Happy for You (Really)

With two very talented writer friends, Casey and Robin (Robin is on my right)

I read an interesting article in The New York Times online the other day, about something the author called “freudenfreude,” the opposite of “schadenfreude." Schadenfreude is defined as "taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune" (“how the mighty have fallen!” said with glee). I’m not a ninny; I know it’s not uncommon in human nature to feel this way periodically. And, full disclosure, I have felt a smidge of it myself at times--not when someone is actually suffering, mind you, but when their charmed life hits a little snag. Not proud of myself, but there it is.

True to form, the comments section lit up, with quite a few can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees folks taking exception to the word “freudenfreude” itself. “But it isn’t even really German—it’s a made-up word!” they huffed. Others offered instead the Buddhist word “mudita,” which, it turns out, means the exact same thing. I kept getting back to: who cares what it’s called? Celebrating others’ good fortune, might just save the world.

 

Think about it. Why are there wars? Simple answer: I want what you have. I’m not happy until you suffer. Why is there such absurd disparity between the top 1% of the population and the rest of us? Billionaires could shed many of their billions, while still keeping so many more, by feeding the world’s hungry and housing the homeless. Yet many choose not to. Are they actively pleased that others are in need? I'm sure not. But there is, there has to be, a large degree of indifference. In both of these situations, our fellow humans are either wished the worst, or else ignored entirely. 

 

My good writer friend Robin sold a terrific piece today, to a wonderful online magazine that is one of my dream publications. Her essay is a perfect fit for the site, and I am genuinely delighted for her. In this case, my “freudenfreude” (or whatever it’s called) comes easily; Robin is a lovely person, and has been a huge supporter of me and my writing. But before I got a cramp from patting myself on the back, I forced myself to imagine someone I truly dislike, someone who has been really unkind to me, achieving similar success. How would I feel then? 

 

That, my friends, is the real test. It’s the Jesus test. Love your enemies. In practice, wish them well. Celebrate them. Wish them into a better place. Be a mirror for them, reflecting a more enlightened, happier, peaceful way of being. And if they don’t respond in kind, you’ve made it a better world just by trying.

 

How do we spread love and joy in the often loveless and joyless place where we find ourselves? Can we ever make this the Peaceable Kingdom, lion and lamb lying down together? 

 

We have a lousy track record, but I haven’t lost faith yet. Deep down I believe most of us WANT to live in a world where we are truly happy for each other. 

 

It sure beats the alternative.

Talking Turkey

Charades after dinner! Always! But maybe not this year?

At long last, the truth comes out.   

Rose does not like turkey, never has.   

Actually, I’m not a big fan either. Julie is a vegetarian. Evan will be in Seattle. Steve, Sheridan and Patrick tend to enjoy Food, however it presents itself. Ya-Jhu is also quite agreeable. By the time I cut up Aiden and Peter's portions, those bitty-bites of meat might just as well be beef, fish, or pork (they are dutifully consumed, the sacrificial slog that must come before the reward--dessert).   

But a Traditional Feast has always been weirdly important to me (maybe not so weirdly; I’m haunted by the memories of horrific Thanksgiving dinners cooked by Mom, and have spent my adult life in active opposition to those and most other aspects of my upbringing).   So all these years I’ve been filling the oven with a mammoth, relatively tasteless bird, and I didn’t need to???  

It’s OK, truly. My daughter came up with a solid Plan B, still in the poultry family. Rose suggested we fry chicken and serve it with all the other regular trimmings. It does feel strange to be at T-Day Minus 1 without juggling fridge space for a thawing Butterball, but no regrets. I have a great recipe for fried chicken: boneless thighs, marinated in buttermilk and spices, then rolled in flour mixed with some baking powder (yes! And the resulting crust is so tasty you don’t even realize there’s no chicken skin!)   

Christmas has also evolved over the decades, with multiple church jobs and traveling offspring affecting such things as schedule and manner of gift opening (one year Evan “watched” the unwrapping via FaceTime from Thailand). We’ve been trying to get our annual holiday soup dinner with our dear friends the Carlsons on the calendar (in person after a pandemic hiatus), so far without success. I’m resigned to the strong possibility that this event will be postponed into the new year. And those beloved Seyfried family Christmas benefit concerts? They are definitely a thing of the past. 

