On Thin Ice

Bet you thought this was going to be a climate change post! Fooled ya! While I do indeed fret about the melting glaciers and other indications that our planet is in BIG trouble, I’d rather write about something cheerier: ice skating! We have, not one, but two enthusiastic skaters in the family these days, and while they aren’t ready to be in the ice dancing pairs competition at the Winter Olympics (yet), we’re proud of both Rose and Peter. My oldest daughter and youngest grandson love the sport, and are making great progress.  

  

Rose has always preferred solo to team athletic endeavors (surfing over soccer, etc.) and has been taking skating lessons up in Queens. I threaten to go up there and embarrass her by screaming, “You’re doing great, honey!” during her class, and maybe now that I’m retiring I may do just that some Sunday. In any event, I’m eager to see her in action. Peter I do get to enjoy, thanks to the weekly videos Ya-Jhu takes of his lessons at Wissahickon Skating Club. By lesson #2 he was skating without holding onto anything for balance, and runs (runs!) across the ice with tremendous enthusiasm.   

I have no clear memory of learning to ice skate, but any lessons I did take must have been utter failures, because I fall down even just thinking about stepping onto the ice. I recall sisters Mo and C skating now and then, but not me. Watching skating superstars spin and twirl on that impossibly slick surface is an ordeal, because I’m always waiting for them to have a televised wobbly landing or missed triple axel (isn’t an axel part of a car?) Btw, time out for education: I just Googled and, as always, was instantly enlightened. The axel jump is named for Norwegian figure skater Axel Paulsen, which I guess is better than a jump named for Peggy Fleming or Scott Hamilton (“Incredible! He just completed a perfect double peggy!”) Back to our regularly scheduled blog post.  

 Even though I realize that the ice at indoor rinks does not have ten feet of freezing water beneath it, therefore not much chance of falling through a crack, why risk it? Amy March fell through the ice, remember? And almost drowned! I make it a point to avoid travails endured by any of the Little Women, including dying from scarlet fever (Beth) and having to write my books in longhand (Jo). So I will forever be on the sidelines, white-knuckling my cup of hot cocoa and holding my breath as the kids dart around on those razor thin metal blades.   

We’re all on thin ice these days, my friends, aren’t we? With so many perils lurking beneath (and all around) us. And so: do we quaver in the corner of life, or do we lace up our skates and enter the fray?  

I know I’m sick of quavering. But do I have what it takes to glide gracefully into the future?   

Time will tell.        

No Excuses

Julie, one of my favorite excuses, all grown up and married

I am the Justification Queen. While I admit I accomplish a decent amount, I have ever-ready excuses when I fall short. For ages, having five children let me off the hook for lots of stuff; no time to deep-clean the house when there are diapers to be changed and homework to check!! Nowadays, I glance around my still unsterilized surroundings and realize that, with my youngest child age 27, it’s probably time for a different excuse. And I promise you, I WILL find one. Wait, got it! My live-in grandsons!! They’re only 5 and 7, so that buys me at least another decade of good excuses for a little grime. Whew!

For the past 20 years, my full-time job at Christ’s Lutheran Church has been the justification for scads of writing and submitting that didn’t happen. Thursday, my day off, was my main writing day. That, along with some very early morning sessions, summed up all the time I had to pen my deathless prose. No wonder that novel never happened--I was busy! Never mind the stories of prolific authors who are also doctors, lawyers, etc. Those people are just weird, right? And probably not very plugged in to their main jobs either! Would you want your appendix removed by a poet who is figuring out rhyme and meter in his head, and paying no attention to the location of your organs? I didn’t think so.

 

Well, now here we are. I’m 10 days from retirement. My Big Excuse will soon disappear, and then I will have all day, every day, to be a writer. My friend Rochelle is a writing coach, and her slogan is “'Maybe Someday’ Becomes Write Now!” I know, Rochelle, I know. But I really like living in the world of Maybe Someday! In that enchanted land dwells, for example, my solo show, which I’ve been yakking about doing for years. Except for one course I took last year (which was really inspirational, and I was briefly inspired), and two short stand up gigs,  I have made zero progress on getting a one woman show written and produced. Guess I actually have to DO this thing now? But I'd prefer it still existing as a smash hit in my dreams!

