Not Going Gently

Can you see the gray hairs? Can you see them? I can!

“Do not go gentle into that good night

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

                                                        --Dylan Thomas

While inside I still feel like a 30 year old, my outside hasn’t matched that rosy image in—well—33 years. Signs of aging, subtle at first, began to pick up steam as I neared 40. There’s a photo of me with baby Julie at the pool. I guess Jules looks cute in it, but honestly? All I ever notice about that pic are unmistakable gray hairs (mine, not the baby’s). Shortly after that, I hit the dye bottle, and it’s been chug chug chug ever since. My hue of choice is a darkish brown, though during summers at the beach (a hundred miles from my hairdresser) the color fades to reddish. Before I am unpacked back in Oreland in late August, I always have an appointment to get the hair done.

For a while there, my wrinkles bothered me terribly. I spent well over $100 on a bottle of lies which was supposed to smooth out my face within weeks. I would pick one particular rough patch of skin (say, the “laugh lines” around my eyes), and check multiple times a day for signs of rejuvenation. If anything, my creases were deepening, but I finished every last drop, in desperate hope of a late-inning turnaround. No dice. When next I visited the cosmetics counter at Macy’s, I spent my c-note on perfume instead; if I was going to look like a prune, I might as well be a fragrant prune. Nowadays, I solve the problem by taking off my glasses when approaching a mirror. 

The pandemic has challenged us all in myriad ways, but notably those of us still fighting the Battle of Vanishing Youth. None of us who color our tresses have been able to see a stylist since mid-March. As a result, we look more elderly with each passing Zoom meeting. I finally got to see two of my best friends for a socially distanced glass of wine on a back porch the other night. We had a great conversation, the centerpiece of which was: “Should we give up at this point and just go gray?” Our buddy who is blonde, we concluded, should totally save her L’Oreal dollars, as the hints of silver are very subtle and attractive (she wasn’t convinced). My other friend, who has darker hair, was all for surrendering—until she got a call from her hairdresser that the salon was back in business. I am the same: I have an appointment on Monday at 8:45 AM, and it feels like Christmas is coming!

I guess going gently into that good night is not an option for me yet, and I’m a little sad that I can’t just enjoy looking my actual age. But, as Popeye so eloquently put it, “I yam what I yam,” so I’ll keep on raging.

If I’m over 90 during the next pandemic, however, I’ll definitely go gray.

Maybe.

A recent birthday (the lighting is perfect)

My Hermit Crab Essay

Exhibit A

I’ve decided to spend a bit of time studying the writer’s craft (why not?) One thing I’ve been hearing about has been the “hermit crab” essay. I did a little research and discovered that these are essays “hidden” inside other forms (for example, stories written in the form of recipes, or shopping lists, or email exchanges).  I fully intend to write one of these very soon, but meanwhile I prefer to write what I’d first supposed these were. Hence, my hermit crab essay…

 

I bought my children many a hermit crab back in the day—they were pretty cheap pets (if you didn’t count their Taj Mahal homes and their tins of food made apparently from gold dust). They were quiet and fairly clean. We would return home from the Sea Shell Shop in Rehoboth Beach with our latest crustacean friends and accessories, and I would briefly feel like Wonder Woman (how can she raise five kids AND a menagerie? Amazing!!) 

In short order, the critters would be named, fed, stared at briefly, then forgotten. I could hardly blame the kids, as these creatures provided the exact same amount of amusement as empty shells would have. So they were watered, nourished, and had their cages cleaned (very) sporadically by yours truly.

 

This state of affairs would continue for, at most, a week or so until 1) they died dramatically, their wizened bodies out of their shells, sprawled across the cage or 2) they somehow escaped (THEN no doubt died dramatically, only this time in a closet or behind the sofa).

 

I have no stories of enjoying our delightful “fur babies” or the like over the years. But I proudly point to the hermit crabs when my now grown offspring complain about their pet-deprived childhoods. “We had so MANY of them!” I remind my kids. “Doesn’t that count for something?” I don’t mention that we had so many because they all perished from neglect.