I’ve been trying to go with the flow, and look at the bright side of all these adjustments—less stress than when the bar is set sky high, as it used to be. I’m trying hard to banish the impulse to take everything ridiculously over the top.  A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving spread would not have cured what ailed my family of origin; neither will my super-efforts magically make everything perfect in the family I’ve helped create. Deep down I know that love is the only truly vital component of all festive family celebrations, as it is of life in general. And I definitely feel the love, no matter the population of our dinner table, and which dishes served.   

As President Biden “pardons” Chocolate and Chip (this years’ ceremonial White House gobblers), may I pardon myself. May I set myself free from all the “must dos,” and just enjoy whatever Thanksgiving Day 2022 brings.   

But we WILL watch the Macy’s parade. Some things are non-negotiable.

Thanksgiving 2014--no Peter yet (we didn't know what we were missing)

Serially

I’ve recently been reading Louise Penny’s mysteries. They are set in rural Three Pines, Quebec, and star the flawed, fascinating Chief Inspector Armand Ganache and a gallery of wonderfully eccentric characters. Penny's fan club is legion (Hillary Clinton even co-authored her thriller State of Terror). I look forward to reading more, and thank my friend Becky for recommending this terrific author.

 

What is it about serials that is so compelling? My theory is that it’s their sheer predictability, the profound comfort of knowing that another installment, featuring characters that have become friends, is always brewing. As a child, I was a Superfan of both Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey Twins, and still remember the joy of holding the latest books of those series in my hands. So what if their escapades strained credulity? I was all in for the winsome Flossie and Freddie, as well as teen sleuth Nancy’s chums and her beau, the mellifluously named Ned Nickerson. In the midst of regular personal life upheavals (seven schools in three states over the years), I could always curl up under the covers with my familiar fictional posse, and feel right at home.   

 

I remember my kids finding similar solace with different series, which also sparked their love of reading in general (I didn’t care if they were reading Isaac Asimov’s masterful Foundation collection or the Goosebumps books, as long as they were turning the pages). And now here we are with Aiden and Peter, devouring the latest Big Nate and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Do I take equal pleasure from these tomes, with their simplistic line drawings and numerous potty references? Of course not, but it is great to witness the boys’ excitement when the newest book in a favorite series drops.   

 

As a writer, I am hyperconscious about repeating myself (confession: before writing this, I searched my previous 560 plus posts to make sure this subject hadn’t been covered before). I am a brutal self-editor: I recently caught myself writing “in the face of___” twice in a 1000 word essay, and was appalled. I hate the idea that any of my prose reminds the reader of stuff I’ve written before, and much prefer the image of the polymath who zips effortlessly around the verbal landscape, forging new pathways for the reader’s neurons.   

 

But then I had a conversation last week with someone who has been reading my own four books of essays. She wasn't put off by their familiarity. She was enjoying them precisely because they WERE familiar, with characters she came to know and care about, a comfortable refuge in a topsy-turvy world. There are far worse reasons for reading a book (or writing one--I'm currently putting Book #5 together).

 

So, dear reader, please think of this whole blog as a serial. And when you inevitably come to a repeated word or phrase, or even an entire derivative post, just remember: I’m doing this on purpose to make you feel cozy and safe!   

You're welcome!

Testing that theory since November, 2011!

Who Cares?

Not nearly as important as I think

My self-esteem, forged in the crucible of a Catholic education in the 1960s, has always been rather shaky. So why, when confronted with the obvious global indifference to many of my own choices and practices, am I bewildered and, even, a bit hurt?

Case in point: NO one, with the sole exception of Ya-Jhu, seems to have noticed that it is November and I am not writing a new blog post every day this month! I took on the challenge of daily postings six Novembers ago, and prided myself on consistently adding 30 new mini-essays to my total during the 11^th month each year. Whenever inspiration faltered, I imagined my legions of fans (OK, my handful) logging eagerly online for their daily dose of Elise style wit and wisdom, and I soldiered on. 

 

To be fair, in November, 2022, my life situation has utterly changed. “Retirement” for me has been a significant shift from writing part-time to full-time. Previously I patted myself on the back for any scribbling not connected to my church job. Now—well, I have no excuse for not churning out oodles of lucrative prose. So far, I’ve had a steady stream of paid writing gigs, and I’ve been diligent about pursuing new leads and calls for submissions and pitches. Much as I took a measure of satisfaction from my annual blog-a-thons, they weren’t exactly payin’ the bills. And so, at least for now, I decided to pull back and post an entry just once a week. 