 

For the past eight months, since I gave my notice at church, I’ve been blithely telling people that I’m not a bit concerned about getting enough writing work. And there truly are a great many opportunities out there, especially with the exploding digital media scene. So why, now that my last day at CLC is imminent, do I clearly envision Monday, May 23^rd as a day, not of tremendous literary output, but instead a day of panic and a blank computer screen? By Tuesday the 24^th, will I be sleeping late, then binging on Netflix series? But I’ve been sleep deprived for decades, and all that TV is great writing research!

 

Nope! MY new slogan: “No Excuses!”

 

Or…”BETTER Excuses!“

 

Yes, that’s more like it.

Oh, it's OK! You can disturb me!

Up-to-Dating

I enjoy seeing photos of kitchen re-dos. It’s so nice that SOMEONE has the time, interest and money to tackle these things! Our kitchen has not been touched, really, since shortly after our 1989 move-in. Oh sure, we planned to replace those horrible wooden cabinets someday, install decent flooring—at one point we even thought of taking down a wall so that we’d have more than five square feet of space (that dream died when our architect friend Mark gave us the sad news that it was a “bearing” wall, without which the ceiling would collapse). 

But renovation has its pitfalls. An obvious one is the fact that everything surrounding the new part immediately looks old and decrepit—a whack-a-mole situation, where the freshly painted family room highlights the really ancient windows, and the arrival of a new chair instantly causes the neighboring sofa’s upholstery to fade and rip—which makes the new chair look shabby too, and so on.

 

This also holds true with many revivals of movies and plays. Bringing an old favorite into the present day tends to either spotlight the weaknesses of the original, or remind the viewer that the original really was better and shouldn’t have been tampered with. I was reminded of this phenomenon during our last two New York shows—a revival of Stephen Sondheim’s Company, and a bold reworking of the classic Cyrano de Bergerac.  

 

We had loved Company in its first incarnation back in the early 1970s. It was smart, funny, and perfectly captured the energy of New York City at exactly that point in time. But for whatever reason, it was decided to make bachelor Bobby and his hovering married friends, bachelorette Bobbie and hers. It strained credulity when the husbands were the ones who fretted about Bobbie’s single status (my hub, like most others, wouldn’t have noticed had she grown a third arm). As we watched “Another Hundred People” whipping out their iPhones as they sang and danced (hey look! It’s gotta be 2022!), it just served to remind us that we vastly preferred the premiere production.

 

Cyrano, which was written 130 years ago, and set in 17th century France, would seem to be another case of a revival that couldn't work. Instead, though, it was such a significant re-imagining that it totally worked (for me; Steve, who has played Cyrano twice, wasn’t 100% on board). While allusions were made to Cardinal Richelieu and Molière, one character also referenced Roxanne, Steve Martin’s movie from 1987. The cast was in modern dress, and tossed mics around as they ably rapped many of the lines. Heck, star James McAvoy wasn’t even sporting the huge nose that is always THE prominent feature of the title character. By excavating the play down to its bones and rebuilding, the show felt thrilling and new, and not an awkward attempt to modernize.

 

Moral: when updating, either go big or go home.

 

So instead of new curtains, I guess it’s time for a bulldozer!

On the Contrary

Clip--to attach together AND take off!

Have you ever, as I have, stood in the kitchen reading a recipe that calls for  “unpeeled potatoes”? What the heck do they want you to do—peel them, or not? I have no idea!

 Or, ever wondered why the same word means adding fine particles, and removing them (“dust”)?

 

How about working “out of the office” (as many of us have done in the last two years)? Does that mean you are based IN the office, or not?

 

These and quite a few other words/phrases in our ever-delightful English language are called “contronyms”: they actually mean two contradictory things. Most of the time you can puzzle them out in the context of the sentence (note: “puzzle” refers to both a problem, and solving a problem.) But other times you “wind up” (meaning “end”, as well as “start up”) totally confused. As a wordsmith, I am confronted with these grammar choices frequently, and tend to avoid their use, in the interest of being a “transparent” writer (obvious, not invisible). Nevertheless, I am “bound” (held fast? Heading somewhere?) to goof up, to “refrain” (do again, as in music) instead of “refrain” (stop doing). 