 

I fear there will be a reckoning. My nightmare is that when at last I reach the pearly gates, every last crab will be there, over that Rainbow Bridge, along with our other doomed pets-- the goldfish and the hamsters and Speed the turtle. They will shake their tiny heads as they ponder whether to let me into Heaven, she who had no business bringing them home, she who doesn’t even LIKE the animal kingdom. 

Towards dream’s end, I have been reincarnated. I huddle in my striped tree snail shell in my dirty cage. I wait in vain for breakfast, for companionship. I plot my escape to the smelly sneaker under my son’s bed. I awaken in tears, sorry at last for my cavalier attitude towards these, God’s precious creatures.

 

Maybe it’s not too late! I will buy hermits for Aiden and Peter this summer at the beach! Yes!  This time, I swear, I will be a WONDERFUL pet mom. These little crabs will live for decades, treasured members of our household.

 

And I will be redeemed.

Give me one more chance!

Yes With My Heart

Makin' Movies!

For much of my life, I personified the Oklahoma! character Ado Annie, whose big musical number was “I’m Just a Girl Who Cain’t Say No.” Now as I recall, what Annie couldn’t say “no” to was kissin’ fellers, so it isn’t an exact match. My reticence about refusals was more along the lines of agreeing to do lots and lots of things I didn’t want to do, from serving as club leader, to room mother, to plant sale organizer (yes! They were that desperate!)

 

Nowadays, while I still tend to fill the awkward silence after my “no’s” with “I’d normally love to—check back with me next month ---let me think about it some more--oh, OK”, I’m learning that those two letters form a complete thought. So when I do say “yes,” it is (usually) with my heart.

 

Recently, I have been writing a lot of meditations and devotions. Especially in these extremely unsettled days, reflecting on Scripture has been very helpful for me. The Bible reminds me (over and over again) that while there have always been tough times and evil in our world, God’s love and grace are always with us as well—a sustaining thought for sure.

 

Another faith-based activity I’ve been involved with has been a new one for me: making videos each week for a YouTube channel for kids. “Faith Finders Fun” offers a different short video every day of the week, each with a different theme: “Treasure Tuesday” “Science Friday” “Magic Wednesday.” I hopped on board for an eight week cycle, and am now halfway through my small productions. My topic is not really a specific topic at all (“Random Saturday”), so I get to choose any spiritual subjects that appeal to me—and I get to avoid doing science experiments and magic tricks, either of which would be an unmitigated disaster in my hands.

 

To date I have walked an outdoor labyrinth, celebrated the church’s birthday (Pentecost) with candles on a cake, and talked about the Jewish prayer The Shema (did you know you can make a mezuzah from an empty glue stick? Truth!) My next one (about the Christian Fish secret symbol) is set for this Saturday.

 

So far these have all been accomplished in one take, which has pleased my iPhone videographer Stevo no end. They look pretty smooth, except for the fact that my hubby’s finger is often featured up in the corner of clips. This is, of course, accidental, but now I’m coming to appreciate it as a Hitchcock-esque touch (the great director always made a cameo appearance in his movie mysteries) and am tempted to leave it in.

 

On July 11^th I will produce my final film. I am already working on my Oscars speech, in which I will thank my several dozen loyal viewers (hey, we can’t all be John Krasinski). Seriously, though, It’s been a great experience, and a way to spread some positivity in a not-so-positive time.

 

Sometimes, saying “yes” feels just right.

I love writing these!

Taking Off the Training Wheels

Like uncle, like nephew!

Aiden has had his snazzy new bike for more than two weeks now. While he looks tiny perched on it, it was definitely time to move up in size to a 20”. His old bike had fallen apart, so he had commandeered Peter’s red trike. It was comical to watch our kindergartener careening down the street on the small tricycle, pedaling like mad. At one point Aiden rode right into the side of a parked car and fell over (no damage to car or cyclist). It looked for all the world like the recurring gag from Laugh-In where Arte Johnson kept crashing into things while riding a trike, and I was reminded how far humor has come since 1968.

 

While still on Bike #1, Aiden’s training wheels had come off. It was a magic moment—suddenly he could balance all on his own. Another step towards being a big kid, and my grandson was ecstatic. I recalled my kids’ special firsts: Evan climbing the kitchen doorjamb for the first (not last) time while watching me make dinner. Evan climbing through the window between the screened porch and the living room in our summer cottage in Lewes. Evan climbing…well, you get the idea. Like all of his sibs, Ev was eager to get going on this wonderful thing called independence.

