Sleepytime in Oreland

Sher and baby Aiden napping back in the day

Yawn.

Just woke up from a long nap—which would be fine, except it’s now 10 PM. Plus: I still have two hours to finish this post before the clock strikes midnight and my laptop turns into a pumpkin (and if that happens, then my hands will have all that seedy gunky stuff on them as I type). Minus: once again, my sleep schedule is all topsy-turvy. Now, why I’m napping so much, Lord only knows—I am getting VERY little exercise, even with a daily stroll around the neighborhood. But my body is behaving as if I’ve just returned from a flight to Timbuktu (incredibly jet-lagged). And the other adults in the house are similarly groggy, often sprawled on chairs and sofas, snoozing away at odd hours.

If only Aiden and Peter had gotten the memo! Then we’d all be blissfully Sleeping Beauties, dozing through the next several weeks, until awakened at last by the kiss of—well, I guess it’d have to be the kiss of Governor Wolf, right?  announcing that we no longer have to stay cooped up? As I have no particular desire to be kissed by Governor Wolf (or ANY local, state or federal official for that matter), this is a bad metaphor! But I digress…

Our resident 5 and 3 year olds are full of vim and vigor these strange days, from early til late. Even though their Baba and Mama make sure they’re outside playing ball in the back yard, or riding their bikes in the driveway, several times daily, the boys still have (tons of) energy to spare. Aside from their extreme youth, I think the main difference is that they really have no idea what’s going on in the world, hence are not intentionally escaping the existential madness via lots of extra sleep. Oh, to be carefree Aiden and Peter!

I was never a napper—not as a baby (according to Mom), not as a child, not as an adult. Napping was the unattractive thing Pop Cunningham did on the porch at Normandy Beach on summer afternoons—mouth agape, snoring loudly, newspaper pages scattered across his lap. Ugh! I much preferred to be up up up, sharp as a tack and ready to go at all times! The few occasions I did slumber during the day (such as during my bout with scarlet fever in sixth grade), I would wake up crabby and disoriented and the opposite of refreshed.

Now, I married a Champion Power Napper. Steve relies on his daily 10-20 minutes of shut eye for the second wind that propels him through his very productive evenings. I’ve heard that the length of the nap is key—shorter is better, waking before falling into the next, deeper level of sleep . I wouldn’t know, as I have no personal experience with the Power Nap. Once I’m out, I’m out for hours—which is why the whole idea of napping has never had appeal.

Until now.

Yawn.

Is it May yet?

Baby Me asleep--a rare event!

A Reframing Retreat

Confirmation Retreat 2013-working in a community garden

One of my favorite parts of my job at church has been leading lots of retreats. I’ve created retreats for Christian Education leaders, with sessions on teaching practices and art journaling. I’ve led retreats for youth leaders from area Lutheran churches. Confirmation retreats (whole weekends once), due to everyone’s crazy schedules, gradually shrunk to one night, until finally they stopped. In their heyday, though, the preteen Confirmands enjoyed them: ropes courses and silly games and night walks with flashlights.

We had a Mother-Daughter retreat at the Jersey Shore one year—don’t recall much about programming but I do remember we decorated flip flops (more fun than it sounds!) On March 8th I returned from a terrific Women’s Retreat in Lewes DE, in the very nick of time, just before everything shut down. We held one Family Retreat with parents and kids in the Pocono Mountains, back in 2011. This one was such fun that I’m not sure why we never did another one. Our theme was “Encounters with Creation”; we looked at the ground outside through magnifying glasses, wrote down everything we observed, then shared in family groups.

As we all essentially are on retreat right now, isolated from our job sites and neighbors and familiar routines, I’m trying to combat my free-floating anxiety with a reframe: this is just another Family Retreat! But instead of focusing on birds and bugs, we’re concentrating on other creatures--us. I observe my grandsons: doing fine, sleeping better than usual and eating more (which for Aiden—as opposed to Nana—is a GOOD thing), their imaginative play a joy to behold.  I check on my grown children, Sher and Yaj in person, the rest via email, text and FaceTime. It’s been a real blessing (I’ve talked to Patrick more in the past three days than in the previous month). I appreciate my suddenly long-distance friends—it’s so great to still be able to laugh and share life, even remotely. And Steve and I actually enjoyed our anniversary, watching The Two Popes on the sofa instead of Company on Broadway (the original plan.)

Working from home is a huge challenge I know, especially with little ones running around. I get that this is not a retreat the way a relaxing getaway might be—but nonetheless, it IS a major change of pace, and for those of us who don’t have to venture out to our jobs, maybe a chance to spend some of what would have been time stuck in traffic, working on our inner lives.