 

Yikes.

 

No wonder I don’t make a decent effort to learn other languages! I can scarcely handle my own!!

 

BEING contrary, of course, means automatically doing or saying the opposite of what is requested or expected. That would have been young me, endlessly arguing my points with my grownups, taking a totally different stance on pretty much anything. I think I would have made a great debater, except for the fact that someone once suggested it to me, which made it a permanent no. My Nana Cunningham and her sister, my great-aunt Rose, were both schoolteachers, and harped on my doing likewise. I heard the word “pension” constantly throughout my childhood, which not surprisingly lent zero extra appeal to that career choice. How fortunate that I went my own way, spending decades of my prime earning years in touring children’s theatre, with nary a penny in the bank to show for it at the end! So there, Nana and Rose!!

 

We’re living in a very contrarian time, when our politics, our climate understanding and our health care decisions so often boil down to: THEY are Pro, therefore I am automatically Con. And while it’s good to question things, it’s ridiculous when you act against your own best interests, just because.

 

I’d love to see us as a society move beyond these knee-jerk reactions. Why, had I listened to my elders, I could have been a wealthy retired pensioner now, instead of an aging woman with a trunk of old costumes as her investment portfolio!

 

So let’s leave contronyms where they belong (in the thesaurus), and work on being a little more conciliatory and agreeable! On our “trip” through life (journey? Stumble?) things will go much more smoothly if we stop being so “unbending” (rigid, not relaxed, though it means both).

 

Glad I could clear things up.

Blog post finished (completed, not destroyed)

The Art of the Snooze

My little inspiration!

Napper? Not me, not ever. My mother could never get me to take a mid-day lie-down in my crib (even as a newborn. I must’ve had a major case of FOMO, though the only thing I’d be missing out on was yet another episode of “As the World Turns”). I didn’t attend kindergarten, but entered first grade at age four. The good nuns at Epiphany were not much for encouraging an after lunch rest, because it would take valuable time away from memorizing the Baltimore Catechism.

And so it went. Eventually my peers stayed awake all day and, later, joined me in remaining alert far, far into the night. So it was a shocker when, as a newly pregnant person, I found myself unable to get through life without a nap. These I endured as a necessary evil, even as I hated the groggy, cranky feeling of waking up with a start at two in the afternoon. As soon as the next Seyfried was born, I’d transfer all my napping focus to trying to get the BABY down instead (with no more success than Joanie had had with infant me).

 

Over the decades, I would read about this or that successful person who swore by the Power Nap, but I never indulged. My hubby, in contrast, happily and almost daily would catch 40 winks sitting bolt upright at his desk, after which he’d awaken with extra pep in his step. And, of course, various travels exposed us to Nap Culture. When I visited my friend Lisa in New Orleans, she said that many offices closed for a good chunk of the afternoon, so that workers could escape the brutal heat with a snooze under a ceiling fan. In Barcelona, we learned that the locals take “siesta” quite seriously (apparently loooong siestas, because restaurants often don’t open for dinner until 8 PM or later). This was also the case in Italy, where the afternoon “riposo” is extremely popular. Though I’ve yet to get to either country, the residents of China and Japan reportedly enjoy their “wushui” or their “inemuri.” 

 

Within the last few years, my sleep schedule has changed quite a bit. I now am up before the birds, and well before sunrise. By early afternoon, I can’t keep my eyes open. Enter the brief, restorative, wonderful nap! I find myself looking forward to climbing into bed (I even have a daybed in my home office), reading one paragraph of a book and then drifting away to Dreamland. I remind myself of my Nana Cunningham, who absolutely treasured her daily nap (as a child, I thought she was nuts. I know better now). 

 

The world can turn without my active participation for a few minutes daily; arguably all will go MORE smoothly if I bow out for a bit. And life is waiting for me, to pick up where I left off, but now I tackle the remains of the day feeling refreshed. 

 

Yay, naps! How does anyone manage without them? 

