Posted on by cheryloreglia · 28 Comments

I Fell Down

The Rabbit Hole

Alice: “How long is forever?” 

Rabbit: “Sometimes, just one second.” Lewis Carroll

They say everything can change in the blink of an eye. The older I get, the more I know this to be true. When you think about it, our entire life is a mere bleep in the scope of time, and yet it can seem like forever.  

My understanding of what actually qualifies as life is continually expanding. Recently, I decided to include the grass, now dotted with dandelions, because when I stand on the plush lawn in my bare feet for ten minutes, everything changes.

Is it the grass, the soil, or some invisible current that runs beneath all things, that somehow grounds me in a way nothing else can?

All I know is I am ever so grateful for the fluctuations of the seasons. They not only illuminate the passage of time, but without them, I would be perpetually cocooned in a puff jacket, unable to emerge, to move, to breathe.

Or redecorate, but that’s obvious. 

Here’s how I see it. If our lives are shaped by the things that attract or repel us, I’m going out on a limb, and say it is our duty to enhance the world with our unique vision.

This year, I bought two black cast-iron bunnies to go with the table runner I have strategically placed down the center of our rustic farm table. It’s true, I was trying to be symbolic, but ended up with something much more prolific.

While I was playing with my delightful decor, it dawned on me that black bunnies as Easter decorations might be considered odd. But I just smiled. The thing is, I lost all my estrogen a few years back, I’m no longer sweet, and I don’t care what people think. Okay, that’s a lie, I care, but not nearly as much.

As I lend a critical eye to my newly endowed table, I realize something is missing. 

It’s the cast-iron bunnies. They look stiff, as if their essence was haphazardly poured into a mold and simply allowed to harden. I know this is how we cast iron, but when you think about it, it’s also how humans are formed, except we’re hallowed instead of hollow. Get it?

I’m slightly dyslexic and always thought those words meant the same thing. Maybe I need to noodle on that some more. 

Anyhoo…the table scene is lacking. It needs some imagination, so I tie these pink embroidered flowers around their necks, and that does the trick. 

As I’m admiring my ridiculously adorable rabbits, I feel a shift in the room.

Larry is like the wind when he enters a space. He stops at the table and bellows, “What are these?” Lifting one of my adorable figurines in the air by its ears!

I state the obvious, “Bunnies.” My tactic is to keep it simple when being interrogated.

“What’s wrong with the ones from last year?”

I give him a quizical look and calmly say, “These bunnies are cast-iron.”

“What the hell does that have to do with Easter?

“It’s Spring, honey, you know the saying, out with the old, in with the new,” then I quickly add, “Let’s just hope they don’t hump.” I giggle, he does not, so I say, “I have to dash, light treatment today.”

I left him standing there holding the bunny with a most peculiar look on his face. Maybe he didn’t hear me? 

Did you know the meaning of black bunnies varies from culture to culture? I didn’t either. 

So I did a little research. Very scholarly. And found out they are considered symbols of transformation, representing the shedding of old habits and illustrating the potential for enormous change. 

Who knew?

Not just any change, because that is always happening, more of a metamorphosis, a reshaping, maybe even a transfiguration! 

Work with me, people. 

It’s almost Easter, and as we’re preparing to celebrate one of the most radical transformations ever, I bought black bunnies. 

It’s either ironic or iconic.

Not everyone believes that a young man, born in Bethlehem around 6-4 BCE, who worked as a carpenter, could actually change the entire world in as little as three years, without the internet, televisions, phones, or an arsenal of weapons. But he did.

Was he God? 

That’s for you to decide, but damn, he had some very cool messages to share with the world. 

The author Robert Green warns us against falling prey to confirmation bias, only looking for information that supports our current beliefs, because he claims, we’re deathly afraid of encountering contradicting ideas that challenge the way in which we were cast. 

Meaning, the way our essence was molded and cast by our parents, our culture, politics, peers, traditions, even our faith, or lack thereof. 

Here’s what we know. Jesus consistently challenged the local authorities and religious leaders by staying true to his beliefs even when his life was in danger. One time, he saved a woman who was about to be stoned to death for committing adultery by calmly instructing the growing mob, all packing stones, “Whoever is without sin, may cast the first stone,” and guess what, everyone walked away. 

Everyone. Turns out, we all sin, but there’s an underlying message most of us miss. Our worth is not diminished by our mistakes. Read that out loud. Let it sink in. 

He said to the girl, “Is there no one left to condemn you?”

She says, “No, sir.” 

He responds, “Then neither do I.”

What was true in Jesus’ day is true today. People in power do not like to be challenged. Jesus was crucified around 30 CE for being disruptive while thousands of people were pouring into Jerusalem to celebrate Passover. That’s the facts, he died, was buried, and some people believe that he rose on the third day, made several appearances to his despondent disciples, and then ascended into a different realm, referred to as heaven.

It’s a wild story, but the juicy part is all the radical teachings he left behind, which we’re still trying to wrap our heads around. Historically, we’ve been pathetically unsuccessful, but that’s not the point. The movement he created is still viable, it’s just not fully realized. 

It’s like the women’s movement; it’s not perfect, but we get to vote.

Jesus was big on love, but loving God and each other involves a transformation of the heart, and just like heart surgery, it’s extremely dangerous, because it disrupts the status quo. His way of loving was inclusive, inviting, protective, generous, expansive, but it was not just a feeling. He was calling us to action, prying us away from our own selfish interests, and moving us towards a more compassionate response to our fellow travelers. 

We annoy each other, I get it, but he asks us to consider our own faults before pointing out misconduct in others. 

Larry and I emulate this perfectly!

He was a total extrovert, focused on relationships, breaking bread with his friends, turning water into wine (now that would be a cool person to know), and skipping right over those mundane conversations to discuss the important things in life. He rattled on and on about the human condition and our incredible ability to transform not only ourselves but also the entire world by simply changing our thoughts or beliefs. 

He was giving us a new story, one that clashed with the current culture and is fundamentally challenging today.

There’s a duality in his teachings. For example, he asks us to forgive the people who piss us off, but in order to do that, we have to forgive ourselves. It’s totally cliché, but true: you can only love someone else to the degree or measure that you love yourself. And that is true for all the virtues. We have to trust, forgive, show compassion, kindness, and mercy to ourselves before we can offer this to others. 

It’s simple. Not easy. 

He said something else that was radical for his time. He said we all have equal access to God (fill in with your word for the sacred), but we have to quiet down our own chatter before we can identify her quiet wisdom. 

He begged his buddies to pray with him in the garden, but they kept falling asleep. I know how often I choose sleep over the daunting expectations of living consciously. We’re constantly being seduced by a myriad of distractions, our phones, people, politics, and mind-numbing substances, because life is hard. He was inviting us into a relationship with a radical presence, life-changing, and completely foreign to anything we have ever known, and we still doze off.

He claims humility, mercy, and kindness are far more important than power, wealth, and status. Not to say you can’t have both, but they will compete for your attention. 

Then he throws in a real zinger. I love this one. Treat people the way you want to be treated. Think about it. If we don’t like to be insulted, violated, ignored, abused, or dismissed, for goodness sake, don’t be that person.

And to make matters worse, he encourages us to love our enemies. I know, total choke, but truly, someone who is angry and full of hate is simply a wounded individual. I know this, but I still find myself manifesting anger when I should be showing mercy.

Jesus was so aligned with the sacredness of all human beings and with our potential to lead with love and compassion that he was willing to die rather than abandon this truth. 

The crazy thing is, this rather short, dark-skinned, ratty-haired little guy from Bethelham is simply asking us to be kind to ourselves and, by extension, others. He emulated the kind of love we’re all capable of, a love so powerful it has the potential to cast out fear, to heal, to restore our peace and calm. 

Booyah!

We can not control what happens, but he’s not asking us to do that. He’s asking us to control our response to what happens to us, and he claims that with love we can transform even the most impoverished act. 

He also says, with the faith of a mustard seed, we have the ability to recast the world, if you will. It starts out small, but what we believe has the potential to fundamentally change the landscape on which we all stand. If we fully understood the power of our thoughts, we could move mountains. 

Hello, I just want to redo the backyard.

Clearly, I’m a work in progress. 

We’re living in troubled times. I’m not trying to make light of this, but this man promised rest, peace, and renewal to those who are weary and burdened. But what does that really mean?

I return to the little black bunnies that are resting at the ends of my dining room table, the place where we come for nourishment, shelter, companionship, and spaghetti. For me, these little guys are symbols of hope, a reminder that there is ample opportunity to love, to change one’s heart, to adopt a new way of being in the world.

I suppose birth, new life, and radical reform represent the transformative potential of all human life. Every person on this planet came through a female womb, even God, if this is what you believe. I love that. This quiet little man suggested the core of all humanity is faith, hope, and love. 

Because without love, we are nothing but a cast-iron bunny, hollow instead of hallowed.

Spring is truly all the proof we need to know what God can do with a cold, dormant terrain; imagine what she can do with our hearts. The question is not whether you believe or not. The question is, what if he was right? My solution. Take your shoes off, stand on that plush green grass, now dotted with dandelions, for ten minutes, and notice how everything changes — in the blink of an eye.  

Grow Damn It ~ Perfect for spring baskets and those of us still growing in a challenging world! Grab them up by the dozen. 

“When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for the moment.”

― Georgia O’Keeffe

My current obsession is flowers and Georgia, a new post coming soon.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 45 Comments

Florida

An Endless State 

Of Possibilities

“My parents didn’t want to move to Florida, but they turned sixty and that’s the law.” – Jerry Seinfeld

The desire to construct meaning from the experiences I encounter in this life is so strong that my brain refuses to stop trying to make sense of bicycles, alligators, and oak trees until it thinks it has succeeded. 

I could be insane or simply amusing myself with lies. 

The thing is, the stories we tell ourselves are not meaningless. They are the subplots to a larger narrative. The one that influences every damn decision, shapes our future, and, more importantly, enhances or degrades our happiness. 

It’s so simple. Learn to tell yourself a good story…

I bought this raw-wood, double-wide rocking chair on a whim. It was supposed to be my symbol of retirement. And yes, I painted it to match the trim on the house, added some aggressively cheerful pillows, and positioned it on the front porch facing my daughter’s house. 

I’m sure she’s thrilled.

This was the perch where I would watch my grandchildren grow up, sipping coffee, dispensing wisdom, laughing at their adorable antics. 

But oh no, life had other plans. She always does. 

Apparently, retirement is less curated than advertised.

It’s true, I was under the erroneous impression that retirement would feel like a perpetual holiday, but I was wrong, until we went to Florida, a place where people live as if they are always on vacation.

Larry and I landed in Jacksonville with two tandem bike bags roughly the size of a dishwasher, two overstuffed roller bags, and backpacks crammed with what we defined as “essentials.”

Thank God, our friends Mary and Jim drive one of those hybrid cruisers that would qualify as an Uber XL.

To get to Florida, we had to pass through a dozen portals, from metal detectors and gateways to exits and entrances, then doorways and guard gates. There’s something about portals that has always intrigued me. 

Maybe it’s because this is what I try to create with words.

The bar lifts as we approach Mary and Jim’s eloquent gated community, and the guard waves us through, and suddenly, I understand the appeal of being known and welcomed. 

We pass a sprawling golf course, an enormous clubhouse, and pool, when I finally identified what that consistent banging was all about. It was pickleballers still whacking wiffle balls in the dark. 

A gentle breeze rustles the oak trees as we pass miles of custom homes with charming porches, lush landscaping, and gigantic screens covering their outdoor kitchens, pools, and fire pits. 

It’s almost too good to be true.

After a quick tour of their home, we head to the clubhouse for dinner, where everyone knows everyone. It’s not easy to eat a rack of baby-back ribs when people stop by every two minutes to introduce themselves. All I can do is smear barbecue sauce on their outstretched hands and smile with meat in my teeth.

So much for making a dignified first impression. Then we made an impromptu stop at Mary’s sister Barb’s, where glasses of wine appear before we have time to remove our shoes.

Now that’s hospitality at its best.

The next morning, we cram our bags and bodies into the Stoch’s Uber, sampling beef jerky at Buc-ee’s, before checking into the Best Western in the historic town of St. Augustine. Mary shuffles us onto a trolley for a town tour that deposits us directly in front of a rum distillery (just dumb luck, I suppose). 

We admired Castillo de San Marcos, the oldest masonry fort in the continental United States, but managed to avoid the famous Fountain of Youth by ducking into the Tini Martini Bar during an unexpected downpour, eventually landing us all at Harry’s Steakhouse, where we over-ordered and over-ate until someone suggested we dance it off.

At a biker bar! 

Apparently, Jim turned seventy-five while we danced with a rowdy group of hardcore bikers and Daytona drivers. There is photographic evidence, but I suspect it is in a federal archive.

A most proper send-off for the next adventure, cycling across Florida with twenty-four complete strangers.

Diane Ackerman wrote that we cannot enchant the world because it already has its own magic. What we can do is enchant ourselves by paying attention.