So today, I invite you, at some point, to light a candle. Play some soft music. Get lost in a good book. Get back in touch with YOU. Take a little time to reframe, and reflect, and “retreat.” While circumstances may be forcing us into this unsettling new situation, by pressing “pause” on our regular lives, even briefly, we are giving ourselves a real gift--time to consider the questions: who am I (really)? And what matters most?

Lewes Women's Retreat--Can't get that close now!

Here Comes the Bride

Little did she know...

It is March 19, 1977, a cold gray day, end of winter. The 50 people in Saint Jude’s Catholic Church in Atlanta watch the small bridal party process down the aisle. The two bridesmaids are wearing turquoise dresses, each are carrying one red rose. The groom and best man stand up front, along with a long-haired, really young priest.

She doesn’t know to be nervous, so she isn’t. She stands, arm in arm, with her father. They never had much to say to one another, so the silence feels quite normal. When it is time to move, they walk slowly and a bit awkwardly, her gait hobbled by the four inch heels she unwisely chose to wear today. She notices the very few pictures being snapped by their photographer acquaintance. Oh, well.

It is a Mass with Communion, much longer than a Protestant ceremony. Finally, they join hands and say their memorized vows (they are both actors; learning lines comes easily for them). The priest picks up all his cues, even though the bride has edited the script (she refuses to “welcome children joyfully” to the marriage; she doesn’t want kids), and they are wed.

At the brunch reception at Brennan’s restaurant, the small crowd mills around clutching mimosas, an odd mix of twentysomethings and her parents’ friends. There is no dancing, just Eggs Sardou. There is no cake to cut, just Bananas Foster. They won’t leave for their brief honeymoon until evening, so no merry, rice-festooned dash to a getaway car. All is low-key, as the whole day has been.

Later, they drive north towards New York City before stopping at a South Carolina motel for the night—because they want to catch the finale of The Mary Tyler Moore Show. And so 3-19-77 ends for the newlyweds.

43 years later, it’s another gray late winter day. A distressing number of those 50 witnesses to their wedding have passed away, including their parents, her sister Mo and too many friends. But they survive, and their marriage does too. They’d leave Atlanta two years later, never to live in the South again. God laughs department: after all their noisy objections to offspring, they ended up with five of them.

What would I whisper in her ear, that terribly young bride in the back of the church that morning? “Get ready for a tough time ahead”? “There will be so much worry and sadness and loss”? “You should have waited, finished college, had some time on your own”? Would she have listened? Would it have mattered?

No.

Would she trade one minute of these 43 years of ups and downs, births and funerals, laughter and tears?

No.

Because of the guy that stood there, waiting for her, at the end of the church aisle that morning. The guy who has stood by her four decades and counting. Who is here with her this morning in Oreland, and will still be here, please God, as the adventure continues.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

Dancing at Sher and Ya-Jhu's wedding

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Beauty on our lawn this morning

That's the name of one of Rose's favorite shows. I have caught a couple of episodes and end up feeling every bit of my 63 years--it's funny for sure, but definitely NOT aimed at my demographic. Maybe I'll revisit it during my new free time...

But I thought of the title this morning looking out the window at the glorious daffodils that have sprung up all over the neighborhood and are dancing in the sunshine. It is a beautiful day in Philadelphia, and I look forward to getting out for a socially-distanced walk later on.

The contrast between the joyful display of nature and our current situation is jarring. I remember feeling the same way on another gorgeous, blue-sky morning: Tuesday, September 11, 2001. By all rights the heavens should have been weeping torrents of rain, and the sky should have been swathed in gray...it certainly would have better matched the mood.

It took me years of pondering, but I finally concluded that it actually was fitting that the 9/11 terrorist attacks were NOT reflected in the weather that day. There was, and should have been, NO connection between God's incredible creation and the horror that had been unleashed. The warm sunshine was a comforting reminder that God's love shone on, shines on, upon God's grieving people. Despite their best efforts, the masterminds of the World Trade Center tragedy did not succeed in conquering the world. Life would go on, though forever changed.

And so it is today, as we collectively face another horror, this time a faceless and still unfolding one. The range of our permissible activities is narrowing daily, even hourly. Shops and restaurants and other gathering places are shuttered, and even the neighborhood playground, Aiden and Peter's favorite hangout, is closed, with yellow caution tape around the swings and slides, the basketball standards stripped of their baskets and hoops. It is as if everything around us is paused, and we're waiting with bated breath for whatever is coming next.

