Running on Empty

Half-marathon finish line

Julie is training for her first marathon, which will take place in Philly in November. Her running schedule looks grueling to me (weekly loooong runs, punctuated by almost daily shorter ones), but she has both a 10 miler and a half-marathon under her belt so far, and I have no doubt she will complete the big race, and make good time. Julie is very focused when she has a goal, a trait I have always admired greatly in her.

“Focus” and “goals” are in short supply in my life these days—unless you count my focusing on the goal of making it through another day without a major mishap or mistake. Oh, I have plans, but they are vague and dream-like, and I do precious little on a daily basis to bring them to fruition. My sister C, a demon planner if ever there was one, went to the trouble some years back of working with me on some long-range (and short term) planning for my writing career. People to contact, websites to explore…there is so much out there for a would-be freelancer. But C’s efforts with me failed, and my folders and notes gathered dust and eventually became too dated to be of use.

Recently, I attended the Philadelphia Writers' Conference, a step in the right direction for me. Again, I came away with folders and notes that, I hope, I will use this time. The bottom line is, writing isn’t the easiest path to take in life, but there are many (and varied) ways to succeed—if you really commit to it. Am I ready to commit? I don’t know. I do know that I am running on empty right now, and need to be refilled.

So what is my focus, what are my goals for the rest of the time down here in Lewes? Yes, I will continue to write. I will finish editing the new book and get that published. But I will also take days, even lots of them, to just sit on the beach, read and rest. I will have family and friends down to visit, and reconnect with the dear friends we have at the shore. I will do some physical activity that I truly enjoy (there must be SOMEthing) in the hopes that my spirits will revive as I improve my fitness level.

And then it will be time to plan, plan for the fall and way, way beyond. Knowing that the best of plans don’t always work out, but that no planning, letting life just happen, is worse. Let me step out in faith that there is a bright future ahead, for myself and those I love.

As I watch Julie tie her sneakers and head out once again, I realize that life itself is a marathon and I am running it, one step at a time. But Julie paces herself, and I should too. May I cherish my “down time,” and then come back strong, ready for all my tomorrows.

Lewes, DE: my happy place

Packing Time

I should be a world-class champion packer after all these years. My family moved around a lot when I was young. Steve and I lived out of suitcases for nearly two years when we were first married, on our Northeast children’s theatre tour. For the past 30 years, we have moved our sizable household to the Delaware shore for two months. For the past 12 years, I have moved our youth mission teams to locations near and far (including copies of passports, medical cards, etc. etc.)

And every July, I need to pack for two separate experiences: mission trip and beach. It should be a piece of cake, right?

So why am I standing in my living room, paralyzed, as July 5th rolls around once again? My suitcase

my empty suitcase

is still empty; our kitchen equipment remains in the cabinets and NOT in boxes. Haven’t made my mission trip photocopies of youth covenants and release forms yet. With my luck, I will open my luggage on location in Onancock, Virginia tomorrow, only to find my herb and spice collection, while my Rehoboth-bound belongings will include the mandatory Youthworks mission trip paperwork and not one single thing I need for my shore vacation. 

I have a hard time with leave-takings of any kind. If I don’t adequately pack, maybe I don’t have to go. Deep down I know that isn’t true, know that, ready or not, there I’ll go—and it’s a heckuva lot better to be prepared for the journey ahead. But still I lollygag until zero hour. I daydream that my circumstances will suddenly change radically, and I will become free to remain exactly as I am. Unpacked.

Also, I am far too dependent on my Steve, packer extraordinaire. Most of the time he is around, willing and able to help me inflate my air mattress, cram a ridiculous amount of items into my small satchel. When I think of the horrible possibility of being without him for good someday, beyond the incredible emotional angst, I worry about my ability to cope in general. I am still, at age 57, pretty shaky at the prospect of navigating life on my own.

Whether I like it or not, it’s packing time. Time to embark on two entirely different summertime adventures. Both involve a lot of prep. Both require me to be much more organized than I naturally am, and call for me to take a giant step outside the comfort zone that is East Oreland. And this time I am also saying goodbye to my little Aiden for awhile, and I don't want him to change an iota, even as I know he is changing hourly.