Early the next morning, Larry and I started assembling our beloved tandem in the parking lot when a curious neighbor came out of his room to watch, offering nonstop observations as we worked. 

Larry was delighted, as you can imagine, but I was impressed with this man’s curiosity. William Arthur Ward says curiosity is the wick of the candle. I love that image. 

That night, we gathered on the rooftop patio of the Best Western overlooking the ocean with our twenty-four cyclists for cocktails, charcuterie, and instructions from our tireless leader, Troy, and his adorable wife, Kris.

We sniffed around each other like puppies at the dog park, sharing small snippets of our lives, including previous biking adventures, hometowns, collegiate affiliations, grown children, and former careers.

By week two, we were discussing knee replacements, former marriages, and childhood traumas over peanut butter sandwiches. 

Oh, to be human.

Our ages ranged from early fifties to late seventies, and believe me, when I say we had every type of traveler. The chronically late and obsessively early, the photographers and comedians, the quiet observers and incessant talkers, the control freaks and the free spirits, the speed demons and those who had wisely shifted into a more leisurely gear.

But the thing they all had in common was curiosity! Travel changes you not because you experience new landscapes, people, and traditions, but because you learn to see this extraordinary life with new eyes.

Over time, this ragtag group of people will slowly become a blended family. I think it was Timmie Cahill who reminded us, “A journey is best measured in friends, not in miles.” 

After dipping our back tire in the Atlantic Ocean, we rode past ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss, with their branches intertwined as if children playing London Bridge. 

Riding along the glittering coast that stretches further than the eye can see made me recalculate my understanding of distance. We salivated over the sprawling estates, admiring the wraparound porches, painted shutters, and rocking chairs that reminded me of home.

Florida might be balmy, romantic, and stunningly beautiful, but let’s not forget the swamps.

We traveled for miles on byways and highways, a maze of back roads and paved trails, with signs advising us not to feed the alligators.

Is that really necessary?

Landing at New Smyrna Beach for a few days of rest was divine. Our hotel was right on the beach, and we could watch rocket launches from Cape Canaveral, listen to the ocean waves, and watch cars cruising the beach as if it were an expressway from our hotel balcony.

Each morning, I sipped coffee in bed, watching our glorious sun, draped in orange, yellow, and golden light, push its way over the horizon. It was worthy of my thanks and praise.

Then I’d struggle into my biking gear, repack my bags, grab a quick breakfast, and climb onto the back of the tandem, riding right into the guts of Florida.

I can’t adequately describe the pleasure and allure.

A long biking tour is appealing for its predictability. Yes, we ride each day, but it inspires (occasionally forces) you to try new things, new foods, and to overcome the unexpected challenges that come with traveling into the unknown.

Things like lizards that have evolved into the size of a grown man, bald eagles beseeching us from the treetops, adorable redheaded woodpeckers, or the talkative bluejays that scolded us as we rode by, and these tall, red-headed birds with stick legs barked at us like dogs.

And let’s not forget the armadillos.

What a place.

Douglas Coupland once suggested that if humans colonized the moon, we would turn it into Florida. After 420 miles of swamps, palatial estates, golf courses, and Disney World, I’m convinced he’s right.

Reluctantly, we turned away from cool ocean breezes and crashing waves to move inland, towards St. Petersburg. 

Central Florida surprised me. Cattle ranches. Open pastures. Charming farmsteads. At times, we could have been riding through Texas, minus the cowboys, the longhorns, and the oil wells. 

Each day ended with wrestling our massive tandem into tiny elevators and wheeling it into cramped hotel rooms. Unpack. Repack. Sunscreen. Repeat.

Evenings were loud, informative, delicious affairs. We scrambled to sit beside the people we wanted to get to know better. Some nights, small groups wandered to nearby restaurants; others happily grazed on happy-hour cheese and crackers, choosing a warm bed over a night on the town.

There were easy days and hard ones, just like life.

The hardest? 

Fighting relentless headwinds at the end of a fifty-mile stretch on a steep incline. Oh, what fun it is to ride! 

Or the time we sat in the hotel lobby for hours in sweaty cycling gear while waiting for our rooms to be ready. Oddly, that was the afternoon when genuine conversations unfolded, and we became more relaxed, more empathic, more real with each other.

A small aside, it’s sort of a secret, so lean in, so you catch it all.

Larry has been struggling with mild hearing loss for months and finally decided to see a doctor right before this trip. 

His ears are perfectly fine.

They just don’t work.

I could have diagnosed this selective hearing years ago, but apparently, medical professionals prefer evidence.

They prescribed a strong steroid.

This particular medication has a delightful side effect. It causes irritability and aggressive behavior. 

Yes. You read that correctly. 

So picture a 420-mile tandem ride across Florida with a partially deaf man chemically enhanced for confrontation.

God really does have a sense of humor.

Our last group dinner was in Tarpon Springs, a vibrant Greek community, with gigantic scenic murals, lush flower beds, and mouthwatering baklava! 

Troy made reservations for twenty-four of us to eat at a lively restaurant in the center of town. There was lamb, fish, steak, flaming desserts, spontaneous cries of “Opa!”, and glasses that never remained empty.

It was joyful and tender. We hugged each other goodbye, people we had known for only a few weeks, but felt we had known much longer.

The final ride brought us to St. Petersburg. And of course, the first thing we did was dip our front tire into the Gulf, feeling a combination of accomplishment, pride, and bone-deep exhaustion.

That evening, we enjoyed cocktails at a rooftop bar in Florida, with the Goudreau’s from California. How did this happen? Damn luck. Sue’s kids, Griff and his wife, Mac, moved to St. Pete several years ago, and Sue happened to be visiting just as we finished our ride. We thoroughly enjoyed a magnificent steak dinner filled with laughter, memories, and lots of outrageous stories.

Next stop, Orlando, to meet up with Tim, Kelley, and our adorable grandson, Dorian. I could already feel his twenty-five-pound weight in my arms. Smell his sweet breath. Imagine his chunky legs wobbling across the room.

But that was not to be. 

Poor Dorian came down with his first cold, and his new parents understandably canceled.

And that’s how I found myself at the “happiest place on earth” with the “grouchiest man alive.”

I threw caution to the wind and agreed to explore the famous Epcot Center, eating and drinking our way around the world. It rained, it poured, and the old man roared, but by then we had entered the country of France, and I was able to tame him with pasta and wine. 

Marriage is about strategy. 

Sometimes when I smell rain, the past appears, with all its confusion, doubts, and pleasures. I remember exiting the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris with Greg, Phyllis, Steve, Jill, and Larry. We got caught in an unexpected rainstorm and had to duck into a small cafe, giggling because it felt so cliché. That was the same day we learned that Anthony Bourdain took his own life, and we sat there sipping our wine, diluted with conflicting emotions.

On our final day in Florida, Larry and I decided to visit the Animal Kingdom, which, from my perspective, was ironic. 

Beautiful Saturday. No rain. A million humans.

Larry began categorizing guests using animal terminology. Bubble guns triggered him. So did strollers. And the mobility scooters with backup bells sent him right over the edge.

By noon, he was no longer fit for polite society, and I dragged him out of the park. As they say, every exit is an entry somewhere else.

We retreated to Disney Springs and, by some miracle beyond miracle, found two empty seats at The Boathouse bar overlooking the water. Spicy shrimp, filet sliders, lobster rolls, and a lovely Tempranillo performed what modern medicine could not.

As February careened into March, and war was suddenly on the horizon, it was time to go home.

I suppose to be home is the end of all human endeavors. We pulled up to the house, to the painted rocking chair filled with my grandchildren, eating fruit chews, waiting patiently for our arrival, and I’m not sure how to explain that sort of soul-pleasing pleasure. 

On this side of the world, joy is watching my grandkids laugh together over a plate of spaghetti, chatting with Julie, Nic, and Dante over a glass of smooth merlot, or simply reading an interesting book, still tucked in my warm bed, when the morning is not in a hurry.

C. S. Lewis wrote that all economics, politics, laws, armies, and institutions matter only insofar as they prolong and multiply scenes like these.

The world shifted while we were gone. 

But here’s the story I’m telling myself. 

We tend to pursue life at such a disastrous speed that we miss the very things we came to see. A bicycle sets the perfect pace. It allows a sunset to capture your heart, the swell of the ocean to entice your lust, or the sound of tires rolling down a quiet road to calm you, but when I see the face of my loved ones awaiting our return, this is when the sacred line blurs, and I realize there really are no disposable moments. 

They all matter. 

They are all pointing to the same thing. Life is sacred. People are sacred. We are all family, even if I just memorized your name, added you to the Christmas list, or felt that tingle of familiarity the first time our eyes met. 

What I discovered is that the magic is not hidden in distant lands; it is all around us, transformed by our curiosity and our willingness to cross the portals, penetrate the invisible, experience the unknown, and play with it until the meaning is subdued, as if a cat chasing a bird. 

Someday, Larry and I will embrace that symbol of retirement, the rocking chair painted to match the trim on our beloved house, but we’re not done riding through this life, leaning into the headwinds, adopting strangers, and coming home to the people we love. 

I’m Living in the Gap, smiling at the memories, share one of your favorite memories this week. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 37 Comments

Heaven Is A Place On Earth

“Don’t try to be everywhere. Just be here and do your thing. That’s heaven on earth.”

― Hiral Nagda

Day 1

He’s completely out of his mind.

Of course, by he, I mean Larry.

The guy who signed us up for continuous cycling events throughout February. Today we’re in Palm Springs, warming up for our ride across Florida next week. I’m feeling that famous duo ~ excitement and panic all mixed together.

It’s exactly how I felt on the first day of high school, in fact, that was the day I met Larry. 

Humm?

We arrived late afternoon, as the sun was slipping behind those rugged desert mountains, just in time to check into the Holiday House. This is a totally retro hotel, there are no televisions anywhere on the property, and they serve a chicken dinner so good it’s almost criminal. 

We hurriedly changed clothes so we could trot down the street to Melvyn’s for our traditional martini and order of beet deviled eggs. 

I know…it’s decadent.

It was Frank Sinatra’s favorite hangout, and now it’s ours, except Larry doesn’t sing to me. He tried to once, it was twenty years ago, at one of those Karaoke bars. I think he chose “Addicted To Love” as his encore song. It was so bad, after two minutes, they kicked him off the stage and out of the lounge. 

Mortifying does not adequately describe. But I digress…

After swooning over our delectible treats, we walk back to The Holiday House to devour their world-famous chicken with homemade biscuits and honey butter. There are no words. 

It embarrasses Larry to no end when I moan over every bite, and yes, if you must know, I exaggerate the sound just to be annoying.

I love the fact that there are no televisions, but honestly, this is extremely challenging for Larry. He made the reservation, so I’m going to assume he knows what he signed up for and will pout in silence.

I fell asleep with a smile on my lips.

Day 2

Early this morning, when it’s still dark outside, and I’m enjoying my first sip of coffee, Larry asked, “Do you want to do a short hike this morning?”

“How short?”

“Four miles along the ridgeline of the hills just behind us.”

I peek out the window at the ‘hills’ and say, “It looks pretty rugged.”

“There’s a trail. We’ll be done in time for breakfast.”

Famous last words.

We dress in our grubbies, grab coffees to go, and walk to the trailhead. I’ll admit, I was a little winded by the time we got there and started heading up the steep, rather ungroomed trail. I’m not talking about a little elevation. I’m talking straight up the damn mountain. I can only climb about 40 feet at a time before I have to stop and catch my breath. At this pace, it’s going to take us all day.

Larry trots ahead of me like a wild rabbit. He’s not out of breath, struggling to lift his legs, or praying the rosary with his fingertips.

I think he thinks he’s helping by repeating ad nauseam, “The ridge is just around the bend, we’re almost there, you’re doing great,” before disappearing around the bend as if I were the tortoise and he the hare. 

Remember, slow and steady wins the race.

If I survive this little hike, I’m going to order that pewter bud vase I’ve been eyeing for months, drink a gallon of water, and sit on my ass for the rest of the day! Be kind with your thoughts. I haven’t had a proper breakfast, only one cup of coffee, and it’s hot as hell. 

I’m tripping over roots and boulders, mauled by razor-sharp cacti encroaching on the trail, while choking on my own dust. So naturally, I start imagining ways to torture my husband. 

Right?

Let’s not even harbor the idea that one of us could break an ankle and ruin Larry’s itinerary for the entire month. 

The trail goes on and on with no end in sight. I’m fitigued. He yells, from twenty feet ahead of me, “You got this, we’re almost to the top,” with zero empathy in his voice.

But it’s a lie. We forge one elevation, only to encounter another, followed by another. I mean, seriously. How can the trail keep going up? 

I’m sweating profusely, completely parched, feeling as if I’m being punished for something I didn’t do. I’m sucking down all the water Larry carried up the mountain. I notice he’s not drinking, saving what’s left for me.

In a different circumstance, it’s sort of romantic. 