 

Where is the outrage, I ask? Incredibly, the sun still rises and sets, babies are born, autumn leaves continue to flutter from branches. Rumor has it that we even had an election (just kidding, I voted at 7 AM yesterday, mostly for an end to those ridiculously dark and dystopian TV ads). In any event, in the grand scheme of things, my bold blogging non-move hasn’t caused even a tiny ripple in the pond of life. 

 

Something else that doesn’t seem to matter? How many steps I walk! Even my long-suffering hubby has wearied of my joyful noise when I top 10,000, and my corresponding sorrow on those blah days when my total is a measly 1500 steps (bed to desk to refrigerator to sofa). In Europe, where I logged over 20,000 nearly every day, there were no ticker-tape parades in my honor (annoyingly, Europeans just naturally expect to walk a lot). 

 

Be it physical fitness or literary output, it seems clear that, whenever I do chalk up a personal win, I’ve been expecting it to be top of mind FOR EVERYONE. But no more! Henceforth I will be comforted by the fact that people, generally, really don’t care that much one way or the other. Which sets me free from both imaginary great expectations and scathing critiques. 

 

Maybe next November (or April—why not?) I’ll get back to a daily blog. I may also work up to enough steps to break my Fitbit. 

 

If not, we’ll all be just fine. 

The Rest of the Story

Wouldn't that make a cool alarm clock?

In our last exciting episode of “Elise and Steve Conquer Europe,” we were quickly turning into two pork sausages, and walking more than I ever thought humanly possible (if that human is me). Now, as veteran radio commentator Paul Harvey used to say, it’s time for “the rest of the story.” Or at least a few impressions of our final two stops.

I had decided to save a little money and only buy transit passes for two of our four cities. Salzburg is small and eminently walkable (or climbable, if you’re nutty enough to attempt an Alp). Prague (or at least Old Town where we were staying) is also a reasonable walk/hike from and to anywhere. But we were glad to be able to hop on and off the U-Bahn in Munich and Vienna--at least once we figured them out. As we’d stand there on the subway platforms studying Google maps late at night, we felt utterly fearless. I had to compare this pleasant emotion to the sheer terror I always feel on New York and Philly public transportation, where looking even vaguely lost marks one instantly as easy prey. Sigh.

 

We stayed longest in Vienna, and loved every moment. Highlights included a beautiful classical concert at Musikverein, and learning about the mighty Habsburgs, including the lovely, doomed Empress Elisabeth--nicknamed “Sisi”-- who struggled mightily with depression, and was reportedly relieved to be killed by an anarchist. At the time, the family was still incredibly rich and powerful; Sisi’s story was a stark reminder that those things do not ensure happy lives. 

Steve at Schonbrunn, just one of the Habsburg palaces (the structure behind him isn't even the palace, it's just a "little something" in the gardens!)

On a lighter note, we really enjoyed a show at Vienna's Spanish Riding School, featuring the Royal Lippizaner horses, the majestic beasts performing routines set to (of course) classical music. We also took a delicious food tour of the city, complete with glasses of “storm,” a seasonal drink of fermented grape juice served before it becomes fully wine. 

With new friends, drinking up a "storm" in Vienna

Prague was our final locale, and it was magical. Our apartment was right next to the famous 15^th century astronomical clock, with figures of the 12 Apostles that come out of little doors every hour). We went to Prague Castle, took a cruise on the Vltava River, and ate great Czech food (not 100% pork products, there was also a lot of duck:-). On a day trip to the town of Kutna Hora, we visited the Bone Church, where hundreds of thousands of ancient human bones have been made into chandeliers, coats of armor, winged Angels of Death, etc. Strangely, it isn’t TOO creepy. 

How'd you like THAT hanging in your dining room?

We got home late last night, and are eager to give Aiden and Peter their Viennese chocolates, and regale the boys with tales of palaces, musical clocks, prancing horses and (of course) all those bones. 

 

Legend has it that touching the bronze statue of Saint John of Nepomuk on Prague’s Charles Bridge brings good luck. We did so, but there was really no need--we knew beyond doubt that we were already the lucky ones.