How can I leave Captain Adorable?

So what should I pack this time? How about some courage? Some flexibility? Some humor? How about a little passion and a lot of compassion, along with the sunscreen and bug spray? How about faith, faith that all will be well this summer as it has been in summers past? 

Off I go, then. Wish me luck?

Zen and the Art of Baby Holding

It's hard to imagine me sitting still for two hours, "doing" nothing. But the other afternoon, I did just that. Sat completely still, holding my newborn grandson.

 Aiden Jacob, in his two short weeks with us, has turned our household upside down. 24/7, we are aware that there is a baby on the premises. We speak in hushed tones, and turn the sound down on the TV, lest we disturb his (occasional) slumbers. Our arms are ever ready to cuddle and rock him. We are always listening for him to start fussing, and his infant screaming brings me right back to my life circa 1984, when Aiden's father had me on the same high alert. Our little guy has been a trouper, handling being held by a parade of adoring family members and friends with equanimity. But there are many times when no one but mommy Ya-Jhu will do. We are trying to give her as many breaks as we can, but as a nursing mother she is constantly on call. In short, it is happy chaos around here these days.

I was never much of a meditator. During my one and only yoga class years ago, I groaned my way through the various poses, counting the minutes until we could bow and say “Namaste” (I bow to the Divine Spirit in you) to each other. That was my signal to grab my bag and hightail it to the parking lot, where I would rapidly lose my bliss merging into the rush hour traffic.

Over the years, I have visited Buddhist temples and Quaker meetinghouses, where I have alternately chanted and kept utterly silent, waiting for the magical calming of my mind and spirit these faith traditions offer. No dice. Those were the moments my wayward brain would play "We Are the Champions" on repeat, and my thoughts would drift to whether I had remembered to pull the fish out of the freezer for dinner. When it came to "being there," I usually bombed.

So why did I feel so “there” that day? Because I held my grandbaby, and there was absolutely nothing else I could do. Didn’t try to read a book, eat or drink, use the computer. I held Aiden, and time stood still. His furrowed brow (what was he dreaming about?), his impossibly small fingers with their miniscule nails, his intoxicating smell—all completely captivated his Nana. I held Aiden, and 5:30 PM became 7:30 PM in the blink of an eye. I noticed ephemeral things: the heaving of his little chest as he breathed, the breeze floating in through the screen door, the birdsong fading into cricketcall as dusk began to replace day. His soft, warm body, so innocent and trusting, curled into mine, and I was as utterly content as he seemed to be.

It took holding this precious baby to make me stop and pay attention to the beauty of life. So thank you, tiny teacher. May I continue to learn from you. Namaste.

Holding the Fort

Steve as The Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz

After 33 years of running our theater company, my Steve is taking a little break. It’s been 33 years of no vacations, and darned few days off. For the first several years, I was right in the thick of it with him, writing shows, acting, fielding phone calls, sending out contracts in the office.

Then along came the kids, and I gradually phased out of Family Stages to raise our own family. I still kept my hand in with some office work and the occasional performance (I was talked into playing Peter Pan at a preschool last December, when one of our actors was suddenly unavailable. Apparently the "boy who wouldn't grow up" now looks like a 57 year old woman.) Even when I began my current job at church in 2002, I remained at least somewhat conversant with the theater biz.

 In recent years, while I continued to pitch in during the summer at our Rehoboth Summer Children's Theatre, my focus was gone. I stopped answering the office phone; I lost track of even the names of the performers who worked for us. Family Stages became part of my past, even as it remained a huge part of my husband's present. Steve’s been a one-man show, at it from dawn to late at night, building props, sending out mailings, directing productions, teaching after-school programs and the list goes on.

Then a wonderful opportunity presented itself, thousands of miles away. Steve was invited to join a group from our Lutheran synod who will be traveling to Germany next month. He will be doing research for a new play he will write for the 500th anniversary of Martin Luther's bold stance that gave rise to the Lutheran church. It is a fascinating and dramatic story, and I know Steve will do a great job with this project.

