Sylvia Learns the Sweetness of Infinity

Sylvia: Erma, nothing lasts forever, right?  
Erma: Oh, there’s something that lasts longer than forever, Sylvia. Look into the eyes of a child- your child-that love, that hope, that sweetness, that lasts long past forever, my friend. 

I was often judged- and not always favorably- when I invited my parents to live with us in California after Mom’s diagnosis. Occasionally some would wonder aloud what effect having a terminally ill person in my home would have on an impressionable and growing young boy. Those who knew our relationships- the closeness that was much more than mother and daughter and the unconditional connection of love between grandmother and grandson- were extremely supportive. And perhaps if we had disclosed what we knew was happening with my father, others would have been more understanding and less critical, but that element was not mine to share at the time. The reality is though that none of what others think or thought at the time has any value.  The value of how my mother chose to live her remaining years and the final outcome of our decision to help her with her battle, however and wherever she wanted, is seen here.  

The boy who sat on Nana’s bed after he came home from school and shared his day with her (and likely shared more secrets than I’ll ever know) became this young man.  He lives freely as his own person; he welcomes the world’s differences and the adventures that come along with them; he engages those around him with his bright eyes, contagious smile and compassionate heart.  I am blessed, and God knows, that I learn far more from him than from any other about letting go and living.  He has bad days and pushes through.  He has self-made predicaments and doesn’t let them defeat him.  I am so proud to be his mother and I sure hope that we are friends.  I still have much to teach him, but deep down I know what my mother probably knew all along– our children are OUR greatest teachers.

Through him and my mother, I know infinity.

“Only in the eyes of love you can find infinity.”~Sorin Cerin, Wisdom Collection: The Book of Wisdom

photo credit: csamuel&afortin

(The above post is an excerpt from the author’s upcoming book.)

“Try it on…live it…exhaust it…”

Sylvia: What the hell, Erma?  Really?  I’ve got a mountain of laundry, a sea of bills, a couple of screaming kids and a whining husband/partner. (Actually, just a husband since partner suggests some sort of sharing of responsibility, and well, not to complain, but well, yes, let me complain.) Anyway, understand that there is no time to try it on. I’m wearing it whether it’s clean or dirty at this point.  Live it?  Do I have a choice?  I have too many people depending on me to choose otherwise.  Exhaust it? Exhaust what?  It’s almost all gone- my energy, my concern, my motivation, desire of any kind, money– even me.  Yes, I’m exhausted but not in an “I’m tired so I’ll take a nap and feel rejuvenated” kind of way.  I’m exhausted as in spent, depleted, nearly vacant, used up, and nothing left to give.

Erma: Have you been heeding my earlier suggestion and pouring yourself that deliciously steamy and virile cup of coffee every now and again, dear girl?

Sylvia: Really, Erma, I don’t have time for such nonsense.  It’s not like a daydream will solve my problems or change my life.

Erma: That’s crap.  Complete and utter bullshit.  It’s time for coffee. It’s time for you. In fact, fuck it. Let’s forget coffee and go for something stronger.

And with that, Erma proceeded to tell Sylvia exactly what was required to get her through.

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All women need time to themselves.  All human beings do I would suspect, but for the purposes of helping to maintain the sanity of every Sylvia who reads this, Erma’s only talking about women here. Now, time to oneself may be alone time or it may be time with a dear friend or even a crazy and wildly raucous group of your most trusted allies.  It may be time doing nothing special- reading a torrid novel or emptying your email trash and spam folders.  Let’s just imagine that in this instance though, time to oneself means time doing whatever the hell strikes your fancy at any given point in time. It means taking whatever time is needed to turn a dream into a plan.  It’s the point in time when your real or imaginary Erma convinces you to throw caution to the wind and just do whatever you want.  (Some may call it wildly irresponsible and demonstrating flagrant disregard. Those are the individuals who should kindly exit stage left or any other way you must rid yourself of them from your theater. You don’t need fun-bashers, naysayers, or any of that ilk.) Erma’s appellation, however, for this much-needed “me” time is far more fitting: survival. Ah, yes, that’s it. “Try it on…live it…exhaust it.”  Survive IT!

Erma: Sylvia, here’s my advice, and yes, you will take it. After all, we cannot have you at your wit’s end sticking your head into an oven or doing something equally horrific and final. First, forget the coffee. It’s five o’clock somewhere, and while coffee will help on a daily basis and even in a pinch of soul-sucking desperation, there’s nothing that creates possibility as fast and fervently as an Old-fashioned. We’re past daydreaming, Sylvia.  You need time for you. You need a plan–a survival plan.