I’m so tired I can no longer think coherently, or consider anything except the next step, the next breath. I’ve shifted into survival mode. 

When we finally get over the last ridge, we discover a couple of picnic benches perched on a small plateau with views of the entire city. 

It’s spectacular. 

Larry says, “Don’t lie down on those tables. They’re covered in birdshit,” as I unceremoniously flopped my entire body across the wide plank of wood, feet dangling off the edge.

And by the way, I’m camping here tonight. 

Eventually, Larry’s voice penetrates my consciousness, “Just so you know, we’re out of water, we have no food, and only two options.”

“I’m exercising my option to call an Uber.” I get the look.

He says, “We can choose to take the steep trail down,” he points to the cliff in front of us, “which ends at the museum. It’s short but perpendicular. Or we can retrace our steps and walk about two and a half miles back to the trailhead on the path we just came?”

I want off this mountain, so I sit up and point to the imposing cliff. That may have been the worst decision of my life. 

It’s actually free climbing, no ropes, no trail, if I slip, I die. We’re climbing down on our hands and knees with Larry using all his strength to help me over boulders and through the steepest portions of the mountain. 

You can only imagine my mood when we got to the bottom without any broken legs or sprained ankles.

Yes, I knelt down and kissed the cement. It was not pretty.

Larry, who’s trying to pry me off the ground, says, “I’m starved, let’s go grab a few margaritas and tacos.”

I’ll admit, this is one of the rare times in my life that a margarita sounded awful. 

I beg the waitress, “Just water, if you could bring me two cups, please, with ice, yes, that would be great.”

Larry is completely unfazed. What the hell? He’s slugging down margaritas and tacos as if we just drove here in an air-conditioned limo. I sip my water, nibble on a chip, trying desperately not to cry.

When we finally returned to our hotel. I took a warm shower, wiggled into the comfy Holiday House robe hanging in the bathroom, and crawled into bed. 

Larry lay by the pool, swimming, lounging, chatting it up with the other guests. 

Interesting how differently people recover. I hybernate, he hobnobs?

Maybe that’s why we work. We’ve learned to enjoy each other’s differences or at least tolerate them. At 5:00 pm, I changed into my new coral bathing suit, poured two glasses of ice-cold white wine, and brought them out to the pool. We climbed into the hot tub and giggled like teenagers because we’re not supposed to have glass in this area. 

We’re so rebellious. 

Day 3

So this morning, I tucked away my objections as Larry dragged me out of my warm bed and over to the water towers, for what is publicized as an easy hike to some waterfalls. 

This time I carried extra water, just in case. 

Okay, it was a completely flat hike, walking in the shade of the mountain, on a perfectly groomed trail, and ending at a beautiful waterfall. 

It was divine, like morning hikes should be.

We got back to town in time to check in for our ride tomorrow. Picked up our jerseys and did a little shopping. Last year, we met a man named Schyler Brown, the owner of Sea Plane Shirts. They buy up vintage fabrics and make these fabulous, one-of-a-kind shirts. The shirts are numbered, each one unique, and flawlessly manufactured. We add one to our collection every year. 

As a penance for yesterday, I forced Larry to browse my favorite antique store. This is when I wish my sister were here. 

He rushes me. 

Makes snide comments about the outrageous prices of dusty old things. And then he paces outside, muttering under his breath, kicking the dirt. Who can shop under those conditions? I found so many things that wanted me but I refuse to shop under duress. 

So I ordered that little vase I’ve had my eye on for months. It should arrive before we return home at the beginning of March!

Tonight we carb up at the Italian restaurant, sitting at the bar, shooting the shit with the bartender, and other cyclists sucking down linguini, tortolini, gnocchi, lasagna, and spaghetti. Yes, there was red wine with dinner and gelato on the way home.

Did I mention how much I love the silence? No news, no rumors of wars, no football games. Nervana!

Day 4

The alarm went off at 6:00 am.

We’re doing the 88 miler this year, so we get to start at 7:00 am. This way, we tackle the steepest part of the ride in the cool of the morning. 

The high school band is playing, some bigwig is hyping up the crowd, there are police stationed at every intersection, the gun fires, and we are off.

Larry devised a clever plan after I tanked while we were mountaineering the other day. At mile 50, there is a cut-off, and if we’re feeling tired, we can cut the ride down to a 65 miler by taking this turn. If not, we’re stuck doing the entire 88 miles. 

At mile 20, we’re killing it. I believe the strength training classes I’m taking with Sue are paying off. I’m pedaling like nobody’s business. 

It’s a warm day, and Larry is dripping. I mean literally. The sunscreen is stinging his eyes, and we’ve had to stop several times so he can flush his eyes with our precious water.  

Unlike the hike from hell, I’m completely composed, with a slightly elevated heart rate. Maybe I’m not working as hard as I think? 

Let’s not go there. 

I scold Larry, “You need to use the sunscreen I gave you that is made for the face. It doesn’t sting the eyes.”

He’s not in the mood.

We ride on. And on. And on. There’s a water stop at mile 25. We fill up our bottles and continue riding.

I think mile 38 was our first legit rest stop. I’m on a mission, gobbling down the meatloaf and mashed potatoes, then a half-dozen orange slices, an entire cup of peanut butter pretzels, and several glasses of Gatorade. Larry is suspiciously quiet, not eating much, just drinking lots of water. 

I make a mental note, but continue to consume my weight in calories as if this were my last meal. 

When we hit mile 50, it’s decision time. We mutually decide that we’re both feeling good. What decision? We head into uncharted territory with the confidence of Napoleon Bonaparte.

We stop again at a water station at mile 60. We are both feeling tired but okay. Larry looks a little off, but he’s the Captain, the one who carries most of the load, and for some reason, this year, there is a lot of elevation and relentless sun. 

Reminds me of the hike from hell, but we’re determined to finish.

I think it was mile 70 that we realized we had bitten off more than we could chew. Larry was failing. I’m flabergasted. This has never happened on any of our rides, including RAGBAI, where we did three 80-mile days in the heat.

He does not look good, and we have 17 miles to go. I’m trying to kick it in, but I’m not sure a stoker can carry a tandem for 17 miles. 

We’re taking a lot of breaks. At one point, we spotted some shade just outside the gates of one of those exclusive golf communities. We jumped off the bike and stuck our bare feet in their inviting fountain. 

The hell with decorum.

I suggested we walk the bike up a rather steep hill. He agreed. Just so you know, this is shocking news. We never walk the bike up hills, and to make matters more alarming, he lets me push the bike while he walks beside me. 

Now I’m worried. 

I actually suggested we call an Uber, faintly reminiscent of my exhaustion on the mountain only days ago, but Larry just shook his head. No. We’re finishing this on the bike, dead or alive. 

And we did, resting every few miles, and then crawling across the finish line, barely maintaining our balance. A young girl hands us our ribbons, and for the first time ever, we skipped the celebration at the beer garden.

Instead, we hobbled straight to the hotel, leaned the bike against the wall. Larry lay on the bed half-naked, sweaty, legs still covered in grease from the bike chains, and fell fast asleep. What a total reversal. 

I took a long, leisurely shower, slipped back into my robe, and crawled into bed so I could write for a few hours. 

It was dark when Larry woke up. We decided dinner was a good idea and headed to the steakhouse across the street for our traditional end-of-race dinner. We have a lot of traditions. We don’t like to vary our routines. 

Who does?

The silence is especially golden tonight, and it took this boy and girl two minutes to drift off to sleep. 

Day 5

We had to be on the road by 6:30 am to get home in time to attend the Super Bowl party hosted by Nic and Julie. The alarm was alarming, but we wiggled out of bed, quietly packed the car in the dark, and hit the road at 6:27 am.

Damn, we’re good.

They say the best relationships are the ones that challenge our existing views. Right? This week, we challenged ourselves in many ways, especially our endurance.

What was important wasn’t how we got our butts kicked, but when we realized what is beyond us individually can only be accomplished collectively. I think that was Jesus’ main message.  

This might not be how most people experience heaven on earth, but I swear, on a steep incline, along a road that never ends, under the searing heat of our beautiful sun…we heard angels sing. 

I’m Living in the Gap, enjoying the ride, how’s your week going? 

Grow Damn It!  Let’s not just live, let’s thrive. There’s more than one way to experience this unpredictable life.

PS We’re cycling across Florida for the rest of the month. I’ll try to write when possible and catch up on blogs when we return in March. Right now, we’re halfway across this stunningly beautiful state, with incredible oak trees and lots of alligators. Just sayin’ 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 29 Comments

We Are Not…

The Photos

The Anniversaries

The Candeles On The Cake

The Rotations Around The Sun

“It was the kind of town that made you feel like Humphrey Bogart: you came in on a bumpy little plane, and, for some mysterious reason, got a private room with balcony overlooking the town and the harbor; then you sat there and drank until something happened.”

― Hunter S. Thompson

We are traveling with a group of twelve people. Oh, how I love that number. It’s not only roses, donuts, disciples, and eggs. It’s the cycles of the moon, the days of Christmas, and, of course, the members of a jury. Bahaha. I’ll let you be the judge.

Here are my twelve observations.

One

I am greedy.

I want it all…

The loud music.

The solitude of sunrise.

The salty water.

The tangled sheets.

The table for twelve.

The laughter.

The missed connections.

And then there is God, waiting patiently for my next move, tapping her fingers on the board of life. She has already figured out how to capture this queen, but today, she’s letting me make the next move. 

Two

When did I become a 65-year-old semi-retired, wine-sipping, vitamin D-taking, overly caffeinated, senior citizen, who thinks kicking it up in the Caribbean is about as cool as it gets?

How utterly cliché.

On our ship alone, we number in the thousands. A herd of well-fed cattle with credit cards, ranging the islands one port at a time in our Tommy Bahama shirts, straw hats, saggy knees, and water shoes. 

I watched The Love Boat when I was growing up. (If you’ve never heard of this show, you’re not old enough to read this.) I used to feel bad for the crazy old people lounging by the pool, sipping pina coladas, ogling the young couples slipping into each other’s cabins as if trying on a new pair of shoes. 

If this is God’s sense of humor, she’s savagely patient and kind of a shoe horde.

Three

This lady, dressed like a flamingo, was elbowing her way in front of me in the lunch line the other day. I’m a large woman and can certainly hold my own, but she was so persistent that, as she was making contact with my rib, I finally said, “Hungry?”

She said, “I’m starving.” 

“Well, by all means, get in here, honey, before you faint.”

She laughed and said, “I came to the Caribbean instead of getting a divorce.”

I said, “Well, that was clever.” What I’m really thinking is she’s had too many margaritas or is utterly insane.

As she’s picking out the best hamberger she says, “I’ve been flooding my Instagram account with bare-chested men lounging by the pool and adorable waiters bringing me drinks with those tiny umbrellas.”

“How’s that going?”

“He just doubled my visa limit.”

“I think that’s code for go check out the duty-free diamonds on deck 5.” 

I know I’m horrible, but she walked away with two cheeseburgers and fries, laughing and laughing. 

She’s definitely not insane. 

Four

I asked my husband, “Do you like my thighs in these shorts?”

He stalls, masking a cough with his hand, then walks right over to me, grabs my ass, and says, “I like everything connected to this.”

I resisted…a lot of things…words, grabs, inuendos, and said, “Good. I’m hoping to double it by the end of this trip.”

I got the look.

Traveling to the Caribbean is like being in a witness relocation program. The flip-flops and margaritas are all part of the disguise. I can be a washed-up movie star from the silent movie era, a hungry lady dodging a divorce, or a gently aging couple commenting on the incredibly loud music, string bikinis, and colorful tattoos. 

We even created nicknames for each other because that is what you do on a cruise. Big Beef is our favorite for Stu. Please don’t ask for details. It fails to translate. 

Five

Traveling with six couples, all married forty-plus years, is interesting. I chose that word with incredible care. 

I watch us eyeing one another with curiosity, trying to make meaning of side comments, sordid glances, and our consistent patterns of behavior. 

Someone is always running late, or inappropriately early, the shirt is all wrong, or the waistband a little snug. There’s a lace bra peeking out of her blouse, the collar that needs adjusting, or the tiny buttons at the back of the neck left undone because we can no longer reach. 

I wonder if we’re all wearing shoes that pinch our toes, or if it’s just me? 

We gather around the warm embers of old quarrels, sacred scars, undaunted devotion, the aftermath of a rushed climax, but with this undeniable knowing that we all belong.

Returning again and again to our section in the Schooner lounge, our chairs on the side of the ship away from the wind and the music, our two tables for six overlooking the sea. We laugh at the bougie cuisine, the indulgence of it all, or maybe just the pretentiousness of being human.

We let the humidity soften our skin, the drinks loosen our tongues, and, like musical chairs, our seating arrangement is constantly in motion.

Oh my, there is so much more to these ancient relationships, love stretched over decades like a child pulling on her gum. Our babies have babies. We still search each other’s eyes when we’re unsure, delight in holding hands, or nurturing a common dream, knowing our harvest before it sprouts is, undoubtedly, hope. 

