Miss You Guys

With my sister C and friend Lisa

Oh my goodness, I am absolutely awash in nostalgia today, and looking back on my life with much regret (of course) but also so many joyful memories. I used to think I was pretty good at keeping in touch, but in fact am pretty terrible at it. Boxes of letters and cards attest to the fact that, back in the day, I must have been a decent correspondent, because so many wonderful people kept up with me. Nowadays (and this is partly attributable to the advent of email and texting and evaporating records of the back-and-forth of old communication), a real physical note from someone is a treat indeed, and this is largely because I rarely write to folks myself anymore. Rarely call anyone, either. If you’re on Facebook when I am, well yay, because we just might connect. Otherwise, weeks, months and even years may pass without a peep.

But it is important to me that I say that I miss you. All of you. And I miss me, too. The precocious and (truth to tell) insufferable child, writing reams of poetry and prose and angsting all over the place. The grown-too-soon teen, escaping a challenging home life to leap into engagement at age 17, luckily with the enduring love of my life. The shattered 20-something, losing one sister and clinging to the other. The young actress. The mom of five, living a blur of diapers and feedings and time-outs and bedtime readings. All those Elises, now gone forever.

As I slog on into my late 50s, missing all the versions of me, all the memories of you, I want to send a message. I know I will forget to mention many people but here’s just a sampling…

Here’s to my childhood buddies, especially to Lisa. I’ll never forget reading Life with Mother Superior on the playground at St. Jude’s. Shout-out to my high school friends, including John, Nancy, Molly, Jeff and Paul. We have shared so much beyond our Pius High days, meeting in Atlanta and New York and Philly over the years. Closer to now, I miss Shelley and Sue and Colleen and Monica and feel stupid that we aren’t in better touch. You may not always be geographically near me and I can’t take you for granted. We raised our kids together and that is no small thing.

Besides my sis, I miss my extended family, my sisters- and brother- in- law, and their families. I miss my cousins in New York, all the time. Why don’t we get together more often? I don’t know, and time ticks inexorably on.

In the winter, I miss all my Delaware shore friends.  I also really miss Sher’s composition teacher (former Rehoboth resident), Jim.

With Becky and Dennis in Lewes

You are all so dear to me, and today you all feel very far away, as do the days memories of you evoke.

Missing is an ache that reminds me that I’m alive and, I pray to God, there’s still time.

See you soon, everybody?  Please? 

Faking It

I am just about totally unqualified for anything I do in this world. As a child, I taught myself to read, to cook, to type (with two fingers, the ridiculous method I still use). I received no formal training in writing, acting, or church work. I married my first boyfriend at age 20, with no experience whatsoever in being out on my own.  And parenting? Forget about it! I remember the many bouts of postpartum weeping (me and the babies) as I frantically tore through my copies of Dr. Spock and Penelope Leach for advice.  That the kids turned out well is a miracle for which I take very little credit.

For so many years, I plastered a big smile on my face and faked my way through life, ignoring physical ailments and mental illness alike as I pretended to have it all figured out. Even now, at age 57, when you’d think I’d know better, I am still a master of disguise. Ask my psychiatrist how I’m feeling on my current dosage of meds. He will probably say I’m doing great, when in reality I hate my numbness and lack of emotions. Heck, I recently walked around for four months with a torn rotator cuff and denied the pain!

day of my injury--smiling through

There is value to faking it sometimes, I believe. Steve’s dad used to say that when people asked him how he was he always answered “fine” because that’s what everyone wanted to hear. We all have our miseries; do we really need to bring each other down by complaining about them?  And I have definitely experienced times when the false impression I’ve given of being happy has eventually morphed into the real thing.

So now here I am, on the verge of another role to play—that of grandma. I am genuinely thrilled for Ya-Jhu and Sheridan, and am quite sure they will make fantastic parents. I feel excited and a bit scared about this new little one coming into the world. I have no idea what kind of grandparent I will be, and once again feel as if I’ll be faking it, at least at first. Will I be helpful? Hopefully. Will I spoil the baby? Probably. Will I have the energy to really participate in his or her daily life in a positive way? Who knows, but I will definitely give it my best shot.

