Posted on by cheryloreglia

What’s all the hype about Hygge?


I went on Amazon to order a new bathroom scale (please reserve judgement), the one we were using was a wedding gift, and let me just say every morning my weight was a total surprise. There was a high to low range of twenty pounds or so, which affected not only my mood, but my attitude. It seemed defeating so I ordered a new digital model that guaranteed a precise weight each and every time. Ten seconds after I received the standard thank you for your purchase announcement Weight Watchers ads started appearing on my social media accounts. What the hell? I popped over to Facebook and found Jenny Craig lounging in my side bar!

I of course googled, “Why the hell are ads related to my searches appearing in my news feed?” It’s actually an ad exchange started by Facebook in 2012. The platform allows advertisers to target users with highly relevant ads based on their browsing habits. Why am I always the last one to the table (so to speak)? I decided to mess around with Big Brother, so I googled “how to win a hot dog eating contest,” I figured it went along with the scale theme, and immediately noticed a new link to food delivery services (that could be coincidence because I’m using Blue Apron currently and maybe they don’t want to lose me to Oscar Mayer) but it raised a few suspicions about the ramifications of my random searches. I also received an email announcing a new Bay Area Overeaters Anonymous group. How do they keep one anonymous when you join a group? Anyhoo…

This of course forced me to google “most comfortable walking flats for women with fat feet.” I actually need a new pair of shoes, my feet have widened with age, yes things tend to do that, something to do with gravity, and mass. It’s clearly mathematical so let’s not over think the issue. When Rothy ads started appearing in my news feed, I checked them out, and I’ll admit I ordered a pair. I know, I’m toast. Rothy now emails me three times a day. #NewBFF

Then I got practical, I need (Larry uses the word want) some new throws for the lake house. Something soft, plush, comfortable to snuggle up with on those cold winter nights. Nordstrom’s had the best selection but the interesting thing was this word Hygge that kept appearing in my searches. What is all the hype about Hygge? Apparently this is so last year but I had no idea, I was busy last year, definitely not searching for plush throws on the internet. 

Hygge is a feeling word (which got me all excited because I’m all about feelings), used by the Danish to suggest a cozy moment. Are you kidding? It doesn’t have to be an extraordinary moment, it could be that first cup of coffee in the early morning, wrapped up in a sorely needed soft throw, maybe a good book in your lap, or better yet, reading a blog. You get the picture.

Hygge (pronounced hue-guh not hoo-gah), is not achieved by adopting a lifestyle or learning how to do it. It’s a feeling. Larry says it’s not a valid term, but he’s not a big fan of extemporaneous emotions or emojis, so clearly not to be trusted. “You can’t buy a ‘Hygge living room’ and there’s no ‘Hygge foods’ to eat,” says Alex Beauchamp. If someone wants you to buy Hygge they don’t understand the word or are using it for selfish purposes.

Benjamin Franklin was Hygge way before his time, “Happiness consists more in small conveniences or pleasures that occur every day, than in great pieces of good fortune that happen but seldom.” 

I so want to be a Hyggelist! Apparently it requires consciousness, the ability to not only live in the moment, but recognize it’s gifts. I think I was born to promote this so last year’s cultural trend. I’m always late to the party but no use crying over spilt milk. I was buying bell bottom jeans when straight legs came in style and listening exclusively to Jane Oliver when the Eagles were popular. Let’s just move on.

The english words used to describe Hygge are cosiness, charm, happiness, contentment, security, familiarity, kinship, or simpleness. How did I ever miss this trend? This is what Living in the Gap is all about. I should simplify my title to Living Hygge. 

I read that the Danes created Hygge because they were bored to death during the cold, dark, winters. Ritualizing simple moments like brewing real tea with cinnamon, serving it in a porcelain tea cup, lighting lavender candles, putting fresh roses about the house, wearing lumpy socks, and snuggling up in front of a roaring fire with popcorn drizzled with Irish butter is all part of the Hygge movement. I’m so in.  

Well just like Santa Clause, it quickly became a trend, and moved west last year. I always say better late than never. So I think I’ll just scale down my activities, wear flexible walking shoes, drape the couches with soft throws, and incorporate a little Hygge in my life. God only knows what ads that will be showing up on my social media accounts? I suppose it’s not about creating these moments, but taking time to breath them in, and simply enjoy.




Let’s enjoy a little Hygge in the comments. What was your favorite Hygge moment today?

