Lost & Found

Erma: It’s been a decade, right? Since your mom passed?

Sylvia: Yes, ten years in the blink of an eye. She must have been counting the days.

Erma: Yes, she undoubtedly wanted him home with her. They had been apart for too long. They were ready to be reunited and to live the eternity they had promised each other.

Sylvia: I wasn’t ready though. I’m still not. I don’t know how to navigate the rest of the journey. I’ve gone from devastated to lost.

Erma: Time. The only answer. It won’t heal but it will carry you. It will give you the life jacket you need from time to time to endure the waves that will pummel you at the most inconvenient and unexpected moments. 

Sylvia: I don’t need a life jacket. I’m not drowning. I told you I feel lost. I’m numb, shivering, in a blinding snowstorm, and I have no idea of what is ahead.

Erma: None of us knows, Syl. That’s where the notion of faith enters. And you are so far from lost– lost suggests that there is something to be found. There is nothing to be found and everything to be felt.

Sylvia: Oh, okay, then I’m right on track.

It’s been a month of Sundays since he passed, figuratively of course. Much longer in reality, and certainly it feels even more like an eternity. I’m not paralyzed or empty or broken. I’m numb. 

Every morning I awake hoping that I’ll complete the journey- the journey for which none of us is ever fully prepared- the journey off and away from the path of grief and sadness. Most people describe grief and its effect as wave-like; it ebbs and flows. It washes over you. It brings you under and makes it hard to catch your breath; and as soon as you stand and catch your breath, another wave knocks you down. It’s not a wave, not a ripple or a tsunami. It is more like the breathlessness you experience on a sub-zero day in the middle of January up north. This grief, this numbness, is totally different than any other I’ve ever felt. I can’t fully compare it to anything, not yet, because I know I haven’t lived through it completely. I doubt I ever will. Although if I had to liken this trek and its encumbrances to a relatable situation, I would imagine how one feels at a “Lost & Found” bin or depot. Hopeful yet aware of impending disappointment. Each morning I wake up headed to the lost and found. 

The phone rang last night. A message was left. “Your belongings have turned up. We are holding them for you at the ‘Lost & Found‘ window. Come at your earliest convenience.”

So, I awake with a controlled eagerness to pick up what has been left. After all, it is mine. It has been left for me to retrieve. I shower, get dressed, and off I go. On my way to the “Lost & Found” today. Every day for a month of Sundays. 

The journey has not taken me away or off the path. I have yet to retrieve what I believed belonged to me. I have yet to find wholeness. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps it is never to be found. But for now, I’ll keep listening to the message each night on the machine. I will keep getting up to see if the depot actually has what belongs to me. What needs to be reclaimed. I will live with the numbness- not in wave-like motion but in a traipse, much like the plodding of wearing full winter armor in heavy, wet snow on a frigid winter’s day.  And eventually – I hope anyway- faith will melt the snow away from the path.

I hope I will recognize what it is I lost. If not, I hope I find the strength to delete the message and move forward.  

Jelly Doughnuts

Sylvia: I’ve been sitting here with my coffee waiting for a daydream, but nothing is happening. What are you up to today?

Erma: Not a whole lot. I’m doing what I do best- making lists and micromanaging others’ lives. Sorry. Not funny but perhaps mildly amusing. And what do you mean you can’t have a daydream? Of course, you can.

Sylvia: No, I’m serious. I really can’t. I pour the piping hot coffee, sit at the head of the table, and let the steam wash over me, all the while hoping that the fresh brew will stir something delicious within. And nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not a single spark or errant provocative thought. Sadly, Cam and/or anyone else who might scratch the proverbial itch is nowhere to be found.

Erma: Oh, nonsense, Syl. Cam’s there, after all you conjured him up a few times before; and if he’s not, someone else is ready to jump in, stir the pot, and get your juices flowing. You know what you really need though?