Mom and Dad to be!

And if someday my precious grandchild asks me for advice about living, I will say that we none of us are ever really prepared, ever feel truly adequate for all of life’s challenges. Even with a lot more training than I had.  I think that’s a secret we all carry inside of us: that we’re pretending every day. Smiling when we don’t feel like smiling. We need to keep on keeping on through the tough times, and fake it till we make it. Because God knows we’re trying, every one of us.  And maybe trying is the best any of us can do. 

Paring it Down

PJ cleaning up

PJ just got home from a semester in Germany. He came back to a room spilling over with clothes, papers, books and assorted furniture from his last Millersville apartment. Ya-Jhu and I went in there while he was gone, hoping to make some sense of the chaos, but quickly retreated, totally defeated. But there is hope! PJ is a new man after his European sojourn, a pack rat no longer. He vows to whip his room into shape in a matter of days, relegating bags full of random saved things to the trash. He wants to pare his life down to the basics, and more power to him.

Julie recently traveled internationally for three months with one medium-sized backpack. She wore her tiny wardrobe, washed it in hostel sinks, and wore it again. She came home to a room full of fashion, enough sweaters and jeans to open a branch of LOFT, and she was turned off by the excess. Jules is sorting through, selecting many items to give to charity, vowing to pare her life down as she heads toward college and living on her own.

Julie and her backpack at the airport

Sheridan and Yaj have gone all organic and environmentally sensitive, toting their own bags to the grocery store, eschewing foil and plastic wrap for Tupperware. Steve and I are slow to fall in step, regularly forgetting to love the planet, but we're getting there. I look at our newly organized refrigerator, with lots of blessed open space, and realize that there is value to paring it down, combining three 1/3 full yogurts into one container, pitching the science experiment buried on the lower back shelf.

One of these fine days it will be my turn to confront the vast assortment of flotsam and jetsam in my home that would definitely qualify me for an episode of “Hoarders.” I will box up the old VHS tapes, I will jettison the canned goods long past their expiration date, I will pare my life down to its essence. Painful as the process will be, I know in the end it will feel good.

Have you ever been bitten by the throw-it-out bug? Have you looked at that pile of In Style magazines dating from 2009 and thought: “I guess that stuff is probably not ‘in style’ anymore?”

 And, going a little deeper…

What are you carrying that would feel so good to put down?  What excess is cluttering up your life?

It’s not New Year’s yet, but here’s a 2014 challenge: take a good, long look at your stuff, any toxic relationships, your overcrowded to-do lists, everything that is standing between you and a simpler, less stressful life. Pare it down, all of it: say goodbye to people who consistently hurt you, shred those crazy lists, box up your regrets and your disappointments and get rid of them.

Now. Look at all the beautiful open space in your heart. Room to breathe. Room to live abundantly.

I’ll do it. I’ll do it if you will.

Snow Day Prayer

Dear Lord,

Well, the weather certainly wreaked havoc with MY plans this week. I’ve been designing our annual Advent  prayer center at church for months. I take a lot of pride in the work that my amazingly creative friend Marda and I do in coming up with a different center each year.  As usual, I anticipated over 120 people coming through and experiencing 12 different, hands-on prayer activities over a period of four days. The stations were all set up, the music playing and the candles lit.

water prayer station

making Tibetan prayer flags

What do they say about pride going before a fall? In this case, a snowfall?

Sunday, Day #1 of the event, the fluffy flakes began to descend during the 10:30 worship service (we were due to open the center at 4 PM). The forecasted “dusting” quickly turned into “coating,” then the meteorologists started sinking rulers into the heaps of white stuff outside. Four inches. Six inches. Because it was the weekend, plows were very slow to appear on the roads. Scratch Day #1. Attempt to reschedule 30 people for the remaining days.

Monday, Day #2, was cold but blessedly clear, so everything happened as expected. Whew! But wait!