So Much Love in This Room

This is My Brave Philly 2018

Last night I was a guest on a Philly arts podcast, talking about my second production of This is My Brave, the show I’d helped bring to the city four years ago. We are doing it again, in October, and now’s the time to publicize. We’ll end up casting 10 people who will share their true stories of mental illness onstage through comedy, poetry, song, dance, and essays. On the podcast I was joined by my friend and fellow producer Denita (there are four of us women on the Brave production team, including Lauren and Jenny). As we talked, the podcast host twice commented, “There is so much love in this room.” And it was true. I am really proud of Denita, who open-heartedly shares her mental health journey, and delighted to partner with her on this new venture. 

 

But this wasn’t the only room filled with love in my day. My intrepid Tuesday morning Bible study crew was with me as we continued plowing through the books of Kings in the Old Testament. These are hard stories, bloody battles and coups and rampant unfaithfulness to the God of Israel, who seems a more than a little cranky while meting out justice/punishment. I always remind the class that we have to read through the lens of the original storytellers, who had a view of the Almighty that was quite different than what we understand today. The best part of the morning for me, though, is talking about our lives during our study, and the prayer time at the end, and today was no exception. We’re all struggling with different challenges, but the genuine affection we share is helping to see us through. 

 

Every day, we enter different rooms, right? Bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens. Classrooms and office spaces and public transportation hubs. And we step in, not knowing what we will encounter. Yesterday, my Julie waited an hour on a Brooklyn subway platform, delayed because a gunman was terrorizing a car full of people down the line. Where was the love in THAT room? 

 

It was clearly visible. People helped one another until medical aid could arrive, those brusque New Yorkers gently caring, refusing to let violence rule the day. And similar scenes are playing out in Ukraine--people risking all to rescue others. Trying not to let evil control the narrative. Allowing love to fill the room.

 

And so, my friends, as we wrestle with our mental health, as we grapple with the difficult books of our faith and share our personal stories, as we minister to one another in terrifying times: let us not forget to make room for love. When we do that, we are truly shining with the image of God that we are.

 

My Bible study friends Nancy and Jim introduced me to this song, yesterday morning, and it is the perfect way to frame this day, a day of challenge and pain. And, always, love.

 

Wishing you so much love, in all of your rooms.

 

 

Lark of the Covenant

  

At Lark

Last Thursday, Steve and I had a delightful dinner with Patrick and Ashlyn at Lark, a super-elegant new restaurant in Bala Cynwyd. Lark’s owner/chef, Nick Elmi, is a Top Chef winner and James Beard Award finalist; his eatery is the real deal. We enjoyed an incredible spread that included (among other dishes) braised escargots, broiled octopus, mushroom and foie gras ravioli, and Basque cheesecake for dessert. 

 The best part? Dinner was free!

 

Well, not exactly, but we basically paid zero out of pocket. I’ve been writing essays for a food website this past year, and decided to write one based on a Patrick salad creation. I shared about Pat’s youth (a sports guy who rarely showed interest in cooking, he eventually became a fabulous chef in several restaurants.) Since the recipe was supplied by my son, it was only fair that he get half the fee for the article. In typical fashion, though, he wouldn’t accept the money. After a few back-and-forths, we decided to spend the check together on a special meal. 

 

The only thing not covered was the tip, and Patrick insisted on reimbursing me via Venmo. When I received the transfer, I noticed that he’d written as a note “Lark of the Covenant.” 

At last!!!! All those years of religious education paid off!!! Pat was making a clever reference to “Ark of the Covenant”, the chest housing the stone tablets with the Ten Commandments. As my Bible Study group is currently immersed in the Old Testament, I’ve had a refresher course on the Ark, from Moses through David and beyond. 

 

I was one proud mom, and texted him to that effect. As pride inevitably goeth before a fall, I soon discovered that my child’s familiarity was mostly based, not on church learning, but on Indiana Jones (Raiders of the Lost Ark)! Oops! 

 

It did get me thinking about knowledge acquisition in general, and Scripture smarts in particular. I have spent a lot of time over the years selecting the best children’s Bibles, and Sunday School and VBS curriculum, for the little ones at Christ’s Lutheran. Yet come Confirmation class (6th- 9th grades), they still tend to look blankly at me when asked even some basic info. How could it be that this stuff doesn’t stick?