 

I too had yearned to grow up, as I was not a happy child. I imagined the rosy life I would lead as an adult, free from schoolwork, jetting around in my private plane (paid for by a fabulous job, of which I only had the vaguest vision). But even early on, my attempts at doing things by myself were shaky. I never even became a bike rider, much less a pilot. Sports were a slowly unfolding nightmare (I only learned to catch a ball because it was needed for a play I was in—in my mid-twenties!) Bottom line: I wanted independence and mastery of the grown-up world, without knowing how to prepare myself for it.

 

It didn’t help that my sisters and I were raised so haphazardly. I look at a mama bird tenderly feeding her young, gently nudging them from the nest at precisely the right moment. My mama’s feeding process: “Hungry? There’s the kitchen. I’m on the phone.”  As for readying us for flight, at some random point our nest just tipped over and we were left to fly, or to plummet.

 

As a result, I hesitated to remove my kids’ training wheels, probably for far too long. But they managed to grow up anyway, as children are wont to do. These days, I’m trying to focus on Aiden and Peter’s joy as they learn new skills. I can’t stop them from falling off their bikes, but I can be here to kiss the boo-boos. As I watch them wobble, then soar, I know that this is the essence of parenting (and grandparenting too): get them going, then let them go. And love them through it all.

Patrick learning to swim (I never could really swim either)

 

 

 

Completely Engaged

Awwww.

I never did much speculating about my children's future spouses—all I really cared about was that they be good people. I married a wonderful person, and wanted the same for my kids. It’s just as well I didn’t waste time on guesswork, as every significant other has been a (mostly welcome) surprise. The only married Seyfried so far is our oldest, Sheridan, and he struck pure gold. I adore Ya-Jhu, and sing her praises to all who will listen. What were the odds that happy lightning would strike twice?

Well, it’s taken several years, and more than several boyfriends and girlfriends among them, for the next in line for matrimony to take their place. But Thursday night it happened: Julie, our youngest, got engaged.

The day they met in New York City, Julie’s first impression was that Gil Gavish was kind of a grouch. I know MY response would have been: he obviously doesn’t like me, I’m out. But not my daughter. She told me later that she took it as a challenge, and immediately began a campaign to make him smile. I think it took her a week, but she got that smile.

By the time we met him, he was all smiles—the kind of guy our little Aiden instantly grabbed by the hand and led downstairs to see his truck and car collection. Gil did not emerge for quite a while. Julie went down to “rescue” him, only to be told, “I’m fine. We’re having a good time.” They’ve been best buddies ever since.

Gil is, on the surface, Julie’s opposite: tall, bald, with a few impressive tattoos and a wardrobe featuring T-shirts from rock bands. Gil is not American, or Lutheran, either: he’s a Jewish guy from Israel. Gil also happens to be a brilliant artist who, with his partner Amit, owns a wonderful VFX (Visual Effects) studio, realmotion, in Manhattan. Amit hired Julie as post production coordinator (after Rose introduced them).

Throughout their years of dating, we were consistently struck by Gil’s teddy-bear gentleness and humor. We began to wonder when things would get serious, but Julie had college to finish and a career to begin. She did both of those things, with Gil’s wholehearted support. They eventually moved in together. It may be that their contentment during these past months of quarantine sealed the deal. In any event, on Gil’s birthday, my daughter got her ring. We anticipate a wedding in the US and a big celebration in Israel when the time comes.

Gil said to Jules the other night: “You’re going to have the best life, because of me.” As a mom who tried so hard to give her kids a happy childhood, to hear someone promise to give her daughter "the best life" fills me with joy. It’s all I ever wanted for her, and I truly believe Gil will move heaven and earth to make it happen.

Mazel Tov, dear Julie and Gil. Such a blessing you are to us!

We're going to need a bigger sofa (and Ev isn't even in the picture!)

Aiden's buddy

Sea Fever

With my Aiden: we'll be there soon, buddy!