At first, Steve was all excitement, applying for his first passport, etc. But now that the adventure is a matter of weeks away, excitement is rapidly giving way to panic. Who will mind the store while he's gone? Who but Steve himself really knows how to run Family Stages?

Steve is giving Julie a crash course. To her he will give the computer passwords, the phone log, updates on the actors. Jules is quite competent and is looking forward to helping her dad. But I know he will still fret and stew when he's away. Family Stages is his baby, and I'm sure he will experience acute separation anxiety.

Here's my wish for my beloved husband: in the immortal words of the Frozen song,"Let it Go." The world will not end because you have left the country for ten days. Take that vacation (even if it is a working one to some extent) and enjoy yourself.  Explore the land of your ancestors, drinking in all the sights and sounds (and a few good German beers). We will survive, and so will the business.

It will all still be here when you get home. Promise.

Prost!!

God is Our Mother

First Communion 1963--Ready for my Close-up!

There is a dish very popular at Lutheran church suppers in the Midwest, called Glorified Rice. It is made with rice, marshmallows, pineapple, jello and mayonnaise (I know, right?). There’s actually a book that humorously compares Catholics and Lutherans called, “They Glorify Mary, We Glorify Rice.”

Catholics tend to be major Mary fans. I was certainly one of those who saw Our Lady as an intermediary, a more accessible bigwig, kind of like the executive vice-president, the one who has the Boss’s ear. Don’t bother Jesus with this stuff, but bug his Mom. She’ll get Him to listen. The wedding at Cana? That’s just one example of her clout.

Mary seemed to me to be the perfect mother. Sweet, sinless, self-sacrificing. Mary raised the perfect child. She had to watch Him die. But she also got to see Him come back, and in the end she got a great reward—she didn’t have to die at all. She was “assumed” body and soul, into Heaven. That’s what I was taught. I was fascinated by Mary’s reported appearances all over the world, especially at Fatima and Lourdes. It made sense—she wasn’t quite God, I couldn’t imagine God having time to appear to shepherd girls on hillsides these days. He’d need to send the second team, Mom, with messages from Him.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with honoring Mary. I do worry when Mary becomes a substitute for the God we’ve decided has no time for us. I worry when we use an image of Mary to deflect the very real possibility that God has a feminine side.

In 1373, a nun and a mystic, Julian of Norwich, had a different kind of vision. “As truly as God is our Father, so just as truly is God our mother. In our father, God Almighty, we have our being; in our merciful mother God we are remade and restored. It is God, the strength and goodness of fatherhood, It is God the wisdom of motherhood. It is God, the light and grace of holy love.”

GK Chesterton wrote of a man, doomed to Hell for his mistakes in life. One by one, his friends pleaded with Satan to let the man out of Hell. One by one, Satan ignored their pleas. Finally, the man’s mother appeared at the gates of Hell. She didn’t plead from the safety of the other side. She instantly said, “Let me in”, and the gates of Hell opened for the man to be freed. That is the limitless love of a mother. That is the limitless love of our God.

So let’s take our limits off  God. To take nothing away from Mary, Mary is not God. God is God. And if God is our Father, I believe that God is also our Mother.  What a joy to know that we live sheltered by our Divine Father’s strength, and held in our Divine Mother’s arms, for all eternity.

God bless you all this Mother’s Day.

Oh Mary We Crown Thee with Blossoms Today

Don't Worry! Be Happy! He is Risen!

Well gang, another Easter is in the books! While our attendance at church this year was fairly strong, several long-time members commented on the good old days, when they needed to set up chairs in the aisles, and park cars on the side lawn, to accommodate all the worshippers. As mainline congregations struggle to attract new members (and keep current ones), there's a whole lotta brainstorming going on. I believe in planning ahead, and so for next spring, I offer the following holiday idea, loosely based on the popular "drive through" Nativity scenes at Christmas. Ah, I can see it all now.....

                               BLESSED ST. MALAISE CHURCH PROUDLY PRESENTS:

                                         “DON’T WORRY! BE HAPPY! HE IS RISEN!”