Tuesday, Day #3, the heavy snow began by 8 AM and as of this writing shows no signs of abating. Once again, a cancellation, another large group of folks to (hopefully) be moved to another time.

Tomorrow should be sunny but bitterly cold, which will also likely deter some people from venturing out. And I have to take everything down tomorrow night to make room for the senior citizen group’s Christmas lunch in Parish Hall on Thursday.

I’ve been fuming and fussing, very annoyed and disappointed that my big production is in tatters.  Thanks a lot, God! Here I was trying to do something nice for you, and this is the appreciation I get!

Now that that’s out of my system…

Maybe I need to let go of my grand plans, well-intentioned though they may be. These storms have inconvenienced many, many people on a far deeper level than me. Drivers in cars have skidded off roads, children in houses have lost their heat. Schools and businesses have closed. Emergency workers have been put at risk as they respond to countless calls for help. Maybe I need to pray for all of them, and not in clever ways but in a simple one.  Perhaps I can utter a prayer of thanks that my family and friends are safe and warm, and that for us this snow is just a beautiful nuisance.

And Lord, may I see this unanticipated week of altered plans as a kind of gift. A reminder of who is in control (note to self: NOT me).  A not-so-gentle nudge to send me to my knees. Life is filled with stuff that just happens, but there is grace and redemption in all of it if I only take the time to look.

This year, may the messed-up prayer center,  center me.  Amen.

our backyard this morning

Angels Among Us

Newborn Julie and Mom

19 years ago tonight, I was at Pennsylvania Hospital awaiting the birth of Bouncing Baby Seyfried #5. Labor wasn't progressing, even after hours.of walking in center city in the bitter early December cold. Back in Oreland, my mom was amusing the other kids with a guessing game--boy or girl this time? While I badly wanted a sister for Rosie, with three boys already, I was prepared for another son. Which would have been fine had Steve and I been able to agree on a name. I thought Charlie was adorable; Steve wasn't so sure. His choice was Benedict, the name of one of his good friends in seminary. I was adamantly against this one (though I liked Ben himself), thinking only of probable nicknames for the poor little guy (Arnold! Eggs!) We had nearly arrived at a compromise monicker, Quinn, but were debating still when we decided to head home. Little Whatshisname was clearly not about to make an appearance today.


But as we cut through the hospital lobby en route to the parking lot, we bumped into the nurse who'd been there when I was examined in the morning. She took one look at me and said, "You really should go back upstairs and be examined again." She sounded so emphatic that we obeyed. And thank God we did, because that exam revealed the baby's heart rate was dangerously low. By the time I got settled in a room, full labor had kicked in and I was in agony. I don't want to think of what would've happened if we'd been on the Schuylkill Expressway at that moment.

After a tumultuous evening, shortly after 1 AM, Julie Claire arrived, safe and sound. Ever since, we've thought of that nurse as an angel, put into our path to make sure our precious child was OK.

I was thinking of Julie and angels again this week as she finally came home from her three month backpacking odyssey in Europe. I was so proud of her for attempting this feat, but worried all day, every day about her safety as she traveled through 11 countries alone. With only two minor negative incidents ( infected tonsils in Vienna and bedbugs in Nice) the whole trip, and many, many incidents of kind strangers who became friends, I concluded that Jules had an angel on her shoulder, making sure she was OK. Then I realized that these new friends WERE her angels, making her traveling world a safer and happier place.

Julie's banner

Do you believe in angels? Heavenly protectors who make sure we’re OK? It’s hard to square that, isn’t it, with the many, many people who suffer hardships, some beyond imagining? But I will say that we have the power to be angels for each other on this bumpy road called Life. Offering a helping hand, an encouraging word. A little love. We can do this.

Welcome home, my Julie. May you always be surrounded by angels, as you are an angel to me. 

It's the Thought that Counts?

Just got the most thoughtful early birthday present. My friend Mary Ellen wrote in for tickets to a taping of The Rachael Ray Show in NYC on December 5th for me and my daughters (Rose, Julie and Ya-Jhu), and the tickets came yesterday morning! Those of you who know me as a cook know how often I use Ray's recipes (several times every week), so I'm as excited as a tween girl going to see Taylor Swift!!