Sylvia: I’m almost afraid to ask, but you haven’t steered me wrong yet, so what the hell? What do I need to get my mind moving in the right direction?

Erma: Jelly doughnuts. You need one or two jelly doughnuts to go with that coffee. Trust me. What you need is in the filling!

It’s now a good two months into the new year, and as I have done almost every year for the last six or so, I remain true to my one and only resolution and vow: this year will be different. I, along with Sylvia and Erma, have consumed enough coffee to wake the dead on a slow day. I’ve had it black, sweetened, flavored, and iced. In a mug, a delicate bone-china cup, and an insulated tumbler. I’ve cried over it, had it come out my nose while laughing, and even choked on it. Coffee isn’t everything, but God and the gals can attest that it sustains me most days. However, sadly, it is no longer enough. I need filling. We all do!

I’ve no other choice- well, I do, but I’d rather try options that are less harmful to me body and soul- so, jelly doughnuts it is!

What Legacy Looks Like

Sylvia: Hey there, lady. Usually I’m the one missing calls and scurrying about. What have you been up to?

Erma: A little of this and a little of that. Nothing too distinctive.

Sylvia: Oh, but the sum and total of it all is what? Huge? Voluminous? Overwhelming?

Erma: Not huge, but substantive.

Sylvia and Erma are huge believers in quality over quantity. So, although they love and eagerly anticipate their morning conversations over coffee, they are aware that life often gets in the way. They have come to appreciate all of the little things in their relationship and in other important bonds between family and friends in their lives.

Little things. Gentle gestures. They share them. They look for them. They treasure them.

What small act today will you witness or be a part of that will impact you or another in a wondrous and everlasting way?

“And for a moment she pauses. She thinks back and smiles broadly. The seconds of joy and tenderness that her father shared with her son had the most impact. She sees it every time they see one another now- it’s always in their eyes.”

Watch “THE BLOG GOES LIVE ” on YouTube

Erma has had a voice; Sylvia’s finding hers. Together, these two are hell bent on helping others find theirs. Sharing “aha” moments. Snapping each other out of funks. Whatever it takes to get one another over the next hurdle, through the next day, and onto the next best part of life.

Everyone needs someone, so grab your mug (or a glass) and pull up a chair for a look and a listen.

The week is off to an interesting start!

Sylvia’s Basket

Hopes. Dreams. Wishes. Love. Joy. Trust. Respect. And so much more. You must keep filling your basket which of course requires energy.

Erma constantly reminds Sylvia to take good care of herself first- something Erma learned the hard way but she eventually learned!

The gals’ suggestion for today and definitely for the weekend: Do something just for you!

Today Erma’s Delivering

Ever have a time when you can’t shake a word, a melody, or feeling? You just cannot get whatever it is out of your mind? It happens to Erma more often than she’d like and usually when she should be concentrating on something or someone else. The word that has been stuck in her craw both last night and as she starts this new day is “delivery” (happy to say that it’s no longer gnawing at her since she decided to share her annoyance with Sylvia for a change) — yes, delivery. Indeed.

Of course, dealing with the impediment of having this word caught in my mind’s eye has been more than a tad annoying, but like the storms we’ve weathered recently, its presence no longer hinders and the reason for its resonance has become clear. Just as the storm arrives fiercely and then leaves quietly so that we may know what calm truly means, the word delivery keeps coming to the forefront of my mind so that I can find direction and purpose. The reminder succinctly: I need to deliver.

Delivery to most people means the act of dropping off something or making a deposit. It suggests a completed action. For me, it encompasses so much more. It means starting something, creating, producing, and feeling. Life is all about the delivery! How one delivers an idea, a gift, a speech, and even a baby reveals intention.