                                        Our Original Drive-Thru Holy Week Experience

 Experience the agony of this Most Sacred Week from the warmth and comfort of your car! This is truly a meaningful and interactive spiritual odyssey. Perfect for families who want to do more than just show up at church in new clothes Easter morning, but don’t want to do MUCH more. 

 Ready? Let’s roll!

 We begin as Danno the Donkey lumbers along. Jesus (young parishioner, Bobby Jones) clings to his back. The townspeople wave palms in His Holy Path. This is a great chance for the kids to get out, stretch, and join the parade! Palm swordfighting discouraged! And don’t get too near Danno, he bites.

 When next we see Bobby, he is feasting with his friends, the Apostles. The aroma of fresh baked bread and vintage vino wafts through your auto here. You will have the opportunity to purchase a bottle of “Lachrymo Christi” and a fragrant loaf from My Daily Bread (downtown and in the Uptown Mall).

 Don’t miss the dramatic Judas kiss! (your carload can join the chorus: “Booooo, Judas!”)

 From the Garden of Gethsemane (landscaping courtesy of the Northeastville Green Thumb Club) to the windswept hill of Calvary, the Holy Journey continues at a steady speed of 2 mph. Jesus died for YOUR sins. Be sure to thank Him with a warm wave and a toot of the horn as you pass this Sacred Scene!

 Drive on. Not much happening for awhile now. It’s a quiet, contemplative time, but just as the little ones are getting restless…

 Ta da! With a blare of Glad Trumpets through our loudspeakers, it’s Easter Morning! Adorable bunnies hop amongst the colorful plastic eggs and fragrant lilies around the empty tomb. Are those baskets of burial cloth? Oh no! They are filled with complimentary jelly beans and chocolate crosses, handed out by Ladies of Little Lamb Circle at St. M’s. Don’t they (the ladies) look festive in their Easter bonnets?

As you reach our Happy Ending and exit our Drive-Thru Holy Week Experience, keep an eye peeled for the risen Bobby, um, Christ! He, like Waldo, could be anywhere!

 So you better watch out!!

 Have a Blessed Easter, and Drive Safely!!

 So what do you think? Should I run it by the Worship and Music Committee at church? Couldn't hurt!


Don't Worry, Be Happy

Almost Famous

As those of you who regularly read my blog know: I don’t do edgy. You could read my posts to your 90 year old grandmother without fear of ruffling her feathers.  Unless you are personally offended by a boatload of family stories, and my bellyaching about cleaning my house and organizing my office (and maybe you are! If so, I’m sorry and I take it all back!) there ain’t much in my writing to find objectionable. I work hard on my entries, and cherish my faithful readers (the few, the proud).

 But sometimes I dream of going viral, of joining the ranks of the super-bloggers, those giants of the medium who number their fans in the hundreds of thousands. Even though I know my skin is paper-thin, and a lot of the snarky comments I find on other blogs would truly make my heart sink if aimed at me, I’m still jealous. Bottom line: I would love a wider readership, provided all those readers are always nice to me. Is that so much to ask?

Head shot for my nationally syndicated column?

I’ve thought about my yearning to be a little bit better-known a lot lately. At 57 I have a ways to go to become a household word, even in my own household. But I have to say, in today’s culture, it’s really hard to stand out in the size crowd the internet has created. And once you’ve “made it”, longevity in the limelight is another matter. Artist Andy Warhol predicted that everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. That was quite a few years ago; nowadays, turnaround time is more like 15 seconds. I love the joke about the rapid show-biz life cycle, voiced by an agent (“Who’s Sally Jones?” “Get me Sally Jones!” “Get me a Sally Jones type!” “Get me a younger Sally Jones!” “Who’s Sally Jones?”)  We seem to go from 0-60 and then back down to 0 at warp speed. 

So what am I doing to broaden my fan base, as it were?  My Rose, she of the hilarious (and super-edgy) Facebook posts, thinks I’m playing it way too safe, literarily speaking. I don’t think she’s hoping I’ll pen the next “50 Shades of Grey,” but she’d love me to take on more wow topics sometimes, to make a bold stand in print. I always promise her I’ll try, and then my next article comes out and it’s Mrs. Namby Pamby again. Why am I so leery of saying anything that could possibly be polarizing?

