We Interrupt This Blog for an Important Announcement

Here we go again!

When I published my fourth book, In Discovery, in 2019, I decided I’d never write another essay collection. Four is my lucky number, and that volume seemed to be a natural end point for the “series.” I mean, how much was I, was life, going to change in the future? Not that much!

Mind you, this is someone who predicted that cassette tapes would be popular forever, midi skirts would not come back in fashion, and eating kale would never catch on. Obviously, my crystal ball turned out to be completely opaque, or I would have seen the last four crazy years coming, years in which the midi was revived, kale graced every single restaurant menu, and the cassette tape receded further into the distant past. With my abysmal prophetic track record, it is perhaps not a shock that, in fact, EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD has changed.  And these cataclysmic changes have been far more consequential than music, fashion, and trendy veggies.

 

Encouraged by some (OK, a few) friends and fans, I began to consider Book #5. This tome would cover the pandemic, Aiden and Peter’s continuing childhoods, my retirement from Christ’s Lutheran Church. Still, I found multitudinous excuses NOT to put a new book together. The living room needed to be painted! Meaning: Steve needed to paint the living room, and I needed to observe! The boys needed my undivided attention! Actually, Aiden and Peter are blessed with two very involved parental units, plus they’re getting to be more independent all the time. Oh, yes--I needed to process my final months at CLC! Except I now realize this is a “forever” process, and meanwhile I have to eat and sleep and, maybe, write another book.

 

Once I committed to the task, I went through the Five Stages of Writing--

Denial: it should only take me a week or two to finish

Anger: or at least envy of my fellow scribes, who seem to crank out book after book without breaking a sweat

Bargaining: “Dear God, help me go viral on a platform, any platform, and I’ll never trespass again!” Alas, my only “virals” still involve nasty stomachaches and fevers

Depression: after all these years, how can I STILL stink as a writer?

Acceptance: OK, back to work

 

As of today, the book is titled, formatted, book-cover-designed and back-cover-blurbed. I have reached out to locations for book launch parties (in Philly and at the beach). I am immersed in articles and websites that offer helpful marketing tips and tricks (much as I’d love to just sit back and field a zillion requests for copies, it seems I have to actually put in some work advertising this thing. Drat). 

 

Dear faithful friends, consider this my official announcement: Nanamorphosis: Reflections on an Ever-Evolving Life, is an actual thing! Soon to be a major motion picture! Or perhaps just a doorstop! (I am grateful for any purchase, and truly don’t mind if that's how you use the book--just don't tell me:-)

Pre-order here: www.eliseseyfried.com

Thanks SO much for your incredible support of me and my writing over the years!! I treasure you all!!

Conversation Hearts

First photo together (before we were a couple, so 1973)

My sweetheart of a husband and I went out for a Valentine’s Day mini-date (cocktails and appetizers) last night at a local eatery. We were discussing our days of auld lang syne, and while our voices weren’t loud, apparently they carried enough to get the attention of the couple seated right next to us. “Excuse us, but we were wondering—how long have you been together?” they inquired politely. We were happy to respond (initially), but when we did the math, “happy” became “appalled,” because our answer was…49 years. 49 consecutive Valentines Days together. A whisker away from a half-century. As we tallied it all up, I could feel my knees weaken, and I swear Steve’s hands began to shake. We’d forgotten to get Valentines for each other this year, so we exchanged Medicare cards instead.   

It got me thinking about those ubiquitous conversation heart candies, all those little love messages stamped on them. What would ours say?   Many are the conversations Steve and I have had lo these past (What did I just say? Oh, yeah, ALMOST 50) years. Some definitely involved hugs, kisses, chocolates and flowers (especially those early, smoochy years). The first Elise and Steve candy hearts would likely have read, “Be Mine” “Honey Bun” and “Me+You.”   

A few years later, the words on our hearts would have revolved around all the changes in our lives—changing cities, changing from apartments to houses, changing (many many) diapers: “You Move Me” “Hey, Baby” “Hey, More Babies.”   

Then there were the unremarkable middle decades, the settled-down time, when we fell into a comfortable routine (rut? Did somebody say rut? Never!) Those were the Valentine’s Days that could be captured in candy with the catchphrases “Content Mint” “and “Where’s Remote?”   

Luckily, I was clever enough to develop a significant mental illness, just in time to blast everything apart—thank Heavens for the angst and trauma that kept things fresh! “Bye, Polar” and “Nuts 4 U” screamed our angry little sugar hearts.   

Nowadays, we’re in a new place: not Blahs-ville, not Crazytown. Retireland? Maybe. Life continues to change, and sometimes it seems like a diminishing. We feel the cold in our bones now, and our joints. Steve’s hearing is going, so is my vision--as always, we are perfectly in sync. We yearn for warm spring weather, not merely to see the robins and tulips again, but to get past the icy “slip and fall” season. As we sip our drinks, we remember all the Februarys we have spent together, and wonder how many remain to us. Our current convo hearts might read: “Carpe Diem” and “Count On Me.” And, definitely, “Love U 4Ever.”   

When we tell the couple in the restaurant our magic number, they don’t say, “You’re been Valentines for 49 years? You sure don’t look it!” That would have been flattering, but patently untrue. Instead, they smile at us and say, “Well, God bless you.”   