I am lucky enough to be surrounded by gifted gift-givers. I marvel at their uncanny ability to choose exactly what the recipient would love, without outright asking them, so there's the wonderful element of surprise. Included in my Gifting Hall of Fame are my husband and kids, who never fail to come up with presents that others were dreaming of. I'll never forget the year Rosie (who was REALLY young) saved up enough money from her baking business to buy PJ his heart's desire, a Gameboy Color (remember them)? There had been a typhoon near their factory in Asia, so shipments around Christmastime were extremely limited. Undaunted, Rose went on eBay and found the coveted toy, paying much more than she should have, but so delighted to give her brother this treat.  Yaj is also stellar in this department. For someone who hasn't known us that long, she ALWAYS picks the perfect things, accompanying them with the cutest notes. And, truly, no one tops Julie. She is so 

Christmas 2012, largely a Julie Seyfried production!

savvy and clued-in that, last year, I gave her my credit card and asked her to do the Christmas shopping for me. She did an incredible job, and everyone got what they actually wanted (and she came in under budget).

Which leads me to my confession. I am a dreadful shopper. I mean well, really I do. But mine is the unfortunate combination of unobservant and perpetually low on funds come birthdays and holidays. I can only guess at what my loved ones would like, and my guesses are invariably wrong. I stand in the mall, paralyzed, Nat King Cole crooning "Chestnuts roasting..."on the sound system. Finally, in desperation, I purchase either something they already have (and I didn't notice), or something that isn't their taste at all. Everyone is always so nice, and acts like they're pleased with my offerings. But I know better.

So here we are again, heading rapidly into “the most wonderful time of the year.” Others of my acquaintance have squirreled presents away since last January, and now have only to wrap and label and put under the tree. I have purchased zero, a state of affairs likely to continue until December 20th, when once more Nat King Cole will provide the soundtrack to my in-store panic attack.

Rose delighted with a gift (not from me!)

I hope my family and friends know how much I love them, how grateful I am for them. I hope they will forgive my misguided efforts to buy for them. I promise to include the gift receipts for quick and easy returns!

Out of this World

Rose and PJ--a starry night on the beach

I’ve got to tell you, I am completely nutty about outer space. From  Close Encounters... at the movies, to Mary Doria Russell’s incredible book The Sparrow, to stargazing on the beach at night, I am enthralled by the sheer majesty and scope of the universe.

In the heyday of NASA, I followed each manned space flight eagerly. I remember watching Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. It was July, 1969, and we were staying in a TV-less cottage in Normandy Beach, NJ. Our next door neighbor, Dave MacDonald (age 95), had a television set and invited us over. He had served in the Spanish-American War, among other amazing life events, and I wondered how he would react to this most momentous occasion. As it turned out, he fell asleep just before “one small step for man,” and his guests were left to marvel as Old MacDonald snored in his recliner.

More recently, I was fascinated by the discovery of a planet much like ours, in another solar system.  Gleise 581 g, dubbed the Goldilocks Planet by scientists (“not too hot, not too cold, just right” for life), could indeed harbor, or have harbored, life similar to ours. Looking ahead hundreds, if not thousands of years, wouldn’t it be cool to pop by and visit this place and (possibly) this people?

In fact, in 2008 a digital time capsule was launched, containing snippets of our Earth culture, from messages from world leaders and average citizens, to the music of Beethoven, Bach and Chuck Berry. It passed Mars in 4 minutes. This boggles my mind—a communication that reaches another planet quicker than my kids respond to a call to wash the dishes!

One week our adult ed class at church wrestled with the question: where is God on maybe multiple sentient being-sustaining planets? What does this do to our comprehension of the Bible? Is the God of Israel the be-all and end-all, or the God of a people limited by their understanding? It was an interesting conversation to say the least.

I believe that when we are threatened by the possibility of extraterrestrial life, we put our human limits on a limitless God. Why is it impossible that God who we believe created everything that is, cares for life forms elsewhere? Could God send a Jesus to them, to enter into their pain and offer them life eternal? Why not? 