One of these days (but not today), you’ll get my opinion on universal health care, gun control, capital punishment and gay marriage. You’ll learn that I support three out of four of these things.  You’ll also find out whether or not I’m a big fan of war. Or a safety net for the poor. Or more tax breaks for the 1%. For now, I’ll leave you guessing!

Whew! All this sharing is exhilarating! Who knew controversy could be so much fun?

Huffington Post, here I come!



"Remember My Name" from the movie "Fame"

Throw Back Thursday

Elise, C and Mo 1962

Elise, C and Mo 1979

Back in the day, the Cunningham sisters had our, ahem, differences of opinion. My little tiffs with my sibs would begin with a snarky comment or a "borrowed" dress, and escalate into screaming matches, complete with doors slammed so hard they almost came off their hinges, and rivers of tears. We always made up quickly, though, and I well remember how good and right the hugs felt at the end of battle. In later years, when we lived apart, misunderstandings over the phone were common, as were squabbles upon reuniting after a long absence (here, I think it was the ridiculous expectation that every second would be perfection, that caused the trouble). Again, though, sorrow and forgiveness were never more than a few minutes away.

 As for the little Seyfrieds, Sheridan and Evan had a brotherly love that even strangers commented

Ev and Sher--the dynamic duo

upon. They rarely argued, about anything. It was a simple dynamic: Sheridan called all the shots, and Evan adoringly followed along. When little Ev would be asked at dinner about his preschool day, big bro would unfailingly chime in with, "I used to have Evan's teacher, so here's what he did in school! Circle time and show and tell and playground time and he practiced for the show!!" We'd turn to tiny Evan, who would merely smile and nod.

Happy Evan and baby Rose--a rare moment!

Evan and Rose got off on the wrong foot. Rose's main fault? She was born. Who needed a third party to break up The Perfect Partnership? And Rose didn't help matters much, with her infant fussing and her toddler tantrum-ing and her school years' angst. Down the pecking order, Rose and PJ got on all right most of the time, though they too had their tough moments.  PJ and Julie went from hearts and flowers when she was a baby, to bickering their way through the teenage years and beyond.

But here's the blessing: they have all gotten to a place where their love and loyalty always trump their disagreements. Years ago, I imagined grown Evan and Rose would drift apart permanently. Yet here they are, talking online often, sharing favorite bands, traveling great distances to visit. Julie and Rose have celebrated joys, nursed each other through heartbreaks, and look forward to being together in NYC next year. A highlight of Julie's recent European adventure was a week spent with PJ in Marburg, Germany, where he was an exchange student. And Sheridan gets along well with everybody, as he always has.

Evan and Rose in Hawaii

 Do I take much credit for how close they are now? Nope. But I often told them, as my mom often reminded me: "These will be the longest relationships of your lives, longer than marriage, longer than your time with us. So treasure each other. Make every effort to like each other, and value each other. You'll never be sorry."

On this Throw Back Thursday, I share some pictures of my favorite brothers and sisters. May they always love each other even half as much as I love them.

 

PJ and Julie, then and now

Bao's Big Bash

Look at me. Do I look like Martha Stewart? I didn’t think so. I have in my possession a book by interior designer Alexandra Stoddard, Living a Beautiful Life. Lord only knows why I thought I could implement ANY of her suggestions ("Make the inside of your refrigerator a feast for the eye...try keeping a small bunch of flowers in the refrigerator. Surprise pleasures delight the most.") The only time flowers would ever make their way into my messy, overstuffed fridge would be if I absent-mindedly put them there instead of on the table. That would indeed be a surprise, if not a delight.

I ascribe to the blitz-clean method before company arrives (you know, shove the pile of newspapers under the sofa,  pray no one needs to use the upstairs bathroom, light some candles and dim all the other lights.) I do not line our drawers with special scented paper. I do not have granite countertops. I do not have a mud room (unless it is raining. Then every room is a mud room.)