I’ve been thinking, writing, and editing a great deal (to some extent ad nauseum which is both necessary and painfully characteristic of most writers at various times), and doing all three because I firmly believe in the power of delivery. Delivery demonstrates intention– one can deliver with sincerity, with humor, with love, with hope, and with gratitude. On the flip side, one can also deliver with fear, with sarcasm, with disdain, with disgust, and with flagrant disregard. The difference is intention. And people -our connections, our friendships, and our daily audience- create intention. I’ll share with you that my audience motivates me and creates intent and purpose, both surprisingly and knowingly. I’m responsible for the delivery, but each of you reminds me that simply being and doing will get me through the day but will not necessarily make the most of my day. Each of you -my family; my friends (my Sylvias and Ermas) near and far; my father; and often my son (that young man especially inspires me)- every single one of you makes me think more deliberately about how I live and deliver both me and my message to the world.

What’s the message today?

On this Friday, Good Friday for many and at sundown tonight the beginning of Passover for others, I’m finally able to get past this sticking point and carry myself from pause to purpose. Hoping that your weekend delivers you from any troubles that may be weighing on you and brings you to a place of peace and purpose– wherever you need to be at the moment.

Mark this one delivered with love from Erma.

Watch “Are You There, Erma? It’s Me, Sylvia” on YouTube

You may not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, but Sylvia & Erma know better than anyone that old chicks and new tricks go together like peanut butter and jelly, coffee and muffins, and wine and chocolate.

Take a look and a listen to their new YouTube channel, especially their playlist. Don’t forget to subscribe so that you’ll know when “the gals” go live. Stay tuned. https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCvXlx7iqvz2zPRaGsgtjjHA

Sylvia’s Scraping Skies

Do you see that? Yes, that right there? I’m a part of that. Just an ever-so-small but necessary part of this microcosm. I say necessary because today I’m sitting at a table looking out on this daunting yet somehow comforting urban landscape and feeling that I belong.

Lately as I’ve been sharing with Erma before I can share with anyone else, I have felt like I’ve been playing Jenga; but today, this afternoon to be exact, as I furiously click away at the keyboard just rambling (I like to think of it as collecting thoughts) and trying to make chicken soup from chicken shit, I realized that I am not playing Jenga at all. I am a piece, THE piece, in the game. I’m that corner block, the one on the 39th floor, the one that has windows from top to bottom that always gets light. I’m the block that gets so much light that it can make the room uncomfortably warm on occasion. That same block also provides the only heat source at times. I’m also that single puzzle piece that when missing prohibits you from completing the game but only because you have no choice. That misplaced piece almost always requires the game to come to an end, an anti-climax of sort forever making the feelings of completion, fulfillment, and what some might consider victory elusive until that piece can be substituted, replicated, or replaced.

Erma: Sylvia, I have absolutely no idea where you are going with this. Are you saying that life would be incomplete without you? Are you saying that you are an integral part of life as we know it? What the hell are you saying?

Sylvia: Let me see if I can explain it better. I’ll pour us each a cup because this might take a bit.

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I don’t pretend that I am so relevant that life could not or would not go on without me; that’s not at all what I’m suggesting. The corner piece of the building does not hold up the rest; and obviously, it’s not a part of the foundation. It rests upon and garners its strength from all of its surround. Here’s what that block/piece represents though – it’s how I’m beginning to see myself. I’ve learned that while everyone does not particularly enjoy its presence (especially when it is unbearably warm in the summer sun, even with the air conditioning running steadily), there are many who count on it. Just being there to fill in. Well, guess what? I’m not replaceable or even an interim filler. I’m not an extraneous puzzle piece! I’m the biggest piece– in my game. So, if you make it to the 39th floor, and you can stand the bright light and the warmth, even when it is a scorcher of a day, participate in the game because here’s what I, Sylvia, and every Erma has learned over time: the 39th floor has the most magnificent and bold views. And once you have reached the 39th, there really is no need to go any farther. That corner room is the most welcoming, the brightest, the warmest, and the only piece in that game of Jenga capable, strong, and perfect enough for the place it occupies.