With pen in one hand and an Old-fashioned in the other, and with her older and wiser girlfriend by her side, Sylvia thought – out loud this time- about what she wanted to do for herself. As she jotted down possibilities that included everything from the mundane albeit therapeutic dinner-and-a-movie to the unimaginably dreamy vacation in Bali (yes,contemplate Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love), she devised a very doable, planned yet seemingly spontaneous getaway to the Windy City. And in an instant or however long it took for Erma and Sylvia to indulge in two cocktails and create an itinerary, Sylvia had set her plan for “me time” in motion.

Sylvia:  Okay, Erma, there, are you happy?  It’s done.  I’m going to try it.

Erma:  Sylvia, it’s so far from done.  It’s just beginning in fact.  The living part.  The living-for-you part, that is.

Sylvia awoke that morning with a knot in her stomach but a spring in her step. The living part, whatever Erma meant by that, was about to begin.  She managed to get everyone out of the house on time- in other words as quickly as possible-and have a minute to pour one last cup of coffee before heading out the door to the airport.  As she raised the pot to serve herself what remained of the morning’s sustenance, she saw a bit of steam rise.  Sylvia, anxious for her adventure, set the pot back on its burner and muttered quietly, “What are you thinking?  You don’t have time for a daydream right now, foolish woman.”

Announcement: American Flight 136 to Chicago has been delayed. The scheduled departure is now 2:30 pm.

At that moment, Sylvia’s plan didn’t look so good.  She had booked a cheap flight to Chicago from Boston with a stop in Charlotte.  What was the big deal?  Charlotte sounded quaint and manageable and completely unimposing. She had convinced herself that she could only afford “me-time” if she found ways to economize and be free from any more guilt than she was already feeling. Now, she was stuck in Charlotte for three hours with nothing to do but ruminate about her selfishness and play the mental ping-pong game that most mothers play when they leave their families behind to take care of themselves. Serve: Do I really need time to myself?  What have I done to deserve it?  Return: Yes, you deserve it. You do everything.  And with a couple of rounds over and the score tied, Sylvia decided to move forward to step two…live it.

There’s a cute little wine bar tucked away in between the gates of the American Airlines terminal in Charlotte. For once, Sylvia didn’t overthink her next move and headed in its direction. It wasn’t quite noon, but in Erma-fashion of it being five o’clock somewhere, she decided that a glass of something, perhaps a bit of bubbly, was definitely called for on this occasion. With her overnight bag on her shoulder and attempting not to wipe out any tables that she passed by, Sylvia made her way to the Mediterranean-inspired bar and tried to fit in, all the while noticing that only she and one other woman were either brave enough or naive enough to belly-up to the bar alongside stool after stool of men.

Sylvia managed to find a spot at the end of the bar closest to the exit and within earshot of any announcements from the loud speaker. She kept reminding herself that she was worldly, cosmopolitan even. She had traveled extensively in her youth and up until marriage and children, so sitting at a predominately male-occupied bar was no big deal. Her twenties were filled with such happenings- in Florence, Paris, London, DC, and LA. What the hell, this might just be as memorable and at least as enjoyable. She sat down, quietly and confidently, and politely ordered, “A glass of Moët, please.”

Within seconds, the flute of what Sylvia likes to call one of her most delicious tastes of survival arrived.  As she reached for its stem, her hand happened to graze the hand of the man next to her and a bit of his draft spilled on the bar. “Oops, so sorry,” she apologized without lifting her head.  In that instant, Sylvia was overcome by a strangely familiar scent that was both inexplicable and unexpected.  The intensely bold aroma of freshly brewed coffee was enveloping her.  She was drinking champagne. How could that be? She felt a rush.  She was oddly clammy and flush, as she once again reached for her glass remarking that the arm she had brushed seconds ago was tastefully tattooed and muscular. Surely, she was daydreaming.  Could this be real?  She lifted her head with every intention of making an apologetic comment, but she could not. As her eyes met his, she blurted, “Oh my, it really is you.” The attractively rugged man, he with the piercing, soulful, walnut-colored eyes from her very first coffee-inspired daydream, was looking back at her with a twinkle in his eye.

“Hello there. I’m Cam, uh, Cameron.  Do we know each other?” And without hesitation, Sylvia replied, “No, no, not yet, Cam, but I do owe you another beer- or at the very least a nice, hot cup of coffee.”