So what makes us think we can throw Ya-Jhu a baby shower? Probably the same brand of insanity that made us think we could have a DIY wedding for Yaj and Sher almost two years ago. Back then, while the food and decorations were all loving hands at home, the site of the festivities was Gloria Dei Church--no need to scour and scrub Chez Seyfried! But wait! We had the rehearsal dinner here, a lovely evening of thunderstorms (no chance of being out on the deck)  and 80 degree-plus temps (we have no air conditioning). It all came off fine, but I still awaken in a cold sweat remembering our frantic prep.

 Yet here we are again, mere days away from the Big Event for Bao (Mandarin for baby). Julie, Rose and I are ostensibly co-hosts, but to be honest Julie has done most of the work to date, coming up with the theme, planning the menu. We have the unenviable task of squeezing our guests into our none-too-palatial home, a task made even more challenging by the arrival of Sheridan's grand piano from New York City last week. At this writing, the huge Kawai is sharing the family room with our old Yamaha upright. If we don't move one or the other by Saturday, the shower will have the ambiance of an afternoon in the Jacob's Piano Showroom.

Yaj remains serene, a tiny Asian Madonna. She tells me (often) that she will be happy with whatever we pull together, and I believe her. I want to relax and enjoy the day, truly I do. So I have decided to relegate Living a Beautiful Life to the attic, as we write our own book, Living a Good-Enough Life.

Bao, we’ll do our best for your mom. Can’t wait to see you!

Ya-Jhu, eating for two!

Never Too Late

Lent starts with Ash Wednesday this week, March 5th. That means Easter is April 20th, about as late as it can possibly be. Daylight Savings Time begins on Sunday, and by Holy Week we will be in the heart of spring, flowers and robins and all. And it has me quite unsettled.

You see, Lent was supposed to be my gloom-and-doom season, when I examined my (guilty) conscience and fretted over my (innumerable) sins. As a Catholic child, I was encouraged to give something up each Lent, something I really enjoyed, like TV or Coke. So skipping the ice cream and Pop Tarts for six weeks just added to the general misery.

Mo the Picky Eater

My sister Maureen was in the cafeteria at Epiphany School in September of her first grade year. The cafeteria ladies were brutal—no recess until everything on your tray was eaten. As her classmates finished and went outside, poor little Mo remained, glumly contemplating the slimy stewed prunes on her plate.  As the time ticked by, she couldn’t swallow a spoonful . Finally, inspiration struck. When the cafeteria worker commented on her uneaten prunes, Mo smiled and said, “Oh I’d LOVE to eat my prunes, but I can’t. You see, I’ve given them up for Lent!” When Mrs. Lunch Lady stopped laughing, she allowed Mo to leave her prunes and go out to play.

When I grew older, I stopped giving up (it was kind of absurd; I’d give up desserts, honestly, just to lose five pounds), and started giving more more more…more volunteering, more praying, more general good deeds. And that was better, but I still had the nagging feeling that my positive actions were kind of selfish at root (“Look at me, God! I’m really super duper, aren’t I?”)

So I settled into a mood of mild depression, as I felt befit the 40 days. The nasty winter weather helped my blues along, with bitter cold and early darkness.  But this year! How will I be able to stay “down”? The elusive sun will be shining again, and all around me will be signs of new life. Wait—that’s not supposed to happen til Easter at the earliest! Who ever heard of a Happy Lent?

But maybe…

God never meant for us to spend Lent in a funk. Maybe it would be better passed with a sense of peace and hope and, yes, even joy. After all, to dwell only on the sadness of Jesus’ death, to beat ourselves up over our faults and scramble madly to win God’s favor-- is to miss the whole point. The point is Christ’s amazing life and His resurrection promise.  The point is that God loves us, just as we are, and we can grow to be our best selves because of that grace-filled love.

I believe we can relax about the Ben and Jerry’s and the Tote Board of Super Duper Deeds.

Lovely pic by my friend Melissa Otterbein--the heart of spring!

I believe we can welcome a late Lent this year, and enjoy every beautiful day of it.