Father Francis Delano, Many Worlds, One God: "Any person possessing a religious faith that conveys an adequate idea of the greatness of God's creative ability, of humanity's humble position in the universe, and of the limitless love and care God has for all His intelligent creatures, should not be afraid to look at the evidence....that indicates that we humans are not the only ones in the universe having intellects and wills capable of knowing and loving God."

And from the movie Contact: “I guess I'd say if it is just us...it seems like an awful waste of space.”

Amen.

"Neptune" from Gustav Holst's "The Planets"

A Big Pill

I did something to my arm about four weeks ago, and it’s killing me. It feels like pinched nerves; I can barely lift it without intense pain. It has interrupted my sleep, and makes it hard to type at work. If this keeps up, I tell you, I’ll have to go to the doctor within the year! Meanwhile I struggle wincingly through my routine, willing this whatever-it-is to go away on its own.

I don’t do the whole injury and illness thing well. It’s a good thing I rarely get sick. In the past 29 years I’ve had pneumonia once, had maybe two stomach bugs and one bout of the flu. I think, given my house full of children, that’s a remarkable track record. 99% of the time, I’ve been able to soothe fevered brows and clean up from upset tummies without catching anything myself. Even when the entire household comes down with the same disease, I remain the last mom standing, as it were.

baby sister Carolyn

As a little girl, I was usually fit as a fiddle. My sisters, on the other hand, got everything that came down the pike. C had the mumps as a baby, all on one side of her neck. She was just learning to stand up, and I recall seeing her hoist herself up in her playpen—and promptly fall over on her swollen side. And poor Mo! Perpetually plagued with one thing or another, all her life. Maureen was such a sweet, motherly child that, in school, she was always the one who helped the kid who’d just vomited. Of course, she would promptly catch whatever that kid had, and be twice as sick.

Through childhood I breezed, with nary a broken bone or serious fall. My secret? The bare minimum of exercise. One would be hard pressed to sprain anything while sprawled on the sofa watching Petticoat Junction.

Nowadays, on the rare occasions when I do get hurt or become ill, I am the most impatient of patients, a giant pain when in pain. I insist on maintaining my daily schedule at all costs, stubbornly shooing away all offers of help. No, I don’t want any damn ginger ale! Give me the car keys! I’m going to work! And do NOT suggest I take medicine! Apart from the two pills I must take daily for

the sum total of my medicine cabinet

my mental well-being, I refuse any and all cold remedies, temperature reducers and stomach settlers. I wish I could say it’s because I prefer a holistic regime of vitamins and health foods, but in fact my diet is only so-so, I am a big meal skipper and a caffeine fiend.
 
At some point, I know, my body will betray me, and I will succumb to the various viruses and ouchies that others have as a matter of course. For now, though, I will keep on cancelling doctor appointments and refusing to believe I am not immortal.

Note to my kids: do as I say, and NOT as I do!

Boo!

Tomorrow morning, for the umpty-umpth time, I will be the Halloween witch for the Christ’s Lutheran Nursery School classes. Every year, I need less costume, makeup and attitude adjustment to play this part. My annual shtick is to pretend to be a witch from somewhere else (Texas, Ireland), where the Halloween customs are comically different (the families give the trick or treaters pockets full of grits; everyone dresses like leprechauns and speaks Gaelic, etc.) The children take great delight in correcting me: “No, no, we don’t  DO that! We don’t give people our money when they open their doors to us! We don’t collect dirty laundry at every house!”  I enjoy these visits, but dread the holiday they presage.

You see, I never got into Halloween. I’m not a big candy eater, for one thing (except for Mounds bars. I buy big bags of these each October, ostensibly for the “kids,” but really I squirrel most of them away for me).  For another, my formative years were spent on the lower East Side of Manhattan, not the safest of places even in the 60s. “Trick or treat” involved our parents ferrying us up and down in the elevator for an hour or so, stopping at the apartments of elderly neighbors who gave us poorly-wrapped cookies and mushy apples, all of which went straight to the trash can as soon as we got home. So I have no fond memories of bonfires and pumpkin patches and neighborhood parties, far from it.