"When anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea, and the sea drowns them out with its great wide sounds, cleanses me with its noise, and imposes a rhythm upon everything in me that is bewildered and confused."

                                                           --Rainer Maria Rilke

It’s the unofficial start of summer! The weather today is rainy and miserable, but that doesn’t matter! It’s Memorial Day weekend! While we rarely leave for the shore before the beginning of July, this weekend always triggers the countdown (this year, nine more weeks) to our arrival at the beach. My usual longing for sand and surf is compounded now by the uncertainty and limitations we will face. Yesterday all cars with out-of-state plates were stopped by state patrol officers on Highway One as they approached Rehoboth; visitors at the moment are asked to self-quarantine for 14 days. The beach and boardwalk are open for walking only (no sitting on benches, no tanning on towels), and the only restaurant option is still take-out. I am optimistic that by July 25^th there will be an easing of these restrictions—it is honestly up to people to be smart, wear masks, wash hands and keep social distancing. I fear that the few protesters will ruin it for the many compliant ones, though. Like children jumping too soon out of their time-out chair, they don’t seem to realize that they may soon be put back on that chair—and for much longer, if the virus cases spike.

Another reason I’m so eager to get to Lewes? Aiden. He remembers the beach vividly, and wants to talk about it almost every day. King’s Ice Cream and Grotto Pizza, the rides at Funland, the sandbar at the bay—he even waxes rhapsodic about the ceiling fans in our condo (we don’t have them here at home; they are a summer novelty). His unbridled enthusiasm reminds me of my little Seyfrieds, who were always so so excited to get to the shore. They’d have their swimsuits on before the car was unpacked. Confession: I would, too. The apples (or, rather, beach plums) didn’t fall far from this tree.

But mostly I just need to see the ocean again. The Rilke quote resonates deeply with me: I rely on the sea to quell my anxiety with its wild beauty, with the soothingly predictable slap of wavelets hitting the sand. While I realize that the water, too, changes, for me it is the apparent sameness and stability of an ocean view that I crave. Every time the sun rises again, dazzling light glistening on the whitecaps, I am reassured that life will go on, with each new day holding a world of promise. Yesterday’s sorrows and dreads recede with the tide. That’s what I need, what we all need I think. That hope. Fresh start, no matter what has happened before.

I am happy to have made it through two months of isolation, and arrived safely at this moment, where summer thoughts comfort me. Though my body may be stuck here in Oreland on this dreary Saturday morning, my heart and soul are nine weeks ahead and 100 miles away. On the beach I love so much, where once again I know that my spirit will be renewed.

Rehoboth Beach sunrise

Green Screen

View from My Window! I swear!

My friend Teresa introduced me to a lovely Facebook group  “View From My Window.” VFMW consists of people who post photos of (wait for it) the views from their windows. I have been enjoying gorgeous pix from Tel Aviv, from sunny Spain, from Cape Town and San Diego and Amsterdam. There are rooftops and mountain peaks and swimming pools and fields of flowers out these various windows. The posters add cheery comments about their necks of the woods, and everyone is super nice and supportive. It does make the world seem a little smaller (and a whole lot more attractive), and gives me some hope that we haven’t lost everything in the pandemic.

I was inspired to join their ranks and post The View from My Window. Alas, the three weeks each year when the view is a pretty one, have ended, with the decline of our azalea bushes and the shedding of the cherry blossoms. Our only foliage is provided by hardy perennials, as we haven’t planted a flower in decades. We use our summers spent at the Delaware shore as our convenient excuse. However, this year we’ll be home until late July, and I will wager we will still not drop a single seed or bulb into the ground. So things outdoors at Seyfrieds’ are heading straight back to humdrum, quickly.

However, all is not lost, thanks to the miracle of technology! My buddies on the endless Zoom meetings I attend often have a changing series of jazzy backgrounds visible behind them, not just the same old print on the wall always featured over MY shoulder. The first time I saw the Golden Gate bridge behind one of my Confirmation students I admit I was very confused, ditto when a friend appeared to be speaking from his snow-covered deck in early May. But now I get it! It’s all a green screen bit of magic!