For those of us who struggle with anxiety and depression, this is an off-the-charts stressful situation. My heart aches for my fellow sufferers, and I know so many more are feeling these feelings as strange and new. I count out my antidepressants, glad I have several months’ supply, but meds only help so much at a time like this. It’s hard to practice mindfulness when you hate what’s going on in your mind.

Amid the fear and confusion, however, the birds sing. The cherry tree in the yard is beginning to bud. The sun is setting later every day now, ridiculously beautiful displays of color splashed across the sky as its evening show, until the more subtle but still, exquisite, shades of dawn herald a new beginning tomorrow.

“All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well,” wrote the medieval mystic Julian of Norwich. And when I look out my window right now, I can almost believe it.

On This Day...

Enjoying a big breakfast with Julie in Dingle, Ireland 2017

Always MEAN to do things to better yourself (go spelunking, master Swahili, learn counted cross-stitch) but never have time? Well, now you do, during our International Time Out!!!

I recently subscribed to “On This Day,” an informative daily newsletter published by Encyclopedia Britannica. Since this particular day doesn’t promise a heckuva lot of good news, I’m finding it more fun to delve back into the archives of history and check out the doings on some March 17th's of yore. Join me!

Of course, the Big Guy must be mentioned first. Saint Patrick is honored today in many places, though with all the bars closed it won’t be quite the same (pro tip: you can make your own green beer with food coloring!) St. Pat has a fascinating back story: kidnapped and sold into slavery as a teenager, finding his way to Ireland where he became a beloved bishop who managed to spread Catholicism without ticking off the Druids in the process (we could use his diplomatic skills right about now). Legends crowd out the facts, however: the Trinity explained with a shamrock! Snakes banished from the country and cast into the sea! It’s even said he raised 33 people from the dead (or maybe they were just heavy sleepers). I love St. Patrick, as I’m Irish through and through and I think it’s a requirement. Plus I named a son after him.

But March 17th has more riches to unearth!

Mia Hamm and Nat King Cole were born on this day. One kicks soccer balls, the other invites listeners to “Get Your Kicks on Route 66.” Oh and Rudolph Nureyev’s birthday too. I guess a grand jete is a kind of a “kick,” right?

Golda Meir became fourth Prime Minister of Israel on March 17th. The great Eleanor Roosevelt married FDR on March 17th.  Milestone events for two amazing 20th century women. Still waiting for the many amazing 21st century women to be adequately recognized for THEIR achievements.

BIG DEAL: Apartheid finally repealed in South Africa on March 17, 1992.

SMALL DEAL: 1958. The Champs topped the pop music charts with the timeless classic “Tequila.”

Camp Fire Girls was founded on this day, 1912. I never actually knew a Camp Fire Girl. Did you?

The rubber band was patented in 1825. Can you imagine how kids shot spitballs before this?

Today is Irish Coffee Day. Also Corned Beef and Cabbage Day. Wonder why?:-)

Today is WELLderly Day (get it?) Well and elderly--combined! That’s me! Almost!**

Had enough? Me too! We need to save our energy for celebrating tomorrow (March 18th-birthdate of Neville Chamberlain, Grover Cleveland AND Queen Latifah!) and the next day (March 19th--Feast of Saint Joseph, swallows fly back to Capistrano, and--most importantly--Steve and I married in 1977.)

Let’s see, if we all spend a couple of hours every day researching, the weeks of lockdown will speed by, and we will be SO much wiser!

*I just checked another source that tells me Wellderly Day was yesterday! Fake news!

It's Magic

Excerpt from Aiden's Magic Show...

https://share.icloud.com/photos/0y_yMrzmwjf-Kn_fr1KMB5wtg#Oreland

Despite the stresses and worries of the past few days, we are blessed in the Seyfried house. Who cares if the Broadway show Steve and I had tickets for this week was cancelled (along with Pennsylvania Ballet with Ya-Jhu on Thursday, and Philadelphia Chamber Music Society concert with Sheridan next Tuesday, and and and)?? We have our own little live-in entertainment, Aiden and Peter! The boys are blissfully unaware of what’s going on in the world (except for the fact that school is closed--which for a preschooler and a kindergartener is actually a cause for sadness). Mama, Baba, Nana and Pa are constantly on the premises (yay!) There are walks in the sunshine and bike rides with their parents, there’s baking with me and TV watching with Steve. Thanks to Mama Ya-Jhu, there are art materials and library books aplenty. The Brio trains, those sturdy if pricey wooden wonders, were brought down from the attic recently, and are enthralling the offspring of their original owner.