Marriage is truly a radical decision in an unpredictable world. 

Six

The days pass, our clothes grow tight, our thoughts still swim in a freshwater pool, staring up at the waterfall, grateful that God is as creative as Monet. I am frozen in gratitude as if a popcycle, okay, maybe a banana daiquiri. For the passing years, the giving, the taking, the joining, and the fact that year after year, we’ve so much less to prove. 

“Tourists see what they came to see, travelers see what they see,” says G.K. Chesterton.

I travel to see. But that’s a lie. I live to see beneath the thing that is currently assaulting me. It’s why I write. For clarity. Maybe that’s why I like the Caribbean Sea. 

This trip was the collective brainchild of our husbands. They’ve been biking together for more than twenty (or is it thirty) years. I’ve come to believe genuine companionship is the only thing that can stave off the loneliness of untangled lives. 

It’s true for everyone. 

Thank God Robin managed to bring this masculine conception to life. Isn’t that what women were created to do? The rib, the sidekick, the one who multiplies all that she is given? 

These islands and the surrounding coast are pulsing with life, bubbling up from the swollen earth millions of years ago in consecutive volcanic bursts. 

It is the Royal Caribbean that currently harbors us in her giant womb, dragging us around this maze of islands, meeting all our outrageous needs with the nonchalance of a seasoned crew.

This fragile landscape rests on our chests as if an infant, we reach down for a rum and Coke, the weight of life slipping off our shoulders like a beloved bathrobe. 

I feel the hunger of the people we meet, their bronzed bodies bending to accommodate our dreams, and when we turn away to see the sights, they might roll their eyes, while tired hands reach for a meager tip. 

The contract in lifestyle is unsettling.

Seven

I tuck my hair behind my ear, but a slight breeze throws it back in my face. All the while I am thinking I am yours, I am all yours. 

We dive into the ancient waves on the beaches of St. Thomas, immerse ourselves fully, naked, fragile, floating together, feeling the sting of salt in our eyes and the grit of sand gathering under our suits.

The Caribbean is our Neverland. We’ve run away from home, the responsibilities, the delinquent bills, the broken dishwasher, and yes, we’re refusing to grow up. 

I suppose there are other reasons why we travel. 

It stimulates our childlike sense of wonder. When I arrived, I was ignorant of almost everything: the culture, the hardships and challenges of living on an island dependent on cargo ships, the weather, and rumors of war. 

Suddenly, I’m a kid again, naive, unguarded, frantic to see it all and not give up my place on the teeter-totter. I can’t read the signs or understand how things work in this part of the world because I’m an alien, an outsider, a visitor in a foreign land. They even drive on the wrong side of the street. I’m forced to guess at everything. 

It’s absolutely divine.

Eight

Listening to the history of these beautiful, exotic islands makes me realize that I occupy only a tiny speck of the world, isolated and sanitized from the hardships most people face.

I find myself trying to imagine who I would be if I were born here, but I don’t have the humility, or maybe the intelligence, to understand how the color of our skin defines many of our opportunities, how living with insecurities makes one cautious, envious, and ever so leary of others, how clawing our way through each day would make us grateful for the night. 

I’m exerting so much effort just trying to imagine a life not my own, I’m actually sweating. 

I let the movement of the bus lull me as we snake our way through the city; glancing at the architecture reminds me of Lisbon, and I feel my heart constrict. I miss my kids. Suddenly, I am grateful for these fellow travelers, my little blue passport with the American flag, my ticket to anywhere in the world, and most importantly, home. 

The driver lets us out at the top of a hilltop facility. I find myself basking in this unprecedented joy, the views, the lushness, the smells…someone hands me a dacquari, and I forget why I’m sweating. 

What is it about rum?

Just when I’m feeling as if I’m flying myself, we are dropped off at a narrow strip of beach parallel to an airport. It is the only place in the world you can watch planes taking off and landing right over your head. There are hundreds of people milling about, taking videos, pointing, exchanging observations. 

Why are we so enchanted by these manmade birds? Maybe it’s because they represent escape, freedom, transport where no man has gone before (sorry, I couldn’t resist). They move us from one reality to another, which appeals to our sense of incarceration, because, in truth, life can feel like a prison. 

Nine

I’m usually on the back of the tandem, trying to watch the scenery in and around Larry’s shoulders. There’s a lot of leaning required. 

Today I was given a mountain bike of my own, and I’m expected to change my own gears, apply my own brakes, and steer with my own two hands. I admit, it’s a lot. 

I wobble, almost tank it at least a dozen times, when I notice that my bicycle follows my eyes. If I want to maintain my balance, I have to monitor my gaze because it dictates my destination. Isn’t that rich?

We follow the leader, listen to his words, admiring the sights and sounds of his beloved island. We’re like a caterpillar ambling along the road, piling up, stretching out, itching our way across the island. 

What a place. Mile after mile, I’m getting better at managing my own bike, and wonder if that might translate to my own life. 

We stop at a local rum distillery before ending our ride. Larry hands me a delightful concoction in a plastic cup that is sweating as much as I am. I slug it down, resting peacefully in a leather chair, salivating at the incredible views. I might never leave. 

The bike has become a distant memory, and I’ve decided, if this is my final destination, I am definitely saved. Did I tell Larry, before we started the new year, that life is not worth living without him? 

I try to memorize the immemorable before I hop back on my bike and ride to the end of January.

If we hurry, we’ll make it back to the ship before sunset. We’ll have time to sit on our balcony, looking back on this place, waving goodbye. 

We’re celebrating Robin’s birthday tonight, with a beautiful new ring, a slice of cake, and the traditional song, I think about how strange it is that we’re all on the same ship, on this day and time, allowing it to take us deep into the unknown, then I remember, if we’re lucky, we can do this every damn day.

Here’s to another fabulous rotation around the sun.

Ten

If you want to be happy, I suppose you have to choose it. 

I believe that everything we do and maybe feel is a reflection of how we interpret our experiences, how we choose to see this world, and our place in it. Do our beliefs create our world? Or do we just see what we want to see?

Today we’re snorkeling over a ship wreck and swimming with the turtles. I don’t care what you think, I’m excited.  

There’s a lot of hurry up and wait just getting off the ship, driving to a small harbor, getting on an open-air boat, traveling to the ship wreck, and turtles. 

We’re pushed into the cool water by the crew as if baby birds kicked out of the nest, holding our snorkeling gear in one hand, trying to swim with the other. The shipwreck is really just a rotting yacht that sank off the coast. It’s difficult to make out the details. There are five to ten additional boats dumping snorkelers in the same location. 

I feel the urge to moo. 

The turtles were actually one turtle that couldn’t get away fast enough. It was slightly disappointing, if not for the rum punch used as an enticement to get us back on the boat. Damn, we’re easy.

Here’s the deal. This was not what we expected. It was so much more because, as I gazed out over the pristine water, I realized our mistakes only stand in our way if we let them. Everything is predicated on our choices, which we tend to make unconsciously. 

Today, I choose happiness.

Eleven

We thought the weather was conspiring against us, but maybe it was old San Juan refusing to let us go. Our flight was delayed, not once, but five times.

When the plane finally arrives, we tensely watch the people dressed as if they’ve come from the Arctic, lumbering through the gate, stripping off their outer layers as the heat and humidity of San Juan assault them. They have to push their way past the stressed-out, frantic mob whose only purpose is to get on the plane they just abandoned.

By the time we landed in Miami, Larry and I missed our connection. 

No worries, American Airlines says, “We rerouted you, my friend.”

After sitting in a crowded airport for hours, we landed in Phoenix, Arizona, at 1:00 am. It’s dark, the airport is abandoned. I see a woman sleeping on a bench, covered in a ratty blanket, a bag over her head. 

Larry says, “I guess we’ll have to sleep here.”

I think I moaned.

“We’ll find our own bench.”

“What we’ll find is a hotel,” I said with a lot of pent-up irritation. I was being completely unreasonable. So much for choosing peace. All I want is a bed.

When I slip under the soft sheet, naked, having cleaned my teeth with a disposable toothbrush, I close my eyes, our bodies sink into the plush mattress, my arms positioned as if I were in a coffin. 

I sleep like the dead. 

Wanting desperately to make our early morning connection, we dive into the wrong Uber and almost end up at the botanical gardens. What the hell?

We recalibrate and make it to the airport as they are boarding our plane. 

We worm our way towards the steward, who scans our boarding passes. Mine beeps. The man says, “Your seat has been reassigned.” 

Are you kidding? I’m seriously about to lose it.

He hands me another pass to a seat in first class right next to Larry. Oh yes, I am greedy.

Twelve

I want it all.

The loud music.

The solitude of sunrise.

The salty water.

The tangled sheets.

The table for twelve.

The laughter.

The missed connections.

I remember making a list of everything I thought I would need on this trip. I was wrong. It wasn’t the soft cotton sundress, the Tory Burch sandals, the diamond earrings, the water-resistant sunscreen, or that beloved passport. 

It’s our commitment to each other, despite the complexities of being in long-term relationships. There is no happy ending. That was never meant to be. What we need is courage. Courage to allow the loud music to move us, to encounter scarcity without fear, to slip out of those tangled sheets, and glimpse the sun as she awakens. The courage to take our place at the sacred table, in order to satisfy, not simply appease, and, for goodness sake, lead with laughter. The truth is, we’re all lost souls, just trying to get home. We don’t need to question what God has set into motion. The night will always usher in the morning. It’s our move. We just need to capture each day as she rises.  

If you enjoyed this post, find the courage to order an entire book of hilarious, deeply moving, original essays. Grow Damn It! It can be yours with one click. If you order a dozen, I’ll drop by with some bubbly. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

I’m Gambling Again

Hedging A Bet Against 

The End Of 2026

“Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who made the morning and spread it over the fields…watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.” Mary Oliver

It’s pitch dark.

And bitterly cold.

I’m still lost in the embrace of my dreams as I wiggle out of bed, who am I kidding, as I lumber out of bed groaning, and waddle to the bathroom.

The fact that my ass found the toilet is currently the focus of my happiness. Well, that, and the toilet paper is not empty.  

Not that I’m a total whiner, but it is freezing, I’m talking sub forty-five degrees, and that layer of insulation I painstakingly added to my anatomy is woefully insufficient. 

Okay, all you Northerners, go easy. 

This is California; the temperature rarely dips below 50, and, sadly, over the years, my blood has thinned, along with my hair, elasticity, and patience in general. 

Sue picks me up at 5:55 am, and I briefly consider hiding under the counter until she goes away, but I know this woman. She’s more persistent than my inner voice, and unlike me, she’s feisty in the morning. 

I trot out to the car idling in my driveway. 

I thought I was familiar with the concept of exercising, but I was dead wrong. Admittedly, I felt a little smug about my fitness routine until recently, when I stumbled on a whole new type of physical exertion. 

It’s called strength training, something I was saving for my elder years (consciously undefined, by the way), but that’s where it stayed, in the back of my mind, not fully realized, like all resolutions. 

It all started, like most things do, with my big mouth. 

I mentioned to Sue that I was intrigued by these barre classes offered just around the corner from our houses at a small studio across from a coffee shop with a fireplace. I know. We do a few situps and drink coffee by the fire all morning. I asked if she might be interested. This is Sue’s “yes” year. I know this, she’s up for anything. What was I thinking? 

We signed up for one class and went together because there’s safety in numbers. At least it pulls me out of my chair, away from my computer, and out of the house. Which is good, because the more I stay in the house, the more I don’t want to leave. 

I could so easily become agoraphobic. #goalsaf

Well, we didn’t love it, but like salmon, we kept coming back to fight the stream of muscle deterioration that comes with age. We ended up buying a block of classes, which is really just a bribe (I mean incentive) to keep going, and we’ve been participating in this barbaric practice ever since. 

Today, for the first time ever, our class is scheduled for sixty minutes (big news, in case you missed it) instead of the usual forty-five, and I’ve been worrying about it all week. 

Can I survive fifteen more minutes of tiny, grueling movements?

It’s early. I might be overthinking this.

Okay, these classes are designed to exacerbate every muscle in your entire body (including the ones you never knew existed) all under the guise of strength training. I’m not kidding. You are supposed to do the exercises until your legs shake uncontrollably, and even then, you are expected to keep going while they blast the Rocky theme song. 

It’s mildly inhuman, yet the instructors act as if this is normal, smiling and encouraging us, “You’ve got this, last set, keep going.” At least the music is good. So there’s that. 

You enter the studio, grab a couple sets of three to six-pound weights, and claim your spot on the carpet. It’s a thirty-by-forty-square-foot subculture with unwritten rules, a strict protocol, and, oddly enough, there is always one disruptive individual who annoys the shit out of all of us.

But it’s early. She might be tolerable after coffee.

Here’s the deal. Sue and I are at least twenty years older than everyone else in the room. So I’m not going to worry about my boob falling out of my sports bra, or my lower arms flapping around as if laundry hanging on the line, or if God-forbid, I have to use both hands to hoist my leg onto the bar and possibly grunt in the process. 