Be the irreplaceable piece in your game. Sylvia’s scraping skies, and she’s going to come out on top. If you want the view and can stand the fluctuating temperatures, join her. If not, the elevator going down is right there waiting for you.

Created Worthy

You do not need to become worthy. You were born worthy! Be perfectly imperfect as was the plan all along.

Sylvia and Erma are each doing their own thing this Saturday morning. One thing’s for sure though- they’ll catch up with each other later and remind one another with a little push from Viola that each [of them] is exactly as God/the universe intended. Meanwhile, Sylvia’s sharing a favorite of hers (author unknown).

The story goes:

When God created Woman, he was working late on the sixth day.

An Angel came by and asked, “Why spend so much time on her?”

The Lord answered, “Have you seen all the specifications I have to meet to shape her?

She must function on all kinds of situations.

She must be able to embrace several kids at the same time, have a hug that can heal anything from a bruised knee to a broken heart.

She must do all this with only two hands.

She cures herself when sick and can work 18 hours a day.”

The Angel was impressed. “Just two hands? Impossible! And this is the standard model?”

The Angel came closer and touched the woman. “But you have made her so soft, Lord.”

“She is soft,” said the Lord, “but I have made her strong. You can’t imagine what she can endure and overcome.”

“Can she think?” the Angel asked.

The Lord answered, “Not only can she think, she can reason and negotiate.:

The Angel touched her cheeks. “Lord, it seems this creation is leaking! You have put too many burdens on her.”

“She is not leaking. It is a tear,” the Lord corrected the Angel.

“What’s it for?” asked the Angel.

The Lord said, “Tears are her way of expressing her grief, her doubts, her love, her loneliness, her suffering and her pride.”

This made a big impression on the Angel. “Lord, you are a genius. You thought of everything. A woman is indeed marvelous.”

The Lord said, “Indeed she is. She has strength that amazes a man. She can handle trouble and carry heavy burdens. She holds happiness, love and opinions.”

She smiles when she feels like screaming. She sings when she feels like crying, cries when happy and laughs when afraid. She fights for what she believes in.

Her love is unconditional. Her heart is broken when a next-of-kin or a friend dies but she finds strength to get on with life.

The Angel asked, “So she is a perfect being?”

The Lord replied, “No. She has just one drawback.
SHE OFTEN FORGETS WHAT SHE IS WORTH.”

—Author unknown

(Picture/painting credit: S.Chakamian)

Sylvia Sums Up Life in a Word…or Two

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Sylvia: There’s nothing that a good fuck can’t cure. Seriously. It’s one of the most honest, if not the most liberating, pathways to freedom.  

Erma: Well, I’ll take your word for it, Sylvia.  I might be a bit too old to go that route.  

Sylvia: Well, first of all, you’re never too old! But for God’s sake, Erma, I’m not talking about the act, although admittedly that can be therapeutic and invigorating, not to mention fun. I’m talking about the word. F-U-C-K. Yep, fuck. Best word ever.  

Well, well, well. There’s food for thought most certainly.  All of her life Erma has searched for the right word.  A word that is so empowering that it possesses the unparalleled ability to convey deep dark angst, utter disgust, and unbridled joy and passion, not concurrently mind you, but at just the right times when all other vocabulary escapes you.  And in one fell swoop and three old-fashioneds later, Sylvia, more frequently the student, becomes the teacher and Erma’s purveyor of the nuances and more deeply seated meanings of what Erma and her generation used to call the golden word. FUCK. Gilded by virtue of its forbidden nature– something you can do or think but never say.

Taking long, generous sips of their afternoon cocktails, Erma and Sylvia engage in what might just be the most meaningful, candid, and unexpectedly humorous conversation of their friendship.

“Here’s the thing, Erma. Fuck holds so much power because it’s multi-purpose. It’s universal. Fuck fits everywhere. In every exchange fathomable between two people, you can imagine, feel, and use fuck. It’s a noun, a verb, an adjective. It’s a word, an action, and an emotion.”  