Maybe I can do the same in my new FB group!! Do you think if I shared a tropical beach scene with swaying palms, that I could get away with labeling this “taken from my front stoop”? Or identifying Notre Dame Cathedral as our local Lutheran church? Who from Jakarta or Timbuktu is likely to actually visit me and learn of my gentle deception? And if anyone does question the real location of my photo of the ambling Irish sheep, or the colorful Florence street scene, I can tell them that I dwell in an enchanted village, where every house has the scenery they dream of. After all, If someone can name a street  “Valley View Court” with no valley to view, or a town “Roseville” when there’s nary a rose in sight, why can’t I have my little fantasy?

I’m off to select my next backdrop! And while I’m at it, no one much has seen me for the past two months…won’t they be amazed by my sudden resemblance to Victoria Beckham? I used my isolation time wisely, what can I say?

My new look

Things Fall Apart, and That's OK Right Now

Happy-Go-Lucky Little Me in the Mess  

Entropy may be defined (very) simply this way: everything in the universe tends to become more and more disordered and random, if energy is not expended to bring order. The author James Clear gives an example: if you dump out a 1000 piece puzzle onto a table (as so many of us are doing these days), it would be extremely unlikely that all the pieces would arrange themselves perfectly. Someone (you) has to make order out of chaos to put the puzzle together. And all things, left on their own, fall apart eventually. Homemaker Elise Seyfried gives another example: a bedroom that was cleaned mere MONTHS ago, is now dusty and messy again! She (the homemaker) or, preferably, he (the homemaker’s husband) must do work to keep that bedroom tidy and dust-free!

My growing-up years were spent in “Entropy Central.” Mom and Dad were quite content to let the chips (and dips, and socks, and newspapers) fall where they may. We moved a lot, and each dwelling slid further into decay the longer we lived in it. This was especially noticeable when we owned houses, because we didn’t have to let you inside, but we couldn’t stop you from seeing our yard. I cringe looking at old photos taken of family members standing in the driveway, with the surrounding tangle of weeds and knee-high grass in full view. Had we no shame? Not much, apparently!

It’s too bad that entropy is a real thing, because wouldn’t it be so great if things just remained perfect? Think of the time saved if we never had to shower or brush our teeth! This, by the way, was actually an experiment attempted by all five of my kids during their pre-teen years. “Did you use soap? Did you put any toothpaste on that brush?” were oft-repeated questions I posed to our young scientists. Eventually they turned 13, and suddenly the Never Bathe camp switched sides to the Always Shower for At Least 45 Minutes Every Morning camp. Energy expended, cleanliness restored!

Many of my writer friends are feeling blocked as the pandemic grinds on. A sort of mental entropy is setting in. Good writing habits are getting harder to keep up, given isolation (or too much togetherness with the same few people) plus a dollop of existential dread. Reminders that Isaac Newton invented calculus during a plague only make them feel worse. Two cheering thoughts, dear writer friends: 1) What has calculus ever done for you, anyway? and 2) Old habits die hard, but that includes the good ones! Your writerly routines will re-emerge at some point, and you’ll probably even feel more inspired after this mandatory break.

I think, in this unsettled world, we may need to embrace a little entropy right now. Things might be falling apart, but perhaps we need a collective breather before we start putting it all together again.

10 hours of old Seinfeld episodes will not get our carpets vacuumed. But they just may save our sanity.

Imposter No More!

With the Christ's Lutheran Confirmation Class of 2008

You’ve heard of “imposter syndrome”? The (usually unwarranted) feeling that you are not qualified to do what you are doing? Rose recently started a big new job, and has been wrestling a bit with this feeling (in her case, it’s totally unwarranted). Ironically, real imposters most often feel no such compunctions. There was a book many years ago called "The Peter Principle," which posited that people tend to rise to their level of incompetence. There are MANY of these folks in management in various fields, blissfully unaware that they are in over their heads.

I have lived most of my life with imposter syndrome. I had a reputation for being super smart in school, but I knew better (so did Mrs. Carter, who gave me a D in Finite Math). Later, I began acting, and became the professional imposter that actors are by nature (“I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV!”) On another level, though, I was keenly aware that I had zero theatrical training, as opposed to my fellow performers, with their degrees from fancy drama schools. I lived in fear that I would be found out as a fraud and fired from Under The Yum-Yum Tree (which, in retrospect, might have been a blessing, given the abysmal quality of that play).