It’s physics. 

Let’s not get caught up in the details, but there are a lot of benefits that come with pelvic floor strength at our age. Think depends. Yeah, that.

This is how I think of it. We are graciously modeling how to age with dignity for all the thirty-somethings in the room. They can thank us later.

When I finally hooked my generous leg over the bar, I noticed in the mirror that my position bore no resemblance to the instructor’s.

To my horror, I see the instructor scamper (literally) over to correct my form. She does this with micro instructions, whispering (so as not to embarrass you in front of the entire class, who are now all staring at me) “lift this a little higher (Is she kidding?), square your hips (They’re round?), and tighten your core (I am),” but when I peek in the mirror, the truth is my core is lapping over my leggings, and to my horor there is a rather large hole in the armpit of my t-shirt. 

Whoever said the truth will set you free was lying. 

As soon as she leaves, I tuck all those loose parts of my anatomy back in place and return to my maladjusted form. She continues to call out perky instructions with deceptive kindness, “Lift that back leg up an inch, down an inch, up an inch, down an inch, hold at your personal highest, now pulse up, keep it tight, you got this, remember your core, last twenty,” and then she sneaks in another ten. 

Ruthless.

While I’m pushing my body beyond sensible boundaries, I start contemplating the maligned narrative embedded in all this nonsense (Am I exercising to improve my strength or to turn back the clock?). Because if we cannot see beyond it, there is no solution. 

If we fear aging, we start fearing everything, not just the wrinkles and lack of estrogen, but the weather, the neighbor, the future, and our feminine instincts. Nothing is sacred. 

There is no mystery. 

Women who love themselves, I mean all of it, the well-worn parts that protect our bodies like a beloved bookcover, the missing hormones, the wobbly parts, and those beautiful laugh lines that frame our eyes and lips. 

And let’s not ignore the good stuff, like our invaluable experience, wisdom, and confidence about our place in the world. This is a dangerous ideology because if we don’t care what others think, and we’re so over all those ridiculous cultural expectations, we won’t sell our souls to fix it. And yes, the market will crash.

It’s still dark when Sue drops me off at home.

As soon as I approach the front door, I realize Larry has locked me out of the house when he left for boot camp, but Sue is long gone. Thank God my daughter lives across the street. I run to her house to borrow her spare key. She hands me her keychain as she spreads jam on several pieces of toast and says, “You and Dad have to get your act together.”

“Hey, we gave birth to you,” and I run home before she can respond. 

Unfortunately, the toe of my shoe caught the edge of a paver twenty feet from my front door, and I tripped. Oh, I tried to recalibrate, maintain my balance, arms flailing in the air, and can I just say gravity is a cruel force, and before I know it, I’m sprawled across the driveway. Keys landed five feet away.

What the hell? 

I lay there a minute, trying to decide if I broke anything, aside from my pride, before pushing myself off the cold cement. I quickly scan for witnesses, and guess what, no one is coming to save me. Which also means no one saw me trip over my own damn feet. 

I think John Holmes wrote there is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up. 

So I slowly pick myself up off the ground. I inspect the landscape for the source of my downfall, but there is nothing there. It was all me. 

I read somewhere (it would be helpful if I cited all these quotes) that we must never give anything else the responsibility for our lives, but I wasn’t sure how this applied to me until I found myself lying flat on my well-rounded belly on the cold pavement.

The metaphors just keep coming. 

Moving a little slower, I let myself into the house, pour myself a cup of hot coffee, and plop down by the fire. The heat warms my back. Total bliss. 

I check myself for injuries, evidence of my big fall, and I find nothing. Not one little scrap or broken nail. Do you hear me? There is no evidence of our past failures worth keeping, absorb the lesson, move on. 

My mother used to tell me that all the time when I was young, slow down, pick up your feet, watch where you’re going. It’s as if I’ve come full circle. I’m sure she’s up there giggling somewhere. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, “You were right about everything, Mom.” (Yes, that was an outrageous attempt to influence my children)

When I started writing today, I lit a candle, because as you know, I’m particular about aesthetics. The thing about beauty is it becomes the guiding principle, empowering your creativity, your sense of well-being, and your joy. I know, I’m a bit much, but it’s true. I watch the flickering flame, and I don’t know why, but I feel happy. 

What is flickering so softly in your life right now that you might miss it if you didn’t slow down, get warm, lead with your eyes? 

The thought that keeps permeating my words today is that, as we age, we have the opportunity to become a light that can lead younger women toward an alternative future. One that isn’t influenced by toxic perfection, disempowerment, and silencing. If we mask our age by sculpting our faces into a younger version of ourselves, how will the young people find us?

This is the winter of my life. According to most experts, it’s irreversible and full of surprising opportunities to bend a little, keep my core solid, and strengthen my pelvic floor so I don’t pee my pants. I know. All sorts of things to be thankful for at my age.

I’m going to pry myself open, like an oyster, and consider the possibility that if I live another year, what would I regret at the end of 2026? If humility and humor are my greatest assets, I shouldn’t just sit on them. I don’t have to be a saint, but I can be kind and a little irreverent when the situation calls for it. I’m going to actually try to understand opposing points of view this year because our stubborn determination that we are always right isnt working. Maybe listen more? I’m going to let this tight little bud I keep myself contained in bloom without anyone’s approval, and obviously, buy more candles.

The words I choose for this year are Grit and Grace. Don’t ask, but if you need to bury a body, I’m your girl. 

Let’s just say I’m trying to be helpful instead of bossy, generous instead of stingy, especially with my spaghetti sauce, attention, and smile, okay, and neighborhood gossip. I will keep reminding myself that relaxing is not a sin. It is good and holy to cozy up to the authors I trust, let my eyes slide over their words, infusing this old brain with inspiring thoughts. That’s how I absorb goodness. Let’s get out there, kick up our heels, trip over our own feet, have some fun. I’m beginning to understand that my future is only limited by my imagination, fearless heart, pelvic strength, and wicked sense of humor. 

PS – My daughter went to the hairdresser, and she said to Julie, “I didn’t know your mom knew Oprah. Bahaha.

PSS – “And the beauty of a woman, with passing years, only grows!”

― Audrey Hepburn

PSS – Larry decided to boil an egg. So he got out the pot, asked whether to boil the water first or boil them together, and I said either way. I got the look. He decided to boil the water first. Then promptly dropped the egg in the water and set the timer. A few minutes later, he noticed the egg was cracked. He said, “The egg cracked,” stating the obvious. I said, “You have to drop it in gently with a spoon.” He said, “That would have been good to know ahead of time.” I quipped, “That’s what experience is for.” I mirrored the look. He didn’t love it.

PSSS – Happy Birthday, Sue! This is your year, my friend. Grab it by the ass. Love you.

Act like Larry, grab your copy of Grow Damn It! today! See that smile? Leave a review if you’re so inspired.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 23 Comments

How Much Water Can One Drink

Before They Drown?

“The greatest enemy of hunger for the divine is not poison but apple pie. It is not the banquet of the wicked that dulls our appetite for eternity, but endless nibbling at the table of the world. It is not the X-rated video, but the prime-time dribble of triviality we drink in every night.” ― John Piper

I’m hungry. 

Unreasonably hungry!

I know why, but since I am here, I will try to maintain a constructive attitude, because realistically, what are my options?

If this life is meant to be a radical exploration into the depths of our own being, then I’m going for it in 2026, and a 72-hour water fast seemed to be the most viable vehicle to my ultimate destination.

Okay, it was New Year’s Eve, we had some bubbly, and yes, I caved to peer pressure. Half the 65-year-olds in Northern California are fasting this week, so there will most likely be an excess of saltines, cottage cheese, liver, and prunes at the grocery store. Stock up.

At 65, I really should be appalled with myself, but honestly, I was sort of intrigued. 

The thing is, I don’t believe in fasting. I never have. I’ve always believed in moderation in all things, including butter, bacon, biscuits, but especially kale, spam, and Jell-O. The only exception is coffee. It’s biblical, just read Hebrews. Get it?

So I decided to be a tourist with a private itinerary. 

My destination was to go on holiday with myself, but not physically go anywhere, just sit in my soft jammies, in front of the fire, sipping water, and praying for magical insights to appear like an apparition in the midst of my anguish. 

You can only imagine what really happened.

We all have rich inner landscapes, but they remain largely unexplored. I’m rather pathological. That is the best word I can think of in my deprived state. I stick with my old, familiar patterns, come hell or high water. Hey, it’s gotten me this far, gently wrinkled and largely unfamiliar with myself. 

So I’m going to try something different. You can read all the gory details or skip to the handy summary at the end. 

I was curious. Just about every religion on the planet promotes fasting as an opportunity to get closer to self, God, and others. How? Why? Honestly, God aside, I just wanted to know if I could trust myself. Could I set a goal that would challenge my most intense instinct – to nourish myself – and not eat?

If I were denying myself food, what would I reach for instead?

Such a good question. 

What I discovered were these moments of intense mental clarity embedded in the hunger. I found myself empathizing with all the hungry people in the world, suddenly knowing what it felt like to go to bed on an empty stomach, one that was growling for a sizzling steak and baked potato drowning in butter. 

I can feel you judging me. 

By Day two, I was getting a little smug about my self-discipline. The truth is, the hunger actually went away. Where? I have no idea.

There I was, resisting the impulse to eat like a pro and trying to figure out what the hell was going on in my innermost being while I wallowed in my emptiness. It might be a place where language can’t go, but I’ll tell you what, I started acknowledging my blessings with a vengeance. 

My refrigerator was full of food. I could eat whenever I wanted. This made me confront the uncomfortable truth that people who live with food insecurity do not have the ability to eat electively. 

It’s a humbling and eye-opening awareness, because instead of knowing this intellectually, I felt it.

As a substitute for eating, I cleaned up the ravaged backyard from the last storm, put all the Christmas decorations away (I almost puked after 20 trips to the storage cupboards in the garage), organized the pantry, and then I did the most peculiar thing. 

I pulled out my dream board from fifteen years ago because, for some reason, it had been stuck behind the vacuum cleaner in the pantry. 

And guess what I was wishing for at 50? Publish a book. Improve my teaching skills. Travel to Italy. Plant a garden. Remodel the kitchen. Read two books a month.

Okay, it took a while, but they all came true. What the hell?

When boredom kicks in, you discover all sorts of things, especially if you’re creating a dream board on an empty stomach. 

I’ll admit I was slightly delusional at this point, but I had AI create an image of Oprah interviewing me about my new bestseller, in matching outfits. I put Larry on the balcony of a villa in Florida, big enough to house our whole family, right on the ocean. Then I had AI insert Larry and me in a glass-domed bungalow in Norway, where we were snuggled on a large leather sofa, beneath a fur blanket, watching the Northern Lights. I’m sure we were eating something.

Bahaha.

More important than ChatGPT’s ability to insert me into my own fantasies was it became clear what I wanted to keep and what I wanted to let go of. Top of the list was freedom from ingrained habits, mastery over destructive cravings, and a sort of knowing that the patterns I’ve been loyal to and struggling with for years no longer have me enslaved.  

Don’t get me wrong, we’re still friends, but I don’t owe them anything. 

James Clear suggests that if we make a few small changes, we get 1% better every day. It compounds over time and can yield astounding results. He didn’t go into specifics, but I assume he meant that our lives can be improved incrementally by deleting temptations (Amazon), elevating our diets (massage the kale, makes everything more edible), helping our neighbors (take down those damn inflatable Christmas decorations), and forgiving others (Netflix for not letting us share our accounts). Small things can quietly move us forward or keep us stuck. 

Daunting, I know. 

It also sparked a desire to understand what God had in mind for me when I was born into this crazy world. What is the thing I was uniquely created to do, because I’m quickly running out of time?

I discovered that when I’m not chained to the demands of a gluttonous appetite, there is time to listen to the wisdom of an empty stomach, as if my intuition were no longer at the mercy of my primary needs. Rainer Maria Rilke says, “When something becomes extremely difficult and unbearable, there we also stand quite near its transformation.”

Booyah!

Trust me, when you’re not buying, preparing, eating, or cleaning up after a meal, you have a lot of time to think, meditate, and contemplate how everything that exists on this planet struggles, grows, and dies (after paying their taxes, of course). 

I’m such an optimist when I’m hungry. 

Like flowers that only bloom when deprived of water. They are temporary. Especially cut flowers. There’s a message embedded in there, but I’m too dehydrated to see it. It’s as if their only purpose is to show us that nothing lasts forever, stay present, smell the damn roses. 

By day three, my ego was subdued, my heart humbled, and my mental faculties were recharged. I don’t know why, but intense hunger does this to you. I was learning how to go beyond my ordinary inclinations and just focus on the quiet voice that I usually ignore, berate, or banish, especially if she is whispering something I don’t want to hear. 

I’ll give her this, she’s persistent.