 

I’ve learned to manage my expectations, and nowadays I focus on the core message of the Bible: we have a God who loves us beyond all telling, and who just asks that we love our neighbors as we love ourselves. Further details (what does “prodigal” mean? How long did the Israelites wander? Who betrayed Jesus?), though important, are really icing on the spiritual cake. And if the kiddos accidentally learn some Scripture through pop culture, does it really matter? 

 

So it’s down from the high horse for me. Patrick, and the rest of my brood, are wonderful, loving and giving people. They may never win at Bible Jeopardy, but honestly? I believe they’re just fine with the Lord.

Photo by Igor Rodriguez on Unsplash

Phantom Limb

 

Me and my family, 20 years ago!

Phantom Limb (def.): a vivid perception that a limb which has been removed or amputated is still present in the body and performing its normal functions. 

I realize I’m very lucky. I have never actually lost a body part, though the little ones that took up temporary residence in my uterus still cause intense feelings in me (including the two I lost to miscarriage). But I’ve been fascinated by the phenomenon of the phantom limb, a perception that can sometimes last for years after the appendage is gone. In these cases, while the person can obviously see that the arm or leg is no longer attached, the nerves and brain are sending a different message. It is as if an amputee can’t quite accept such a permanent loss, and so hallucinates that it didn’t occur.

 

But there are other kinds of phantom limbs, I’ve learned, and mine haunt me.

 

What are my phantom limbs these days? As I prepare to wrap up 20 years at my job at Christ’s Lutheran in May, I recognize many, right in my place of worship and work. After all, I believe we are, collectively, members of the body of Christ. So it only makes sense that losing other “parts” hurts. Many of these losses involve death, including a large number of beloved elders, but also younger friends whose passings were untimely (accidents, cancer, suicide). Often, I walk into certain rooms in the church building, or sit in the sanctuary, and feel their presence still. The sweet brigade of older ladies who expertly provided luncheons and soup suppers and coffee hours. The deceased members of the group of cheery retired handymen (“Monday Morning Men.”) The amazing Sunday School teachers who doted on my children, even when my offspring were rather less than adorably behaved. A pastor, gone too soon.

 

But beyond those departures, I ache at times for the people who are no longer in my life for other reasons. In most cases, we either drifted apart through geographical moves, or just the busy-ness of life. In a few, misunderstandings and hurtful actions (some, I readily acknowledge, caused by me) precipitated the rifts, and in many ways those separations are particularly painful because they seem so unnecessary now. 

 

There is no simple way to recover a lost limb, and often it’s impossible. We travel on through life’s journey diminished a little, always missing people who helped make us feel whole. Yes, every day offers opportunities for new relationships, new connections, and that’s a beautiful thing. But there’s really no replacing the ones who are gone. 

 

That is why, as I begin to pack up my books and transfer my files, in anticipation of my successor, I mourn. I also, truth be told, mourn the loss of 45 year old me, beginning a new career as spiritual formation director filled with energy and enthusiasm and hope. Where did she go? I hope that younger woman lives on in other people’s memories, occasionally causing a little pang, as if to say, “I’m still here, even though you don’t see me.” 

 

Just as I remember my lost ones, who live on in my heart.

 

With the 2005 Costa Rica Mission Team

Comedy Tonight

Saint Patrick's Church, Dingle (Ireland trip 2017)  

Last September I made my standup comedy debut at an event, playing an enthusiastic but totally mixed up woman giving a children’s sermon at church. It was very well received, and I breathed that sigh of relief one breathes when one knows one never has to do something again. Bucket list item checked off, for good and all!

But over the ensuing months, I’ve been writing a lot of humor pieces, and began to entertain the thought that MAYBE I’d do another standup routine. Someday. Maybe. At any rate, about a month ago Ya-Jhu started putting together an Irish-themed evening, a fundraiser for her church to be held March 19^th. She and Sher would play Celtic music, there would be Irish dancers, etc. I wondered, was Yaj hoping her mother-in-law, the not-so-marvelous Mrs. Maisel, would come up with a funny new performance for the occasion? At first I modestly said no, but then she actually asked me, and I said yes. Armed with only a decent Irish brogue and some whatever the Gaelic word for “chutzpah" is, I settled on an idea: I would play the part of Saint Patrick’s long-suffering mother.