And we respond, with our lips and in our hearts, “He already has.”  

   

Cozy

My hygge girls, once upon a time

Not sure what rock I’ve been under, but the hygge craze has been big for years, and I just heard about it. As the rest of you no doubt know, “hygge” (pronounced hoo-gah) means "cozy contentment," and the concept is super popular in Denmark, where the winters are extra long and freezing cold. One can experience hygge by lighting a fire and/or candles, preparing and enjoying a hot meal with friends, snuggling under blankets. 

But it goes beyond physically staying warm. With hygge comes a deep sense of happiness, of feeling cared for and safe. One can imagine the bitter Scandinavian climate might logically have caused “cozy” to become one of life’s most valued states of being. I mean, I guess you can be “cozy” at the Equator, but it’s much more likely that your deep sense of happiness involves A/C, ice cream, and no blankets whatsoever.   

As an adult, I honestly rarely feel cozy, even tucked under a comforter before a blazing hearth. I tend to hop up at the slightest provocation, because I forgot my book, or to finish the essay I’m writing on deadline, or there’s a weird noise to investigate, and by the time I return, the magic moment has passed. 

I think I'm better at making OTHER people feel cozy. There was nothing as lovely as giving my kids warm baths and fresh-from-the-dryer PJs. When they would cuddle with their stuffed animals in front of a Disney movie, or sit swinging their legs and sipping chicken noodle soup, my offspring were the very embodiment of hygge. One of the joys of grandparenthood is the chance to help "cozify" a new generation of little ones.   

To get in touch with my inner cozy, I’d have to go back to early childhood. The only times that come to mind, were bedtimes sleeping over at my Nana’s New York City apartment. The hiss of steam from the radiator, the clawfoot tub, our post-bath anointing with April Violets talcum powder and holy water from Lourdes (we were both scented and sanctified), listening to Nana play the piano as we burrowed under the covers. It was sublime, and I’ve never since come close to feeling that way. Over the years, I’ve related being “cozy” to being innocent and carefree. Let’s face it, the world is just NOT a cozy place, and once I realized that, there was no way to un-realize it.   

Besides, if I don’t stay hyper-vigilant and gloomy-doomy, I’m convinced terrible things will happen, and they’ll be all my fault.   

So you won’t see me romping merrily in the snow, bundled up in polar fleece and sporting big knitted mittens, or slurping a piping hot bowl of porridge. No blissful slumbers by the fireplace. I’ll be much too busy worrying to relax, much too distracted to channel Little Elise. And that’s OK. There’s only so much hygge to go around, right? If I give my allotted portion to the people I love, that’s more than good enough for me.

There's even a how-to book! Totally missed it!

The Replacements

Boys' irreplaceable Taiwan moments with their A-ma and A-gong

Sheridan and I were chatting Saturday morning about Fitbits. I am a daily wearer, and never feel dressed without mine strapped to my wrist. I am, however, haunted by my popular “Fitbit break-up” humor piece that appeared a while ago in The Philadelphia Inquirer. We (Fitbit and I) have obviously reconciled, but those who remember the essay tend to glance down at my arm, eyebrows raised. “What’s the matter?” I want to ask, “Haven’t YOU ever changed your mind about having kids/hating Brussels sprouts/your favorite brand of shampoo? Well then, don’t be so judgy!”

Anyhoo, Sher expressed some interest in tracking his steps as well. Luckily, I unearthed an earlier iteration of the Fitbit from my desk drawer. It still works, but needs a replacement band, which I will order for him. Because he’ll be re-using an original, even though the plastic wristband will be brand new, I say it still counts as recycling.

 

Usually, when I replace something, it’s because the old one has broken. Sadly, though, the replacement item rarely lives up to my remembrance of Version One. For example, I fondly recall my 1970’s rabbit-ears-spouting black and white TV which, when on the fritz, could actually be fixed by a miracle worker known as a “TV repairman.” A few years back, we learned that our sleek, Jetsons-style flat screen COULD NOT be fixed, after a certain two-year-old grandson merely hurled a wooden block at it! How flimsy is that? 

 

Replacements.com. is a fine firm that buys and sells old china; if someone (theoretically someone's random two year old grandson) drops and shatters one of Aunt Rose’s Victorian dessert plates, you can peruse their site for a perfect match. I love this idea and feel they should go much further. I have lost touch with an old friend from my early mommy-ing days. It would be swell to just type in “blonde, glasses, sardonic sense of humor” and find a great replacement for my Gymboree buddy circa 1986. Or how about a replacement for my beat-up old maroon Chevy Celebrity station wagon, by far my favorite wheels? They don’t make ‘em anymore--but neither do they still make the halcyon days when I tooled around town with all five of my kiddos, listening to Raffi’s Baby Beluga on the car cassette player and singing along. 

 

Bottom line, there’s no exact replacement for what has been lost or broken, really. As my favorite poet (and yours?) Heraclitus, once said, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and he is not the same man.” However, I'll add: new us may always be stepping into a new river, but that rushing water has an old and beautiful source. As we move forward, dealing with our imperfect replacement bits and pieces, we should cherish the memories of our lives' irreplaceable moments, and be so grateful we had them in the first place. 

 

And pray for the return of the TV repairman.

                    The Replacements ('80s pioneer alt rock band)