For those who have experienced the joy of being extremely hungry, no words can truly capture the magical knowledge of our interconnectedness, the way eternity is continually being created, or how we are limited only by our imaginations. Seriously. Our future is not predetermined. We do not have to be enslaved to old patterns, habits, or predispositions. 

What a relief.

Hermann Hesse says, “Everyone can perform magic, everyone can reach their goals… if they are able to think, if they are able to wait, if they are able to fast.” 

So, delayed gratification has its benefits. 

Especially in the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep because I’d been drinking coffee all day, so instead, I explored our universal fear of aging. Do you realize, if you’re a woman, aging is considered a disease in most parts of the world, but especially in California, where youth is prized over all else. Collectively, how much do we spend on Botox injections, cosmetic surgeries, lip fillers, laser treatments, and fancy creams? 

It’s nuts. 

This industry thrives on insecurities. The idea that our worth is based on flawless skin, flat tummies, and fake boobs. Ugg. How did we get here?

All I know is aging is a privilege. Ask anyone who is dying.

I also dissected the concept of love because, on the second night, my longing for popcorn was so intense that I had to sit up in bed and douse it with water. 

I glanced over at Larry, sleeping peacefully, resisting the urge to throw the glass of water at him (I was feeling mildly unreasonable), and I wondered if love was simply the desire to have someone sleeping beside you. Or does it arise from some notion I have created for myself? Is it simply me that I love, and within the unique boundaries of this life, I am able to extend this love of self to someone else? 

See, this is why Jesus turned water into wine.

Fasting is the indulgent act of ridding ourselves of our own fullness so we can direct our attention to the real mysteries of the world. The art of celebrating this life is to recognize that it unfolds in real time, with or without our participation. The interesting thing to me is, if the past has a share in our present, then we should do something every day that we look forward to meeting in the future. This week, I learned that it was in the emptiness, the hunger, the deprivation that I felt joy, happiness, and that pervasive fog began to lift. This is where we find our capacity to appreciate life in and through our human limitations, patiently trusting in our heaviness, which, now I understand, must be experienced before we fly.

I’m Living in the Gap, enormously grateful for every morsel of food, and my picture with Oprah!

How’s your week going?

If you want to enjoy more humorous stories, pick up a copy of Grow Damn It, suggest it for bookclub. I’ll join you!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 43 Comments

A Candle and Matches

That’s All

“We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.”

― Robert Fulghum

Back Story

I found myself standing at the kitchen counter one morning, arranging some lemons in a white bowl and wondering if I enjoyed them more than flowers in a vase. Then I started to cry. Soft at first, then it got ugly, with tears dripping onto the freshly washed lemons in the pure white bowl.

How did this happen?

I’m ashamed to admit this to myself, let alone anyone else, that I’ve been stuck in a stagnant place for months. The truth is, if I am not writing, I am no longer a writer, yet day after day I’d carefully stash little observations in my notebook, but never bothered to hold them up to the light, scan for deeper meaning, or cobble my untethered thoughts together. 

I just stood there crying and laughing when that annoying little voice in the back of my head started whispering, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” 

Bahaha.

That was my motto. 

Seriously. 

Whatever was happening, I could find the positive, the diamond in the rough, the Cinderella who could be whatever she wanted to be. I had this annoying belief that some mysterious force was working in my favor, and out of any problem, only good would come. 

Until the world convinced me otherwise.

We all deal with death, divorce, abandonment, betrayal, but not all at once, for goodness’ sake. 

And despite it all, I get it, life goes on because it is countered by new life, new marriages, new beginnings, new friendships, and from someone you least expect, unwarranted kindness.

I found myself wallowing in my utter insignificance, my confidence slipped, my core melted, and the more I searched for the thing that would give me hope, the deeper I sank into this barren, arid, infertile wasteland.

So I decided to let myself go dormant for a while. Why not? Eventually, I would shake off this malaise, possibly drawn back by the sweetness of words.

And isn’t it ironic that it was a bowl of lemons that enticed me out of my little pity party?

I have big plans to reinvent the blog in 2026, return to regular posts, and dive into new projects. You know the saying, if you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans.

So on the second day of the new year, I’m sharing a few of those carefully stashed observations, the ones I never bothered to hold up to the light, scan for deeper meaning, or cobble together.  I hope it will bring you a little laughter and light. 

The Vows

Forty-two years ago, Larry and I stood in a candlelit chapel on the grounds of Santa Clara University and vowed to love, honor, and obey each other until death do us part.

Yes, we actually used the word obey. It was the 80s. We were young. We didn’t know what we didn’t know.

I paid an extra hundred dollars for hundreds of candles to be strategically placed throughout the church, so the long aisle would be enchanting, romantic, and well-lit. Our ceremony started at 4:00 pm on a rainy afternoon, and those candles, along with that passing storm, continue to define our marriage ― beautiful, dramatic, and a tiny bit unpredictable.

A New Deal

Recently, we made a new promise, and that was to survive an entire vacation without a single squabble.

Bahaha.

By day five, we failed so spectacularly that it was as if we were two palm trees caught in a hurricane. Our branches flapping about, coconuts flying, and one of us (identity withheld) went storming off, refusing to go out to dinner.

Did we say things we didn’t mean? Yes. Did we go to bed mad? Yes. Did I save us $200 on dinner? You’re welcome.

It’s always thrilling to break every rule of marriage in a single day.

The Evolving Definition 

Can I just say our interpretation of how we love, honor, and obey each other is about as divergent as humanly possible? It would take an entire dissertation to fully explain how men and women understand these particular words, and even then, it would not be comprehensive enough to account for the profound divide.

Let’s be honest, Larry interprets “obey” the way he interprets IKEA instructions, out of order, cussing at the directions, with at least one screw left over.

I’ve redefined “obey” as if it were a mathematical equation. First comes the needs of kids, home, dogs, goldfish, errands, and whatever is currently leaking, before I divide whatever energy I have left by Larry’s needs.

But here’s the miracle no one tells you about.

It happened so gradually, we were both caught off guard.

You wake up one morning to an eerily quiet house, because right under our noses, the kids moved out of our lives and into their own. Then our careers started winding down, we stopped renovating the damn house, and our beloved pet died. 

In a blink, everything changed. 

And guess what?

We decided this was a miraculous opportunity to reinvent ourselves, settle into a more mature love, and honor our newly awakened dreams, which I never imagined would include a bicycle built for two. We’re no longer obeying each other; we’re obeying an entire new entity, one with deep roots that have been entangled in the rich firmament of a marriage.

It’s Complicated 

I’ll admit, my earliest concept of love was more of a rom-com montage than an actual marriage. I’m talking seductive music, rose petals, candlelit rooms, gently blowing curtains, a Richard Gere sweeping Julia Roberts off her feet kind of thing.

Larry’s idea of love? “I like her. I want her. Shit, I got her.”

In the midst of turmoil, temper tantrums, tears, hectic schedules, homework, illnesses, financial insecurity, and burgeoning adolescence, we survived, but enough about Larry and me, throw in four kids, a few pets, and you see what I mean. 

Marriage is complicated.

It seems to me that, over time, seduction gives way to something more profound: advocacy, loyalty, and the surreal trust that allows your partner to change, evolve, pursue their dreams, and occasionally reinvent themselves at 2 a.m., after watching a documentary about Winnibageos.

Flexibility is key.

Do we trust each other enough to not only allow, but to support, the way in which we each decide how to live out our senior years, no matter how bizarre they seem? This sounds easy, but it can be tricky. 

For example, how do you react when your wife’s dream is to sit on her ass all day and write, or your husband pulls up to the house in a Porsche and calmly eases it into the garage cluttered with tandem bicycles?

Deep breaths and a wee bit of wine.

Stolen Coupon

Days before we leave for the airport (praying an air traffic controller actually shows up to work), I went gift shopping.

We’re going to Hawaii. It’s our anniversary. Larry needs new clothes. Left unsupervised, he will buy a car before he buys a new shirt.

After I have coffee with my sister, I sprint to the mall and head straight to Tommy Bahama’s, looking around for the perfect resort attire.

Before long, I have sleek black shorts thrown over my arm, a pair of loafers dangling from my right hand, and two fabulous shirts. All matching vacation wear for fancy dinners and long walks along the beach at sunset. 

As the clerk is ringing me up, she says, “I see you have a $50 coupon available. Would you like to use it for this purchase?” I didn’t even know I had one, but yes, I’ll take free money when offered.

Later, Larry casually leans into our room, where I was stressing over packing for 10 days and fitting all his new clothes in my suitcase. Why the hell did I think shoes were a good idea? 

He says, “I need to run a few errands. Be back in an hour.”

Suspicious.

Turns out, he also went straight to Tommy Bahama’s. He also wanted to buy me something for our anniversary, and, of course, he planned to use the $50 coupon that arrived in the mail yesterday.

Except! His coupon had already been used. By me. That morning.

I regret nothing. The early bird gets the worm, the coupon, and the matching Hawaiian shirts.

Good Intentions

On the first day of vacation, we exchange gifts. He bought me a beautiful dress. It’s very feminine, featuring a soft print, flowing skirt, and gently fitted waist. It’s sheer, delicate, and graceful. I feel like a princess in it, which is, obviously, how he sees me. 

Let’s not examine alternatives. 

It’s only the second dress he’s ever bought me. The first was when I was 18. It was a soft white dress, empire waist, accented with a rose ribbon, and fitted floral bodice. It’s stashed in my closet next to my wedding dress because, let’s be honest, that dress would feel like I was wrapped in Saran Wrap today.

The Ambiance 

When I’m settling into a hotel room, I like to create a little ambiance. First things first, I make a bouquet of stolen flowers from the lush landscape, hang up our swanky new clothes, adjust the air conditioner, open the curtains, shove the empty suitcases under the bed, and align the toiletries with military precision on the tiny bathroom counter.

But I’m not quite done.

While securing supplies (and by supplies I mean cheese, crackers, beverages, and macadamia nuts) at the local market, I grab a floral-scented candle and throw it into the basket on our way to the cashier.

Larry says, “What the hell is that for?”

I explain in a calm voice, “It’s a candle. You light it. It makes me happy.”

“I signed a waiver about smoke residue.”

Me, no longer calm, “IT’S A CANDLE, NOT A CIGARETTE.”

He tries logic.

I try singing ‘Come On Baby Light My Fire’.

When I reach for a box of matches, he says, “Worst idea ever.”

I set the candle and matches aside. He rolls his eyes. I pout.

But I tell you what, I memorized those three little words, “Worst idea ever,” and weaponized them for my own purposes.

I’m such a brat.

The Boat

It was still dark when I slipped into a bathing suit, shorts, tank top, and sweatshirt for our ocean excursion today. Larry made reservations on a Zodiac that will escort us along the beautiful Na Pali coast. The only way to explore these extraordinary cliffs and caves is by boat or hiking in. 

And they delivered. We saw several large schools of dolphins, a giant turtle, tons of colorful fish, but no sharks. They maneuvered our relatively wide boat into the narrowest of caves, taking us by interior waterfalls and cathedral-like spaces.

Halfway through the trip, they anchored near the shore and let us snorkel for the better part of an hour. It’s surreal. The water is so salty, you literally float without effort, drifting with the warm current.

Just below the surface of the water lies an entire universe, and there I am, as if a demigod, floating carelessly over their world, marveling at their adaptability, observing their symbiotic relationship, yet not engaging with these primitive creatures. 

I wonder what they think about us?

The Weather

I can’t remember the last time we got up at 5:30 am just to observe the sun rise, in silence, coffees in hand, the pounding waves matching the rhythm of our hearts.

Watching in awe as that miraculous orb rises above the clouds in an aura of brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. For a few minutes, I forget who I am, where I am, completely mesmerized by the moment.

We sat there in those well-worn Adirondack chairs, silent, holding hands, lost in our own reveries. It was magical. 

It’s the 19th, the day we got married 42 years ago. We have reservations at a popular restaurant nestled along the coast. I wore my new dress. He wore his new shirt. 

Someone complimented me. 

He smiled.

The Inosculation 

Marriage isn’t a fairytale. I’ve decided it’s more of an inosculation, which happens when two trees growing so close together become one. When their bark is worn away by excessive living and many storms, allowing their cambium layers to touch, resulting in a fusion of their trunks. 

Palm trees do this excessively well. 

The best love awakens this process. We’re drawn to the shelter of our intertwined branches, the symbiotic rhythm of conjoined hearts, which miraculously allows both people to flourish, especially when life gets stormy.  

What more could one want?

A damn candle. And matches.

I’m  Living in the Gap, arranging lemons and flowers, that’s all. How are you doing, my friend?

Need a quick hostess gift, stocking stuffer, or the perfect birthday gift for that feisty Aunt? Grow Damn It is your answer! Pair it with poppy seeds, gardening gloves, or a floral scented candle. They’ll be eternally grateful. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 20 Comments

Loose Threads

In An Unraveling World

“Writing is not a matter of time, but a matter of space. If you don’t keep space in your head for writing, you won’t write even if you have the time.”