But it’s the magic shows that bring me right back. Sheridan at age five was all about performance, usually recreating his parents’ children’s theatre plays, with trusty sidekick Evan playing a supporting role. I fondly recall little Alex (as Sher once was known) doing the “disappearing gold coin trick” from Pedrolino in a Pinch. “I hold the gold...enfold the gold and...behold!” he would announce after conspicuously pocketing the coin in question. We would ooh and aah over this feat of prestidigitation, prompting many a repeat of his “trick.” 

Yesterday Aiden decided it was his turn to wow us. In the morning he created tickets for each of us, on which he’d written our names and the price ($1011, such a deal!) , assigning his small brother the job of box office manager. Sher very sweetly worked with his son on the two tricks that would later make up Aiden’s Magic Show. At 7:00 PM all was ready. Peter solemnly collected our tickets in a basket. We sat on the sofa in the family room as our Houdini made, first a piece of paper, then a Matchbox car, “disappear” after covering them with a box. Soon it was done. Aiden took his bow to our applause, and immediately invited us to a NEW magic show, with NEW tricks, scheduled for tonight.

One of my favorite parts of Little Women is the description of the plays the four March girls would present to their family and friends. Jo would write the scripts and assemble the cast, and a grand time was had by all. I think of the difficult times in which the book was set, and it is easy to identify. We humans are hardwired, I think, for optimism (it’s what has enabled us to survive as a species). And the pleasures of entertaining each other, even during crises (going back to ancient campfire stories) are eternal.

In these tough days, I still believe in joy. I believe in laughter.

I believe in magic.

Corona Life (or The Other Side of the Barn Door)

Posted this on our church FB page today (I didn't write it but think it's spot on)

You’ve heard the saying “closing the barn door after the horse has escaped”  to denote a gesture made too little, too late. Well, I think of ourselves in the US as in that predicament, closing our borders (barn doors) when the virus has already gotten a significant toehold and is rapidly proliferating. Is it prudent to try and stem the spread now with some common sense travel restrictions? Sure! Steve and I (cue the tiny violins) have postponed our trip to Europe, scheduled for mid-April, until September. Should we Americans regret not doing more, sooner? Should we have anticipated this with more foresight, more funding for medical research and keeping response teams ready, more safeguards in place? Yes. Of course, 

In any event, here we are, taking a bit of a Keystone Kops approach to things. Which gatherings to cancel (some are calling for public events to be limited to 250 people, which I find comical: I guess it’s Mister 251 we should all fear!)? School closed, or not (decisions are all over the map at this point)? At church we are eschewing wine intinction at Communion, and we’re dropping the hosts into people’s hands and leaving the offering plate in the back and not passing the peace...still, should we gather for worship anyway? And how about those toilet paper hoarders? Those disinfectant hogs? Will we indeed resort to eating all that hastily purchased canned beef stew? I remember my shelf full of non-perishables as we awaited Y-2K, wondering if the Apocalypse might be preferable to consuming those cans of processed beets and spinach I’d chosen to stockpile.

Sadly we don’t have enough hospital beds or medical equipment in this country to safely weather a sudden huge spike in cases, nor is a vaccine on the horizon, so we take what precautions we can, complaining all the while (well I do, anyway) about this disruption to our cherished routine. History has echoes aplenty for us, had we chosen to pay attention: the influenza of 1918 (my Grandma Berrigan and her brother Frank were sent to Ireland from NY for a year to escape the brunt of it), the Bubonic Plague of medieval days. Pandemics happen sometimes, and they are no respecter of people’s busy schedules.

We’ll get through this, I believe. I just hope somebody remembers to take notes, so that next time we can be better prepared...because, at some point, there WILL be a next time. Meanwhile, let’s be really careful about blaming and demonizing our brothers and sisters. It could have started anywhere--even in the good old US of A. When it’s all over, I hope we can look back on a time when we pulled together, loving and supporting and caring for each other. 

As our calendars sport Xs for crossed off outings, why don’t we use a bit of that freed time to reach out to one another via texts, phone calls, and emails? All in this together, my friends. 

God bless us, everyone.

Our 40th anniversary three years ago. Guess we'll be home for this one!

Maybe I'll Just Go Back to Bed

Gloomy view from my window this morning. Figures.

