.

 

And, cleverer still, the famous writers who suddenly want to be my pen pal: Stephen King...Nora Roberts...George Saunders... how flattering that these busy, super-successful authors have time to reach out to little old me with the digital hand of friendship!

 

Much like the flim-flammers of old, the 2026 versions are quite charming, and poised to take full advantage of people's naïveté and good nature. Well, joke’s on them! I am both sophisticated and crabby! They won’t get one dime of the $59.72 in MY bank account!

 

Seriously, though, I dream of a better world, in which this type of individual uses their smarts for good. I can see a reformed con artist pretending to be our president, on a call to Putin, and actually ending the Ukraine war.

 

Forget that--no one on earth would believe Trump was suddenly a master negotiator.

 

Not even Mom.

I'm a Poet, and I Know It!

Move over, Bard of Avon! It's the Bard of Oreland!

I’ve been reading tons of poetry lately, most of it pretty good. While I wrote a library-load of poems in my youth, with a renaissance during my bipolar crisis, I do not, generally, wax poetic. 

I much prefer other literary forms--personal essay, Op-Ed, grocery list. But having consumed a whole lotta rhymes recently, to say nothing of pages-long free verse epics, I feel inspired, and empowered, to throw my Shakespearean hat in the ring once more, and see what develops! 

 

But how to select from the smorgasbord of poetic choices?

 

I considered penning limericks, or villanelles, or cinquains, before settling on two: the Japanese haiku form, and the sonnet. 

 

The haiku’s plusses include: brevity (17 syllables total) focus (nature, or a specific, vivid moment in time), and an undeniable cool factor. 

 

The sonnet is a bit of a show-off ("I'm cleverer! Read me!" ) but I I feel like it’s more of a legit poem, right? I mean, who goes around bragging that they have a haiku memorized? Whereas sonnetizing is pretty darned impressive! I will rise to the ABAB CDCD EFEF GG challenge!

 

Shall we embark then, my verse-loving friends?

 

HAIKU WHILE-U-WAIT  

 

Forgotten milk in the fridge

Well past its expiration date

Gone from drinkable to edible

 

Manhattan’s soot-covered snow mounds

NY kid me thought

Every snowman was filthy dirty

 

My son forages, 

Then sautés his mushroom finds.  

Enjoy them! I’ll pass

 

Loved Wild Kingdom,

Mutual of Omaha!

But I went with Progressive

 

ROMANTIC SONNET 

 

My love for you is like a first-class flight

With champagne cocktails and no baggage fees

Like Magic Kingdom fireworks at night

Like endless boneless wings at Applebee's

 

My passion is as strong as Crazy Glue

That I spilled (oops!) onto your brand-new rug

The carpet is forever stuck on you,

As I am stuck as well! Let’s have a hug!

 

I cling to you, my object of desire,

Like Cling Wrap on a pack of burger meat

My adoration burns like a grease fire

From frying pork chops at too high a heat

 

I’m out of words and so I close, you see

Now it’s your turn to write your love for me

 

BREAKUP SONNET

 

I waited for your poem. It never came.

So much for rhyming what was in my heart!

That was a waste of time, and quite a shame

I’ll just take my thesaurus and depart.

 

No point in saying sorry--it’s too late!

I’m off to find a man who’s worth the work.

I’m off to find a much more grateful date

Than YOU, you boor! You clod! You dud! You jerk!

 

I’ve learned my lesson. I will never share

My writing talents with another guy.

I’m done with love! I vow, I pinky-swear!

No more the joy, no more the anguished cry!

 

But wait—Is that a sonnet that I see?

All’s forgiven! (if your poem’s for me)!

 

Woo hoo! Going forward, every single blog post will be in iambic pentameter. Promise!

 

Hey! Where are you going?