― Katerina Stoykova Klemer

Me, at five, and the Mona Lisa

These two images, when combined, explain why women are often perceived as mysterious. The entire world comes through a female body, and yet half the population has no idea what’s going on in our heads. Not to worry. I’ll give you a little tour. Bring a flashlight; it’s rather dark in here.

Snuggled in the corner of the grey leather couch in the sitting room, I’m cocooned in one of those fake fur blankets, with a cup of coffee attached to my hand as if I grew a new appendage. The clock on my phone says it is 6:08 am. The fire gently crackles, the lighting is perfect, and I’m smiling, just slightly, as if a gently aged Mona Lisa. 

You might be wondering about the picture I posted above. 

Dr. Amanda Hanson challenged her followers to post a picture of their five-year-old selves on their phone and spend a week reflecting on their dreams and aspirations at that age, before cultural biases, family structures, societal pressures, and the realities of adolescence squelched their youthful optimism and self-worth.

So I did as I was told (as you can see, I’ve overcome all that crap).

This picture brought back memories of a highly imaginative and energetic young girl, how my parents had to constantly remind me to lower my voice, not laugh so loud, and please, for the love of God, calm the hell down. 

My mother referred to me as her active child. 

Memories of my love for writing start resurfacing, and I recall how I struggled to spell the words that best described my thoughts. So, I became a human thesaurus, filing away clusters of words in my mind that had the same meaning but were easier to spell phonetically. 

I might be on to something here. 

It’s incredible how one little picture can remind me of so many forgotten aspects of myself that I somehow lost over time. I was a highly sensitive kid, absorbing the complex emotions of the people around me but not fully understanding what I was feeling. I relied heavily on Oreo cookies to help resolve conflicts between my friends, cousins, and even some of the adults in my life, as I could not bear the incredible weight of anger and tension, much like a helium balloon attached to a boulder. 

What happened to that girl?

In reconnecting with my younger self (how cliche), I realized I used to create my own happiness. When did I start blaming PG&E, the price of eggs, and aggressive drivers for my frame of mind? Happiness is an inside job, always has been, always will be. I can choose to be giddy about my new diffuser or angry about the news, peaceful or unhinged, curious or frightened.

Clearly, the coffee is kicking in. 

I’ve been engaged in a heated internal debate lately, where I can’t decide if my new penchant for cleaning is a subconscious attempt to distract me from writing, or if my writing has always been a subconscious attempt to distract me from cleaning. Or more truthfully, does my writing force me to confront all my suppressed emotions, when I would prefer to think about whether the sugar would be happier next to the flour or the oats?

Honestly, I go round and round, no solution in sight, other than the obvious. Cleaning and writing require the same type of intense focus; they take up a lot of time and demand the courage to ruthlessly eliminate words or things that are no longer needed. 

Lately, when I’m confronted with a blank page on my computer, I panic, remembering the words I often heard in my youth, “Thank God she’s athletic, because her writing is atrocious,” and I’d be deposited at a gymnastics class to burn off some energy. Can I just give a little shout-out to Jesus’s mother, who didn’t suppress his gifts; in fact, she encouraged him to turn water into wine. 

Bless her mother’s intuition.

For me, expunging anything is painful, especially removing the plank from my own eye before extracting the sawdust from my neighbors, but let’s not dwell on our deficiencies; at least we have wine.   

You’ll be relieved to know I started a new routine a few days ago, but sadly, it’s not going well. I’m supposed to be practicing gratitude, and, of course, my mind is wandering around like a chicken with its head cut off. My thoughts are literally bouncing from my disastrous pantry (that word might not be strong enough), to the light fixture just above my head that is full of dust, and then there is this cricket chirping noisously from the heating vent, while, I’m trying to calculate when I last showered, which reminds me I need to order some new washcloths…and on it goes. 

So, obviously, I need to rein in my thoughts, but it’s as if I’m five years old, attending mass with my friend Renee, and during the homily, when we’re supposed to be paying attention, we get the giggles. The harder we try to stop, the worse it gets. We end up teetering on the kneeler, chests heaving with laughter, getting the stink-eye from Renee’s mom, with tears running down our cheeks. 

Okay, enough with the five-year-old memories, let’s focus on the present. We’ve all heard ad nauseam that gratitude is the portal that change can wiggle through, especially in times of trouble. Am I right? That’s rhetorical. Keep reading.

So, if I can’t write, I decided to curate a detailed list of all the things I’m grateful for each morning, before life takes over and sucks the joy out of my delusions. I created a shortcut which I’ll share with you. The shortcut reduces redundancy, meaning we don’t have to repeat the givens every day because we’ve collectively deemed certain things worthy of our eternal gratitude (by we, I mean me, because there’s really no room for anyone else in here). This means family, friends, pets, bamboo sheets, bacon, trees, white tulips, dark chocolate, stacks of unread books, and, obviously, coffee do not need to be repeated each day, unless there is some extenuating circumstance that requires an exception. 

For example, if I’m slightly irritated with one of you, I need to remind myself that this annoying person is only here to teach me something about patience, forgiveness, or flexibility—whatever. And the only reason I’m mad is that I interpreted what they purposely did through a lens of my own experience, and I have inadvertently deemed it as wrong (which is probably right, but that’s beside the point). 

The idea is that nothing can evoke a negative emotion in me unless I allow it, regardless of whether the person in question is wrong. Honestly, I should be thanking them for building my resilience and then deciding how much effort I should put in avoiding their sorry asses.

Yes, I learned that from a Mel Robbins podcast. I might have expanded on her ideas, but I’m sure she’ll get there. Doesn’t she look just like me?

So this is what my brain has deemed worthy of gratitude today—candy corn, kindness, carved pumpkins, a good rainstorm, the new phone my neighbor Debbie gave me, toilet paper (don’t ask), apples, pumpkin spice candles, magnolia trees, the colorful leaves, and of course, a sausage empanada from Bae’s.

Clearly, I’m hungry.

After sitting with those giddy thoughts for a while, I naturally start digging deeper, contemplating the nature of life, the irrelevance of time, the meaning of salvation, and the gift of a good book, such as Falling Upward by Richard Rohr, which I have been devouring as if it were the last supper. 

Somehow, I repeatedly shove aside thoughts about my recently deceased father-in-law, how my sister is selling her house and ditching me to go live in the El Dorado Hills, or the lack of control I have managed to manifest over my wayward thoughts. It’s like I have this hidden chamber where I put all the thoughts I don’t want to think about, but I purposely leave the door open, and like essential oils, they infuse my space. 

Self-sabatage. It’s a real thing.

I’m supposed to be able to tame my thoughts during these graditude session by focusing on my breath but I’m like a hummingbird who stuck it’s nose in an espresso maching instead of a flower, suddenly my entire body starts to itch, or the sound of a neurotic squirrel screaming in the yard reminds me of childbirth, and I forget to breathe in through the nose, out the mouth, and start doing he, he, ha, ha’s like I learned in Lamaze class, and there go my thoughts. 

Who’s in control here? And why we’re at it, where the hell are these thoughts generated? It’s as if there are two of me, one blabbering away uncontrollably, and one sitting back, as if a wise mother, amused by it all. 

When it’s time to warm up my coffee, I get up to retrieve the thermal pot, carrying it with me back to my cocoon, but sadly, the pantry door was left open (are you sensing a theme?), and now I’m appalled by my own housekeeping skills, or lack thereof.

Of course, I hear my mother scolding me about my disordered life, and she practically drags me out to the garage by my nose so I can snatch a garbage bag. What can you do? I briefly analyze the chaotic cupboard and decide to tackle one, maybe two shelves. I pull out all the contents and throw them indiscriminately on the counter, and then start pitching things out as if I’m Nolan Ryan. I’m ruthless because I am not grateful for anything expired, ripped, or unrecognizable (like the two cans of God knows what with missing labels).

Four hours later, my pantry would make the Kardashians jealous, and I return to the couch, pulling up matching glass storage containers on Amazon, along with monogrammed cocktail napkins and a labeling gun, when my daily onslaught of emails grabs my attention. I instantly discard about three-quarters of the daily correspondence I receive. I have no idea where they all come from. 

And just like that, my email box has become a replica of my brain, or did we design it that way?

Which reminds me of the numerous spam emails I receive daily from individuals claiming to represent motion picture companies, including Netflix, and even Steven Spielberg, who wants to adapt my little book, Grow Damn It, into a movie. It makes total sense to me. They usually gush about my book with a bunch of AI-generated praise and close with a request to discuss further. In other words, they want my money. 

I delete at least two a week. 

But not today. The part of my brain that’s a bit unhinged thought it would be “fun” to respond to these spammers as if they were real, you know, mess with them a little and see where it leads. Go easy, I just cleaned out the pantry.

So I wove together the most absurd email ever. 

  • Your email has the rare quality of both making me laugh and prompting me to double-check my antivirus software.
  • I’m flattered by your enthusiasm for my work, though I have to say, your NDAs seem more confidential than the JFK files on Russia.
  • I tried to verify your association with the motion picture industry, but Google must have misplaced your profile, just like the Five Sunflowers by Vincent Van Gogh. In fact, I couldn’t find a single piece of evidence that you actually exist. Weird. Right? 
  • Anyway, I appreciate the effort — and the compliments about my writing. You’re clearly a man of exquisite taste. I made the mistake of reading your email to my sister, and after she stopped laughing, she said, “I want Scarlett Johansson to play my character, and maybe Melissa McCarthy could play you?” I’m sure you have their contact info.
  • And just to be fair, you aren’t the only one interested in my money, I mean, my work, and it’s going to take a lot of enticements to get me to sign an exclusive with you. Cheers…

As you can see, everything I knew about kindness, prudence, and compassion went right out the window; my portal of gratitude slammed shut, and I admit, my devious side was having way too much fun. 

He wrote me back the next day, saying he loved the email, laughed from start to finish, and wanted to know if I had the Venmo app on my phone.

Bahaha.

Anyhoo…there’s a little peek into the workings of a woman’s mind. I’m still struggling to achieve a more balanced approach to life, which means living in the present whenever possible and giving equal time to both my inherent urges to write and clean. Do the things that I know I need to do after a bit of doom scrolling on Instagram with a cup of coffee. Give others the benefit of the doubt, even when they don’t deserve it, do as much good as possible every damn day, including wasting a spammer’s time, focusing on that for which I am grateful, and reordering the disordered spaces in my life. 

Perhaps we don’t need to take everything so seriously. Let’s roll off the sofa onto our knees, offering up our most spontaneous laughter, savoring both the humor and heaviness of this incredible life. When I was five, if someone told me I could hang out in da Vinci’s studio at the same time he painted the Mona Lisa, or sneak into my sister’s room in the middle of the night with a handful of Oreo’s and a head full of stories – I’m going with the one who always made me feel safe, welcome, appreciated, even though she’s ditching me for the El Dorado Hills. 

P.S., My progress has been anything but stellar, but I did manage to knock out the hall closet and this essay. So there’s that. 

P.S.S., just so you know, I plan to continue this blog regularly starting January 1st. I’m giving myself time and a little grace as I navigate life without my father-in-law, a mother-in-law who encourages me to replace my water with wine most evenings, a relocated sister, and various other complex adjustments.

P.S.S.S., that spammer and I have become pen pals, but I’m not sure if I’m communicating with an AI-generated bot or a real person. Oh well, that’s our future.

Grow Damn It is available at Black Rose Writing for 20% off! Use code SEASON20 until January 31st!

Or find me on Amazon. In fact, if you just tap this Amazon link, no purchase necessary, you will improve my algorithm! I know…go, go, go!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 45 Comments

What Gives Life Such Incredible Meaning?

The Fact That It Stops

“Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another.”

― Ernest Hemingway

“Get out of the way! Look at that damn driver, blocking the fast lane,” Larry Sr would lament, while tailing the slow driver and flashing his brights. Anything that stood between him and his destination was cause for irritation, including a long illness before death.

Lawrence Joseph Oreglia Sr, 1938-2025.

We’ve lost a powerful force in a turbulent world, and we’re all feeling strangely lost, displaced, maybe shattered in a way, trying to understand how to reenter the flow of life without our true north.

What is the importance of what we leave behind? 

I don’t believe it has anything to do with valuable objects or hefty bank accounts. It’s buried in the little decisions you make every day, to show up for the people you love, especially when it is not easy, deserved, or acknowledged.

This was Nono’s legacy.

Larry’s beloved father passed away after a long and fruitful life. And I do not use the word fruitful lightly. He was married to an incredible woman, Sheila, for 66 years. They raised four strapping sons, who married four, shall we say, “fabulous” women, resulting in twelve grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren (and counting). I know this sounds like an obituary, but I would be remiss if I didn’t include his enormous legacy of faithful friends.

The Oreglia clan is a dynasty of sorts, with various branches scattered throughout the world. Together or apart, we have each other’s backs and fly all over the world to celebrate engagements, birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, baptisms, holidays, and funerals. It’s not because it’s expected―we want to be together. I think it’s part of our collective longing to be part of something bigger than ourselves.

It’s called family.