Eventually I became Spiritual Formation Director at Christ’s Lutheran Church, having never set foot in a seminary. Yesterday marked 18 years in that job. And while there are still times when imposter syndrome creeps into my thoughts, for the most part I feel competent. Hopefully I’m not an example of the “Saint Peter Principle”!

Looking at my first entries in a church planner, dated May, 2002, it seems the opening weeks were filled with meetings—with the pastor, the parents, the Sunday School and Confirmation teachers. I got an earful of what worked, what hadn’t, and what was expected of me in the future. I spent the following months reassuring everybody that everything would be perfect going forward, just perfect! The next 18 years were spent redefining “perfect” as “not that bad, considering.”

I had some newbie company, as both Meg the church secretary and Molly the synod youth ministry specialist began work at the same time as me. Where are they now? Well, Meg left Christ’s years ago, moved to Maine and her career has gone in an entirely different direction since. Molly our youth ministry gal rose rapidly in the ranks, and is now the Director of the National Lutheran Youth Gathering (an immense event for 36,000 high school youth held every three years).

VBS on the Rosebud Reservation, SD 2015

Meanwhile, here I remain. I am now the “old timer” whose tenure is exceeded only by Ken, our music director. I am often relied upon to identify former parishioners, and to explain the way things used to run--which makes me feel like I’ve worked here 81 years, not 18. But I love this faith community, and am still glad I’m at Christ’s Lutheran. Happy Anniversary to me!

With the CLC Puerto Rico Mission Team 2019

Good Morning, Friends!

Upper Dublin Friends Meetinghouse. Shhh!

“Good morning, friends!”

That is the way Quaker meeting ends, with the Clerk standing up, then breaking the silence with this pleasant greeting. When I visit the local Friends Meetinghouse with my Confirmation classes, I’m always a bit relieved when the moment arrives--though I do enjoy the peace and quiet, it’s really hard for me to keep my mouth shut for a solid hour. I guess I would make a lousy Quaker. I’d probably do best at one of those churches where non-stop babbling is called “speaking in tongues” and is actually encouraged!

Anyway, It has been a nice little break from blogging, but it’s good to be back, “talking” with you all using my trusty keyboard. True to form, I’m not letting you get a word in edgewise, am I? Sorry!! But I do think of you all, and hope you are, and remain, well as we head (creep?) into Week #7 of The Big Shutdown. I had promised myself I would vary my post topics and not make this Corona Blog, and I have tried, but ignoring our world situation completely is both difficult, and a little tone-deaf.

Things are all good Chez Seyfried at the moment, for which I am profoundly grateful. If a bit of boredom is my worst symptom, I am lucky indeed. Here are a few things I’m learning:

How to Teach a Kindergartener Subtraction. Aiden has school time every day. The school district sends videos and lesson plans, which is helpful, and we take turns working with him. I’m enjoying my sessions, maybe because I know this will be the one and only time I’ll ever feel smart enough to teach any Math Concept, to anyone.

School Time with Aiden and Mama

How to Write Comedy Better. I entered a contest this week for humor writers. Each person makes up and posts 10 titles for possible pieces, then all the entrants vote for each others’ titles. Entries are then written using their most popular titles. There are some REALLY funny people participating, and everyone seems very supportive. I got the most votes for “Chicken Soup for the Soul-Crusher” so that will be my subject. Win or lose, It’s been a welcome diversion.

How to Make a Grocery List for At Least Two Weeks’ Worth of Food, Then Change All Menu Plans Because There’s No Flour, Ground Meat, Eggs or Salad Greens.

How to Zoom. Also FaceTime. Plus Google Hangouts. Getting very used to seeing people in little boxes and wondering which Brady each of them most resembles.

How to Translate Vacation Bible School to a Virtual Format. 

I promised the parents a fun-filled, socially distant week for their tots. How hard could it be to play “Red Rover” online? About to find out!

I do wonder whether I will retain any of these new skills (knowing me, probably not), but for the moment I’m feeling pretty competent.

I will stop here while my post title is still accurate. Until next Saturday, stay safe!