Posted on by cheryloreglia

The Closet

I’m not sure how or why it happened? But it did. I believe it has something to do with the liminal state I’m currently occupying, the space between grief and semi-recovery. Maybe that’s normalcy, not that anyone’s ‘technically’ normal, but I know it’s out there somewhere, more like a journey then a destination.

I feel like I’m teetering boldly on the edge of something new. Dare I say exciting? Sometimes I find it hard to contain my joy and then I remember the closet. The black hole in my life, dark, unavoidable, sucks you in like a vacuum. 

It has come to my attention that my Mom is as efficacious in heaven as she was in life. Along with reminding me to floss daily, she pushes me towards my nemesis, stubborn, heroic, obstinate as ever. Yeah, I get that from her, a good thing when battling Charles Schwab, not so good when used for procrastinating.

As we approach the quietus, the saliency of autumn, there is a sense of closure, or maybe harvest. Time to reap that which we have sown. Autumn comes as a procession, driving away the glorious colors of spring, allowing the splendor of cinnamon, rust, and amber to emerge. The sun will shift, the air will cool, and we will graciously lay the year to rest. ‘Graciously’ might be a stretch for me.

My sorrow, when she’s here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane. Robert Frost

I want to migrate like the birds, using the position of the sun as my guide, as if I could catch up with the past, and linger forever in the warmth of her presence. George Eliot says, “My very world is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.” But it is not to be, regardless of Einstein’s theory of relativity, life is linear, and this cosmology is impossible to change. Unless you become enlightened, not happening here, I am clinging to the illusions of maya. 

So here’s the problem, I’ve got one foot in the past, and the other wedged in the future. It’s hard to admit but my behavior has been deplorable lately, I have been shoving everything, literally and figuratively, into my closet, behind a door I can no longer open. I’m slightly ashamed of myself, partly forgiving, and no longer willing to live with the mounting evidence of my paralysis. The refusal to process, weed, let go of the past is debilitating.
This might help or make things worse. It’s a repetitive dream that keeps making the rounds. I think my brain is trying to process the situation, but when I fail to respond, it repeats like an annoying commercial. 

I feel myself soaring through the sky as a person (not a bird), trying to capture something illusive, it’s usually a kite, but the string keeps slipping through my fingers. I watch as it fades into the blueness of the sky. I feel powerless, inadequate, the only discernible emotion is impotence. I want to shake it off like a dog shaking water from his coat but I’m paralyzed. We’ll just let the psychoanalyst’s go to town with that one.
I like to call it praying but it’s more like ranting to God about my current state of affairs, I suppose God is listening, because she’ll shove someone in front of me, someone with a beating heart, and arms, arms so strong they can hold me together. I refer to these people as my gifts, they might feel differently, but I’m not responsible for how you “let me, help you, help me.” Life can certainly push one over the edge, ruthlessly I might add, “the pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails,” says William Arthur Ward. A ridiculous idea for someone like me. Adjust. #Hilarious. 

Laugh all you want, but it is becoming quite clear to me, after five arduous decades of life, that we are not a stagnant creation. (I’m slow, not your issue, be grateful.) One bite of the forbidden fruit and you’re gone, kicked out of the garden, and I’ve come to believe this is a good thing, serpent and all. A genesis. Eve so had it going. 

So why have I’ve been totally avoiding my closet all summer? I was afraid. I’m a rule follower. I was enjoying the safety of ignorance and lots of strong coffee. It totally worked for me. 

I don’t know what triggered it, but I’m finally ready to clean out the space where gravity is so strong, matter has been squeezed into a tiny space, aka. my closet. Time to weed through the layers of things that have chained me to the past, make room for the future, apparently swarming with possibility. Assume the best until proven wrong, that’s my theory, it works half the time. 

My world, style, shape, and size have all changed (I use those words figuratively), time to let go, allow the things I prefer a little space in my armoire, maybe keep the floor clear for new passage. The racks are full of clothes I never wear, the floors stacked with boxes of faded photographs, a chipped candy dish that once held fond memories, purses from my mom’s closet that I couldn’t allow to occupy that of another, favors from a shower I gave a decade ago, last seasons sandals, tarnished silver trays, and God only knows what. 

I piled it all in the closet until it seemed normal. 

The wait is over folks. I’m boldly tackling the debris in my life and preparing to move on, so if you need me, I’ll be clearing out the past, packing up the present, and preparing for the future (I have no idea who penned those lines but they’re perfect). “Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision,” the one and only Virginia Woolf. 