I do have my pet theories about the way the world works (my world, at least). And one, which has proved tried-and-true, is this: as goes my morning, so goes the rest of my day. Now, this can be good news indeed, if my early hours are filled with accomplishment, rainbows and butterflies. If, for example, I write a good piece before noon, I am likely to hear from an editor accepting that or another piece of mine, sell a book or two, and line up a speaking gig. These are also the days when my hair is frizz-free, I get a surprise phone call from one of my kids and the new chicken dish is a big hit at dinner.

On the flip side, once things start off on the wrong foot, the day is basically doomed. Take technology: on the same day recently, Microsoft Word abruptly stopped working on my Mac, for reasons unknown (even to the Geek Squad at Best Buy) and I was also suddenly unable to print anything. May as well have just gone back to bed at that point, because it was also the day that I had not one but two essays rejected. And the bread I was baking didn't rise. And my hair was meh. And the surprise text from my daughter was that she would NOT be able to come home for a visit after all (surprise!)

I’ve had multi-day (even multi-week) runs of bad or good fortune, both of which are disconcerting. When multiple appliances fail at the same time as the car needs a new transmission, or, conversely, when the entire fam escapes the nasty stomach bug making the rounds. What gives? And if I can’t figure that out, what’s to keep the bad things from continuing, or the good things to suddenly stop? When I compare notes with others, the results are a mixed bag. Some kindred souls share similar tales of woes and wows. Others maintain that The Power of Positive Thinking ™ inoculates them from ever having a crummy day.

This line of reasoning is pretty irrational, I realize. There is a good bit of randomness in life, and patterns most often do not apply. That does not, however, stop me from seeing patterns everywhere, from the torrential downpours that usually accompany my white-knuckle drives downtown, to the brilliantly sunny outdoor wedding of a friend’s daughter—a friend upon whom the sun always seems to shine.  

So here we are, on 2-20-20 (good omen? Bad omen? Omen at all?) I began today emailing an editor a pitch for an essay, featuring a major typo. We’re off to the races! I'm sure there have been exceptions to my rule, but I can't recall ANY train wreck of a morning that ended up in triumph. And I wonder if these are self-fulfilling prophecies, and I begin to emit negative vibes to the universe immediately after the first misstep.

Maybe, indeed, it’s just me.

But what if it isn’t?

J-Lo, Shakira and Me

I admit, I  didn’t watch the Superbowl halftime show Sunday night. By the time the famous booty started shaking, my booty and I were sound asleep. But I got caught right up at 4:30 AM the next morning, watching it all on YouTube (pre-dawn internet browsing is what happens when you go to bed before 8 PM). It took me a little while to process the spectacle. Here are a few observations:

I cannot watch someone crowd surfing without remembering the only time I participated in a trust fall, with the youth group I was leading. I closed my eyes and fell backwards, trusting in the reflexes and good faith of my students. I was caught before I hit the ground, but barely. That would be me hurling myself into a mosh pit: dropped, then trampled. But Shakira was a different story! 

I also cannot watch someone pole dancing without recalling the field trip to the firehouse in fourth grade, and my ignominious partial trip down that pole (I froze halfway down and had to be rescued). Not so J-Lo!

However, I do have stuff in common with those two superstar Latina goddesses.

Give me a minute. I’m thinking.

Oh yeah, here’s something: we are all moms! Ms. Lopez has 11 year old duet partner Emme, and Shakira has two cute little boys. I raised five kids, including three cute little boys, and I actually sang with my older daughter in church one time (for some reason I was never asked to repeat this feat). 

Rose's album, in which I was NOT featured

Here’s something else: we all have noticeable hips! Even when I was down around 105 lbs. many moons ago, dieting and exercising to beat the band, the tape measure didn’t budge much. This “Built for Child Bearing” look was a source of shame for decades. But recently, and thanks in part to these ladies, it is more than OK to be a bit hippy. 

And finally: we are all middle aged! Granted, I am a lot farther down Menopause Road than they are. Also granted, they could easily pass for 20-somethings, whereas I have grown weary of telling cashiers that no, I do NOT yet qualify for the senior discount. 

Seriously, though, I admire them both, and am thrilled about their continued success in an industry that still ridiculously favors youth. They may have hit the beauty jackpot, but it was their talent that was most on display Sunday night--that and their incredible work ethic. 

The brief, sweet tribute to Kobe Bryant and his daughter during the show was a reminder that any age is vulnerable to tragic outcomes. Life is short, and in the grand scheme of things, my hip measurement and wrinkles truly do not matter. 

So take it from my friends Shakira and Jenny. Be proud of who you are. Live every day to the fullest. Be trusting, and a little daring. Work hard. And (especially us women of a certain age): keep singing out. The world needs our voices.