“It’s also quite funny, Sylvia. I have to admit that just hearing you say the word over and over is titillating.  It makes me feel like a school girl. Almost a bit giddy and undoubtedly a bit naughty. Tell me more, my friend.  I have a feeling that I’m in for a real life lesson– one that may be immediately applied.”  

“Erma, all I can share with you is what I know first hand.  I never heard my mother utter the word. Goddammit. Son-of-a-bitch. Shit. Jesus Christ. Yes, all of those would come burgeoning out at full force, especially when she was agitated duly or unduly by one of her children, her husband, work, or the dog. It wasn’t until Mom’s early 50s that fuck came into play, that it became a part of her lexicon. I remember it vividly. She was making the bed, of course in a bit of a rush as she always was in her valiant and ritualistic attempts to get organized and out the door before 7am.  As clear as Sunday church bells in a small hamlet, I heard it. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck’r. Fucking fuck. Fuck. Little mother fucker.” And there it was in all its glory. Unbridled. Free-flowing. She had stubbed her toe- the bad one, the big one with the corn and the ingrown toenail- on the over-sized, maple-footed ball of the bed. And needless to say, it hurt so much that FUCK was the only word, the sole expletive that fit.  At that moment though, as Mom grabbed her toe with tears in her eyes groaning out fuck after fuck, I had an epiphany. My mother was human. Fuck rendered her mortal. The power of fuck had been unleashed.”

“Well Sylvia, that was nothing more than a gut reaction, don’t you think?” Erma suggested, almost apologizing for Mom’s foul language. “A spontaneous response to an annoyingly unfortunate event,” she added.  

“Perhaps,  Erma, but I think it revealed so much more.  I think it was a release for her. No other word in the world could have expressed her anger while providing her with such liberation and cleansing. With each fuck, each hard and exasperated fuck, came freedom.  And in all its power and glory, fuck gained instant standing and acceptance in my book because Mom had used it fiercely, passionately, and unapologetically.”

“I get it, Sylvia, but tell me, you can’t actually believe that one single word accommodates other life situations as well?  How can one word be so multi-faceted?  Give me examples–minus the obvious, of course. 

“Fuck in a nutshell is what you are looking for, Erma.  Here goes.  Disgust: When your significant other feigns concern about your well-being and then proceeds to ask if his whites are done and what’s for dinner. Are you fucking kidding me? Joy: When your grown kid texts you before his bedtime (not yours) to share a pic of his favorite diva whom he happened to sight on his way to the subway. That’s fucking awesome! Incredulity: When the person next to you on the plane puts a used tissue in the seat-back pocket. What the fuck? Anger: When you finally find the perfect parking spot at the mall, have your blinker on to properly claim it, and then an oncoming car goes around several waiting vehicles to steal the spot. Fuck you. (That one must be accompanied with a look of disdain and the appropriately inappropriate finger.) Fatigue: You come home very late, depleted of every ounce of physical and mental energy after an excruciating day, only to find that a raccoon has rummaged through your garbage barrel leaving trash everywhere including your neighbor’s driveway. I don’t have one more fuck to give today. Indifference: When there’s just no pleasing anyone. I don’t give a fuck. Fuck it! And even though you don’t want to hear about the obvious, Erma, it really has to be said. Consider it a reminder to all women that you only get what you ask for. Desire: When you are with your lover and he’s willing to do anything to see you fulfilled time and again. Fuck me. Please. So, see Erma, the word is pure gold.  It can be melted down and morphed into so many emotions.  But of all the feelings, thoughts, and deeds that it encompasses, none is greater than the other “f” word that all fucks lead to–the mother of all “f” words–freedom. Don’t you agree, Erma?”

As Erma sat swirling the remaining ice cube in her tumbler, she thought to herself, “Fuck?  Fuck, yes. Absolutely, Sylvia, freedom indeed.”

 

 

 

 

 

 



  

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