The brilliance of Autumn dulls compared to the colors of the future. “Be bold,” her Mama said, “or pick a new lipstick.”




Living in the Gap, drop in anytime, I’m always on call. 



Postscript: I’ve been crying a lot lately, we’ll just blame my sister, when her eyes water so do mine, even from a distance. Check out this new photo shoot of Nancy and I by the famous photographer Melissa Masinter of M & M Photography. We felt like movie stars, only a little less glamorous, and dainty.  

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 4 Comments

I’m No Mary Poppins

As my daughter Julie and her husband Nic prepare for an evening wedding in the city I prepare to manage all three of their kids, under the age of three, single handedly. No. You read that correctly. Calm down I brought wine. As I pull into the drive I realize I’m praying, not only for fortitude, but for the blessing of having to pray for fortitude. I put the concept of grace and grandchildren in the same category, both of God, both unexpected gifts of indescribable joy. 

Etta Hilesum says, “A desire to kneel down sometimes pulses through my body, or rather it is as if my body has been meant and made for the act of kneeling. Sometimes, in moments of deep gratitude, kneeling down becomes an over whelming urge, head deeply bowed, hands before my face.” Exactly, to be overcome with gratitude, is to be a Grammy.


I arrive with a pint of chocolate milk and a bomber of Sauvignon Blanc. I don’t know why but the word circus comes to mind when I enter the Jensen home. The image makes me smile. I dump my stash in the kitchen and notice the twins bobbling happily in a couple of those jumpy contraptions, Audrey is her own jumpy contraption, and Nic is pacing in front of the television, bemoaning the fact he will be missing the BYU-Utah game, still in shorts, and a bright red Utes shirt.

I kick off my shoes and do a little jig with Audrey. She says, “I a big girl now,” and lifts up her dress to show me her disney underwear. “Me too but my underwear is not as cute,” she giggles. The twins are like stereos, as soon as one starts fussing the other one goes off, but with an incremental increase in volume. I grab up the loudest one for obvious reasons, and try to keep Audrey from leaping back and forth from the couch to the ottoman like a kangaroo, but with much less skill. She is not exactly spatially aware and the television remotes go crashing to the floor. 

Julie yells from her room, “rotate them,” (I think she means the twins but I’m not sure) and goes back into the bathroom to dry her hair. This is when I notice all the fun stations she has set up around the room, like musical chairs, I move the twins to the floor mats equipped with rattles dangling from a cross bar, round mirrors, and weird little flaps that make these annoying scratchy noises when kicked. The twins seem enthralled. I feel so competent. 

Suddenly everything goes dark, apparently Julie’s hair appliance blew the main fuse, which includes the television. Nic is not pleased. I’m happily playing musical stations with the twins and not bothered in the least by the blank screen. In fact it significantly reduces the noise in the room. When did I get so old? Audrey continues jumping across the living room, pretending the floor is hot lava, and I’m pretty sure it was her left foot that knocked over the candle set, but it could have been her right. Is it five o’clock yet?

“If my game doesn’t get recorded because of your hair dryer there will be hell to pay,” Nic heads outside to fiddle with the circuits.

“Nic, I need to straighten my hair! Is the electricity back on?”

“Julie, I’m working on it,” there’s a hint of irritation in his tone.

I’m singing, “I’m a little teapot short and stout, here is my handle, here is my spout,” desperately trying to entertain the twins who are no longer interested in tummy time, “when I get all steamed up, hear me shout, just tip me over, and pour me out.” Total fail. Rotate. 

The kangaroo is hopping around, “I have to pee. I have to pee.” What the hell? The parents are still home and I’m barely managing. I try to maintain my sense of humor, comedy from chaos, how bad could it get? I had four kids, I got this, if only I remembered the duct tape.

Without warning the television comes back to life, a little shocking, the twins are not pleased. Nic checks the recording devise, explaining to me, “I don’t want you to think I’m a fanatic but I have never missed the BYU-Utah game in my entire life (not impressed, wait till you’re my age). Even as an infant I watched it with my grandma. I’ve gone to the games with my Dad ever since I can remember.”

“Nic, twenty minute warning,” Julie yells from the back of the house (such a mom thing).

I’m like, “Wait? You’re leaving?” Everyone ignores me.

She grabs one of the twins fussing in an infant seat and heads down to the nursery for a quick feeding. My confidence is rising like the tide because dealing with two kids instead of three is so doable. 

Audrey says, “Daddies don’t have boobies.”

“No they don’t, they come with remotes,” Nic grins.