Thank you Aunt C!

When the kiddos were born, I braced myself for October 31st, knowing I would have to do my duty, traipse around town with my tiny ghosts and goblins, and purchase pounds of Snickers and Twix to parcel out to other friends’ tiny ghosts and goblins. And of course, my offspring all LOVED everything Halloween, anticipating the spooky fun for weeks. Our house decorations amounted to spider webs (the real ones, not store-bought!); our jack o’lantern was hastily carved immediately prior to our first night visitor. My creative sister C was responsible for some of our more successful flights of costume fancy: Sheridan’s lobster, Evan’s spaceman. Rose took the cake for most personally inventive: one year she was Olympian Kerri Strug on crutches (just Google Strug); once Rosie was the Declaration of Independence. Every year, I pretended to be charmed by the parade of doorbell-ringing scavengers “don’t take the whole basketful, kids! Kids! I mean it!” and thrilled by the bounty my children brought home (does anybody really eat malted milk balls?) And every year, I rejoiced when it was time to turn out the lights and go to bed.

Rosie and her candy jackpot

 Lest you think I’m a total killjoy, I adore Christmas and happily fuss at Thanksgiving. I’ve even done my Easter bit, with egg dyeing and such (one year we did Ukrainian pysanky—just Google it). But there is something about Fright Night that doesn’t sit well with me.  Let others revel in the dark side!  Boo to All Hallows Eve, I say!

Eye of the Beholder

Note the date--still not cashed in!

In my desk drawer there is a lovely gift certificate to a spa, courtesy of my kids. It’ll expire if I don’t watch out. I could use it for a facial, a massage, a mani-pedi, and I haven’t. So what’s stopping me?

In my bathroom there is:  toothbrush, face scrub, cold cream. My entire beauty routine!! I should probably be using anti-aging thises and thats, to trick Mother Nature and give me back a few years, but I don’t. So what’s the problem?

In my closet: a “gently used” pair of running shoes. And I do mean gently. I’ve gotten so out of shape that I huff and puff even bending down to tie the laces. So why aren’t I hitting the road?

I’ve thought about it a lot recently. I’d love to claim I have no personal vanity, but that’d be a huge whopper. Oh, I care how I look, all right…I just don’t want to put any effort into it. And to be totally honest, I have my physical appearance and my history of bipolar disorder inextricably intertwined in my head. You see, when I was at my worst I became completely obsessed with clothes and makeup. I got all dolled up to empty the trash, and took an inordinate amount of time primping before a trip to the grocery store.  I even wrote a poem about it, way back when:


MAKING UP

A small part of my old cosmetic collection

Looking at our household budget
Over the last year
It wouldn’t surprise me
If the item purchased most
Was lip gloss
For so many years
I was an actress
Makeup was part of my job
And every single time
I couldn’t wait
To scrub clean after the show
It felt like magic
Presto
Here is the girl again
The real girl
Under the layers of powder and paint                       
Now
I wake up
Naked
And so disappointed
My real girl isn’t in there anymore
Instead, I’m this--this
Same, sad, nasty, twisted thing
Damn
So
every day
I write a note
On my face
Help
In thick black mascara
Please save me
In pinkest blush
I’m dying here
In the brightest blue eye shadow
And everyday
I sign it
With a slick red lip gloss kiss
So far no one has answered
Maybe tomorrow
I’ll use green eye shadow instead

Luckily, shortly after that poem was written I got the psychiatric help I so desperately needed, and for the past several years I have been on a pretty even keel. But there has to be a happy medium, right? I can spruce up a bit without being Maybelline’s Most Valuable Customer.  And trying to look my best on the outside doesn’t mean I’m hiding something shattered inside.

So I think I’ll set my alarm a little earlier tomorrow morning, and try to go for a run.  I might even slap on a little foundation and yes, lip gloss too, before I leave for work. And it doesn’t matter who sees me. I’ll do this for myself.