Erma: Try it…live it…exhaust it…

Sylvia: Oh, that’s the plan, Erma.  That’s the plan.

 

 

photo credit: Kobi Yamada

​The Best Cup of Coffee Sylvia Ever Had

When I’m at my wit’s end, there are several things that I do to relieve stress, to create a little distraction, and to stop obsessing about the harsh realities that life seems to be dealing me.  So, of course, this got me to thinking about Sylvia and Erma and how each of them might have escaped the trials, troubles, and tedium that accompany women’s daily routines. Neither one of these women was boring, mind you (and I’d like to think I’m fairly interesting and maybe even a fine mélange of fun and unpredictability), but there are always hours throughout the week when every woman- if she’s honest- is bored.  Not in a “bored silly” kind of way because that would be manageable.  Rather in an “oh my God, if I have to do or say that one more time, I won’t even want to be around myself” kind of way.  It’s that kind of irksome monotony that can drive a woman crazy, and I do believe it is a feeling akin mostly to women because we happen to be blessed -or cursed, depending on how irked we are at any particular moment in time-with the maternal, nurturing, less self-absorbed nature. (And before you guys who read this start to vilify me and think that I’m maligning you for being egocentric, I’m not. Egocentrics we can deal with; narcissists, however, are not welcomed.)  

Although Sylvia was in her early 30s when she felt that she had no other option than to give in to her torment, I am once again thinking that Erma might have been able to help her. That’s the Pollyanna in me.  That’s the nurturer, the caregiver, the unrelenting problem solver.  I still can’t bear to imagine the pain Sylvia was in. And for that reason perhaps, and because in my mind, Erma has helped me and so many other wives, mothers, and women-of-a-certain-age, I believe that Erma would have given Sylvia this incredibly wonderful piece of advice: “Sylvia, dear friend, make yourself a very strong, piping hot cup of coffee. Don’t use a flimsy, petite, porcelain cup. Grab a mug, one made of stoneware that actually holds more than a cup and a half and that will keep in the heat. Now, take your coffee, sit at the head of the table, and look into that steaming hot vessel of dark, aromatic liquid. Inhale and be sure to close your eyes. Sylvia, allow yourself a daydream of the best kind.”

What’s the best kind?  Hmm. (Wink, wink.) 

Sylvia did just as Erma suggested, and lo and behold, that loathsome, annoying feeling of malaise dissipated with each waft of freshly brewed java.  The steam wasn’t coming from the coffee any longer. The steam that began to envelop Sylvia was in fact coming from within.

What caught her eye wasn’t his body, though his physique alone would have explained the vapors that even the most refined of women would have felt. He was muscular and sturdy and oozed desire. His biceps were bulging and tattooed tastefully.  He looked like the stereotypical bad boy. He was everything that she was not supposed to want. Sylvia, sitting with her eyes shut gently over the hot coffee that was now leaving her skin dewy in an unsettling yet not uncomfortable way, continued to examine him. The body was indeed attractive and rugged, toned and meaty in all the right places. But that wasn’t it. Sylvia could feel herself smiling, her cheeks blushed and glistening likely more from her thoughts than from the beverage in front of her. Her eyes, though still lightly shut, were oddly staring into his. There, before her, was what she had been missing. She saw in those smiling, hazel eyes that which she hadn’t even known she was looking for. She saw strength and kindness. In those piercing, soulful, walnut-colored eyes, she discovered herself. Her fragility. Her weakness. Her femininity.  

Sylvia-a-a.  Sylvia-a-a.  Open your eyes.  Snap out of it. The coffee’s gone cold, but don’t worry, you can make a fresh pot any time you like. 

For all the Sylvias drowning out there in tragic tedium or simply drifting in monotony, and in honor of all the Ermas who remind us to take time for ourselves, remember that there is no harm in indulging in a bold, strong, steamy cup of coffee now and again.  

Cheers. 

A bit of whimsy before wisdom on this Saturday

Wishes for a great day -a day full of life’s blessings and summer’s abundance. My wish is for time to pass a bit more slowly; however, if that wish does not come true and it appears that it may not based upon past performances by Father Time, spend it doing what makes you happy.  And while you’re at it, make a good wish and help spin a tale for someone else.

Thinking of you, friends.

With love,

Sylvia & Erma

If you are a dreamer come in

If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar

A hoper a pray-er a magic-bean-buyer

If you’re a pretender com sit by my fire

For we have some flax golden tales to spin

Come in!

Come in!

~Shel Silverstein