 

As soon as the concept struck me, the writing was pretty simple. I have more than a passing familiarity with Patrick (heck, I named one of my sons after him!), I am Irish as the proverbial Paddy’s pig (get it?), and I was a longtime Catholic to boot. My vision of St. Pat’s ma’s presentation included her “settin’ the record straight” about the various legends surrounding the Patron of the Emerald Isle. Apparently he never drove the snakes out of Ireland at all (it’s an island, nobody can drive out of there, right?); the Holy Trinity shamrock story didn’t happen because of Paddy’s allergies (no fields of clover for him!); in fact, most of his amazing tale was  invented by Patrick’s "eejit" pal Seamus Kelly, who always had wanted to be friends with a saint. 

 

I had a blast, and was really pleased with the crowd’s response. Aiden and Peter were there, and when I later asked them what they thought, little Peter piped up, “Nana, it was so funny when you said, ‘Phooey!’” I rather think my five year old would have been delighted had my whole routine been nothing but saying “phooey” a hundred times. 

 

While I certainly don’t aspire to be the next Joan Rivers, at this point I’d do standup again (if asked). The discipline of writing, and then memorizing, what was essentially a 10 minute monologue will serve me well (or at least reassure me that I’m not – yet—experiencing significant memory loss). 

 

They say the happiest retirees are those who pursue new activities. Therefore, after May, I plan to pursue such new-to-me pastimes as regular flossing, more frequent dishwasher emptying (for some reason I have no issue loading it) and sewing my own clothes (not really). Idle hours watching TV commercials for AARP? Nope! It’s pure adventure (including stand up) from now on!

!

                                       Sheridan and Yaj in performance Saturday night!

                        

Life is Like...

Not sure why, but Nas says life is like this...

I once read an essay comparing life to a train journey. The gist is: we’re all definitely heading to a final destination, right? And we get on at different stops, and pass lots of scenery. And I think we have to show our tickets at some point, to a conductor (Jesus? That always seems to be the right answer). Now, as I write this, I guess I've forgotten some of the piece’s finer points.    

But it did get me thinking about life, and all the ways it has been described. Bowl of cherries. Box of chocolates. Camera (“develop from the negatives”—this one has lost some relevance as my iPhone pix do not require development). Roller Coaster (ups and downs and screaming, I suppose). The Scriptures weigh in (“For what is your life? A vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away”--James 4:14). And of course, the song Life is Like a Dice Game by Nas, the lyrics of which fail to explain the simile, but it has clever rhymes like Haile Selassie and Asti Spumante, so you’ve got to give it that.   

Since there are so many “life is like” quotes out there, I figured I’d add a few more to the mix, based on personal experience. Here we go:  

Life is like flat ironing your hair and then you get caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella and suddenly your hair is all frizzy again: you may think you look pretty, but soon it turns out you’re really all wet.  

Life is like paying a fortune to your children’s dentist, and then you let the kids keep eating bowls of sugar frosted lucky charm cocoa puffs: it’s filled with lessons you never seem to learn.  

Life is like a dripping faucet in the bathroom in the middle of the night: it can be really annoying, but not annoying enough to get out of bed and do something about.   

Life is like a ceiling fan: it can be very cool.   

Life is like a pot of boiling polenta: it can also burn the heck out of you.   

Life is like that bar of decorative soap you got one Christmas: it’s too fancy to use, so you just leave it under the sink for the next 10 years. Not sure how that one applies, but it’s definitely something I’ve experienced!  

Life is like a tsunami: it looks so calm that you walk out into the water and then whammo.  

Life is like an aerosol can with a clogged nozzle: you shake it, you know there’s still stuff in there, but you can’t get it out.  

Life is like a skateboard: for God’s sake, be careful!  

Life is like a DVD collection: now that you have them, it’s hard to find a player anymore.   

Life is like a peony: a beautiful flower filled with ants.   

You should try coming up with your own “life is like” comparisons, friends! It’s a fun way to waste precious moments of…your life!

Peonies: how like life!