The main thing Nono taught us is that family comes first; if not, divisions appear like cracks in the foundation, and selfish interests displace core values. 

We’ve been doing what people do when grief visits you. We’re gathering around our family tables, lifting a glass to our cherished patriarch, and sharing stories that have been told so many times they feel almost biblical, tales that have guided our tribe for decades. But there were also surprises revealed about this unique man that I never knew.

I was floored when Uncle Tony shared a story at the memorial service about his big brother buying him the car of his dreams, one he couldn’t afford on his own. 

How did I not know this?

When my husband, Larry, got up to speak, I watched him walk hesitantly to the podium. Audrey, my granddaughter, leaned towards me, wrapping her little hand in mine as if to give me strength. I don’t think she’ll ever know how much I needed her at that moment.

I stared intently at Larry’s face as he first encountered the entire room and realized how many people had shown up for his dad. His eyes fill, I feel his emotion as if they were my own, and I squeeze the hell out of that little hand. Audrey instinctively tightens her grip.

With his voice full of emotion, he says, “I’m going to get through this,” then clears his throat, looks up again at the packed room, shakes his head, and says, “My dad would have loved this.”

By all accounts, this was a very industrious man, and his son Larry testified to this fact. He shared not only the generosity, strength, and resiliency his father emulated throughout his life but also the importance of the “Italian fine-tuning tool,” otherwise known as a hammer! Something that can be used to build a home, nail things together, and make things fit, or make some ice chips, which Nono demanded just days before his passing. 

His grandson, Adam, takes the podium and eloquently shares how something as simple as inviting the entire family year after year to gather at the lake created not only beloved memories of Clear Lake but a profound bond between the twelve cousins that remains strong to this day. And that shared love of Clear Lake continues to thrive as it is being passed on to the next generation.

And so it goes…our true legacy.

His son Steve shared his father’s passion for life, his powerful influence, and dedication to all things involving the people he loved, followed by a hysterical story about Nono’s most passionate irritation—slow drivers in the fast lane. And what are they most likely driving?

A Prius!

Nono understood that a man is known by the family and friends who surround him. I internalized his wisdom when I glanced around the packed room at his celebration of life, the pews filled with people who loved him, who love us, who wanted to honor this man, his journey, his life. 

We laughed and cried with each of their stories, all of them leaving us with a broader understanding of this special patriarch who staunchly stood for traditional values in a modern world.

The death of a loved one is disorienting to say the least. We all know our lives will come to an end one day, and I think this is what gives life such incredible meaning. Yet, when it happens to someone we love, it throws us off balance, as if we’re in a perpetual fall and can’t find our footing.  

It reminds me of the time I broke my foot. Running late, I raced out of the house into the darkness of early morning and missed a step off the front patio. I felt a jolt of fear as my foot flailed around searching for solid ground, followed by a moment of sheer panic when I realized I was going to fall. The pain was sharp and unrelenting. I felt the bone crack, and somewhere deep inside, I realized it’s time to slow down.

Old people. What can you do?

For months, I walked with a limp, favoring the broken part of myself, searching for a new way of maneuvering through life, wondering if I would ever heal.

What I know of grief is that it is the result of love, not its absence.

And yet, for all the laughter and shared memories, grief is also a solitary act, one we carry inside, even in a crowded room. No matter how many people we surround ourselves with, we are alone, not lonely—but essentially solitary by design. 

Death teaches us that the only way to bridge this divide is love.

The weird thing about death is just when you think you’ve dealt with it, you’ve accepted the physical severance and believe you are reconciled with this new reality, a song comes on the radio, a sweet memory surfaces, or your sibling calls, and it shocks you, as if a jolt of electricity, and there you are, rummaging through the house for a damn tissue. 

Wheather death is expected or not, I feel as if we don’t lose a person all at once, it’s a process, we let little pieces of them go over a long period of time—the wrist watch that is no longer ticking on the nightstand, the missing toothbrush that used to nestle with mine, how their scent disappears from the pillow, the room, our memory. Gradually, the remnants of their life fade, but oddly enough, we can evoke their presence if we sit quietly in a penetrable space—their favorite chair, under a cherished tree, sitting on the edge of the lake, skipping rocks.

The veil is ever so thin. 

Helen Keller says, “Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there’s a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see.” She makes me consider what I will encounter in the other room. How about you?

Maybe I’ll have a voice like Barbara Streisand?

Surely the theory of relativity will become clear.

If nothing else, I do believe we will experience a sense of belonging that we never fully realized in life.

Screenshot

Regardless of what we discover on the other side, before we get too far down the road, I hope we are granted the wisdom to understand our purpose in this life and the courage to complete what we were born to do. To know what an incredible privilege it is to wake up each day, to allow gratitude to guide us, and life to transform us in ways we’ve yet to understand. This is the unpromised gift of life.

Maybe mine was to marry Larry, raise four kids, write books, and Live in the Gap. Or is there more?

“My next great adventure is dying, I suppose,” claimed Jane Goodall a few years before her death. She says it is silly to fear death, “There is either nothing or there is something extraordinary.” She passionately believes the latter and claims that when her work here is done, she looks forward to whatever she will encounter on the other side. 

If the road of life goes on forever, but we can only see the part that is meant for the living, I think that’s why Nono got frustrated with all those boulders in the road. He always wanted to be where he was most needed and least expected. Maybe that’s the secret: we only understand how rich life is when it becomes finite. So this is not goodbye. We’ll see you down the road. I’ll be the one driving a Prius, well under the speed limit, in the fast lane. 

I’m Living in the Gap, slowing down, remembering what is important. What are the things you want to leave behind?

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 57 Comments

Aging Without Apology

In A Noisy World

“What you do speaks so loud,” said Emerson, “that I cannot hear what you say.”

When I don’t spend enough time alone with my thoughts, they get feisty, as if a neglected child, and start buying bamboo sheets and shimmery slippers on Amazon without my permission. It’s not that I don’t like the things my thoughts purchase, it’s just annoying, like an itch you can’t quite reach. 

Sometimes, I feel as if silence is the most elusive noun in the world. Our phones are constantly beeping, there’s continual construction in the suburbs, or the television is blaring, and just when you sit down with your cup of coffee, someone knocks at the door with your Blue Apron delivery. 

But the loudest of all and sometimes the most disturbing is the erratic clamoring of my own thoughts.

Noise pollution is a lot like air pollution; it hampers our ability to breathe deeply, think clearly, and sometimes, even move.

Not to add doom upon gloom, but there are so many complicated problems in the world today, which can be paralyzing in and of themselves, and I worry that collectively we have lost hope. I define hope as a survival trait because without it, we are not motivated to change the things that are wrong with ourselves, our relationships, our world. 

And it has to go in that order, put your mask on first, or everyone expires.

Without hope, we give up. We don’t take action. We sit, making an uneasy peace with inevitable disaster. (Which, by the way, should be the subtitle of every HOA meeting ever.)

This is probably not what you were hoping to enjoy with your morning coffee, but this is what happens when I get up early, breathe in the cool morning air, and then snuggle into my makeshift desk in the back of the room, allowing my erratic thoughts to dominate my writing. 

Today, I’ve given myself permission to just write, without direction or intent. I’m going to take long pauses so I can actually hear my thoughts, provide them with enough space to expand or contract, to wander off the page if needed. I’m using it as a therapy session, hoping to tame the frantic wayward side of me and maybe, in doing so, stumble on some universal truths. 

Yes, I’m skeptical too.

About ten minutes in, my ruminating slows down, the presumptions get softer, and when I finally put my fingers to rest, the ideas I see emerging between the lines are actually quite hopeful. Interesting, because I was in such a snit when I sat down to write. 

I’ve been debating the value of my writing for months, and now I’m wondering if what I’m honestly debating is how I value myself. Not only are my muscles, memory, and neck losing elasticity as I age, but so is my confidence.

What the hell?

It seems as if it was just yesterday when I had too much estrogen, a gaggle of kids, furry pets, a sick mom to care for, and a husband who traversed the globe selling memory (bahaha – in the form of a chip).

I was the calm in the storm back then, resilient, reliable, and endlessly flexible. Please do not fact-check these statements with my children. 

They lie. 

Now that the estrogen is gone, and apparently my progesterone has jumped ship as well, and although I’m adding collagen to my morning coffee, it remains undetectable. It’s like playing hide-and-seek with myself, but I can’t find the old me. 

So I did a little research.

It turns out that there are some upsides to this substance rebellion. Without estrogen, I’m now wired to worry about my own needs instead of everyone else’s. My sex drive has been radically diminished, okay, demolished, and so is my tolerance and patience. Oh my, could it get any better?

Okay, before you all go crying, “poor Larry,” you should realize the same thing is happening to him, but it’s less noticeable because his testosterone has always driven his ship, and unless you’re Captain Ahab, it’s usually not mutinous. Though he has been known to harpoon the thermostat without warning.

A very wise woman I know sent me a quote recently because she knows I’m wrestling with this stage of life. The quote referred to menopause as the phase when a woman is pregnant with herself.

I can not tell you how much I love that. 

As Richard Rohr says in his latest novel, Falling Upward, in the second half of life (or the third), “get ready for some new freedom, some dangerous permission, some hope from nowhere, some unexpected happiness, some stumbling stones, some radical grace, and some new and pressing responsibility for yourself and for our suffering world.” 

Now that’s a fabulously fertile statement.

Johanthan Swift said no wise person ever wanted to be younger. He most likely was not married to Estee Lauder, Elizabeth Arden, or Bobbi Brown, who made millions on this very foundation, pun intended. 

When did the concept of aging become so distorted?

We are designed to age beautifully, but we have been convinced by the dominating culture that aging is a sin. The worst kind of sin if you happen to be a woman. We’ve been indoctrinated to fear our grey hair, every damn wrinkle, our charming belly fat, laden breasts, and mild shift in attitude. Bahaha.

I feel like the Tupperware in the back of the pantry, their color has faded, most of the lids are lost, warped, or cracked, and in general, they might make better bath toys for the grandkids than containers for my leftovers. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, but you already knew that. 

All is not lost, because with fewer responsibilities and fewer regulatory substances, we gain a new sense of clarity, becoming an improved version of our old self, with a deep and profound reverence for life. We are giving birth to a new entity, one who is not only feisty but outrageously warped. We’ve developed flexibility and resilience. We’re creative as hell, relatively calm, wildly empathetic, and ever so eager to share our wisdom with the grandchildren who are glued to their screens. 

This is precisely why we need radically aging people who can mirror life truthfully and foundationally for the next generation. We are a ray of hope in a dark world, and best of all, we have access to a fabulous generator. See what I did there?

Dr. Amanda Hanson beautifully writes in her new book, Midlife Muse, “Envision a reality in which women consider their look and body shape to be the least interesting things about them. In which women spend their money in ways that expand and enhance their souls rather than on products and procedures that disguise their perceived flaws.” 

That’s what I’m talking about. 

So how do we create an environment where we all feel as if we have a place at the coveted table in a world that bombards us with messages that devalue our worth as we age? 

Hope and belief are excellent starting points because the only thing that can possibly hold us back is our own lack of courage, faith in ourselves, and a proper-fitting bra (Interchange with jock strap, if necessary). I think we should gather up the people in our lives who are safe, compassionate, and trustworthy. You know the ones. They don’t flinch when you’re a vulnerable mess. They move closer, grab you by the shoulders, whisper in your ear, “Don’t forget, you’re the plot twist no one expected.” 

People who boldly love themselves attract people who are also self-loving. Booyah!

These are the ones who look for the best in others and refuse to gossip, they celebrate each other’s victories, mourn each other’s pain, and fiercely protect one another. It doesn’t matter if you gather to discuss books, beliefs, or which cruise ships have the best buffets. 

Just show up.

The world needs sassy, strong, and competent elders who have a passion for leading, but a healthy social network also means you need to plan regular “play dates.”

The beginning of this journey starts with knowing and loving ourselves, just as we are, and curating a life spun from our wildest dreams. Richard Rohr says, when we learn to desire deeply, desire ourselves, desire God, and desire everything good, true, and beautiful. God, like nature, abhors all vacuums and rushes to fill them. 

Perhaps this is how we allow the first half of life to give birth to the second right smack in the midst of a noisy world, held by the hands of those who love us without conditions, repercussions, or judgment. It’s in those ever-expanding circles that we stop apologizing for existing, and trust me, no one has ever died wishing they had eaten less cake, spent more time scrubbing floors, or exfoliating.

So, buy the bamboo sheets and shimmery slippers, raise your voice, write your truth, dance when the urge strikes, forgive graciously, and foster the young. In other words, be the plot twist no one saw coming, because in this noisy, impatient, imperfect world, the bravest thing we can do is to age unapologetically, treat every wrinkle like a merit badge, celebrate our vintage as if a fine wine (it’s gotten us through much worse). Go ahead, be a little brazen, and get knocked up with a brand new self.

I’m Living in the Gap, looking for those special people, who want to age without apology! Maybe Dr. Amanda Hansen will join us!