Audrey continues perfecting her jumping skills, as I deftly catch a water bottle that went flying, but no one saw it, so you’ll have to take my word for it. 

Audrey says, “Grammy, let’s do my nails?” Is she kidding?

“Maybe later honey,” I’ve got Cora teetering on my hip as I attempt to move all glassware to the kitchen.

It takes Julie ten minutes to nurse Sienna and put her down for a nap. Grabbing Cora out of my arms she gives Audrey a five minute warning about “nap time.” Audrey attempts to negotiate terms as Julie disappears down the hall, “Ten minutes Mommy, chocolate milk now, and door open.” 

Julie responds, “Seven minutes, chocolate milk after your nap, and we’ll leave the door cracked (she really should have been a lawyer).” 

Audrey seems to believe this is a win. 

As if a miracle, Julie has all three girls down in a span of twenty minutes, and she runs to her room to slip on her dress. I don’t know how Nic managed, but I turn around, and he’s buttoning a recently ironed dress shirt. When did he have time for a shower? I’m still traumatized by the condition of the living room. I start shoving play stations into the corners of the room to create walking space. 

Before I have time to snap a pic of the two of them they’re getting in the car. In a hurry much? I sit down on the couch, toys, blankets, pacifiers be damned. Wow, it’s so quiet. That’s when I hear a knock at the front door. Julie forgot her water bottle. I cringe as the door slams. Two minutes later she’s back, she forgot the invitation with the address, door slams. Are you kidding? Obviously these two don’t get out much. Audrey peeks out of her room. 

“Honey, it’s still nap time,” she retreats back into her room. That was way too easy.

Three minutes pass, I’m afraid to move for fear I’ll wake one of them up, when I hear another knock at the door. Okay, this is not funny, I’m sweating now. I see Larry peeking through the window at the top of the door. For the love of God, if he wakes up one those babies, I will not be responsible for my actions. 

Of course he brought Shaggy (the dog I recently saved with half my yearly salary), perfect, I point my finger at him, “Do not make a sound, they are all down for naps.” Shaggy heads straight down the hall and butts his head up against the door to the twin’s room. I race down the hall as if I’m Flo-Jo and drag him away, he barks, I give him the look. “Put him out back Larry!”

Larry says, “I just finished all my chores, thought I’d come help,” he settles into the couch, “I could use a nap.” Really?

I can hear Audrey jumping around her room but for the moment she stays inside. The twins cry out every now and then, usually it’s a lost binki, I have to tiptoe in and find it. They take turns so every time I sit down the other one goes off. I hear Audrey talking to a make believe friend as I pass her door for the tenth time. Mr. Helpful is sound asleep. 

All is calm for the moment, I pull out my computer, but before I have time to finish a paragraph Audrey is done with her so called “nap.” The twins wake up fifteen minutes later. 

My poor bottle of Sauvignon is sweating it out on the counter whilst the little pint of chocolate milk takes center stage. It’s not as easy as it looks holding a wee one, while pouring milk into the narrow opening of a sippy cut, in the hands of a two year old, who has ants in her pants. We may have stained the carpet permanently. 

They all require feeding, cuddling, and soothing at the same time. This is not an easy job and I’m no Mary Poppins. I’m making bottles as fast as I can, Larry’s slicing up meat for Audrey, Shaggy’s positioned at her feet in case anything accidentally falls to the floor. Feed, burp, feed, burp, diaper change, musical stations. I’m starting to loose track of who’s who, “Is this Cora or Sienna?” Larry checks for the birthmark on the back of her leg (their only definable difference), “It’s Sienna.” I notice he has a full plate of food and a beer. #nothavingit #minirant #rotate

I somehow managed to make each of them cry at least once during the evening, it’s a soft talent, but I’m modest, and try to keep these accomplishments to myself. At one point I cried. Oh yes, I remember, it was when they all went to sleep. I hope Julie doesn’t mind the glitter I sprinkled on Audrey’s pillow so she would wake up in the morning and know that Grammy is her stardust. 

I finally opened that sweaty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, propped my feet up on the now dented ottoman, and experienced a moment of total grandparental bliss. As Doug Larson says, “few things are more delightful than grandchildren fighting over your lap,” well there’s that, and bedtime, both unexpected gifts of indescribable joy.





 I’m Living in the Gap, drop in anytime, we’ll swap stories. 
Posted on by cheryloreglia

When my Feet are Sore


She parks her car on the curb of a familiar street before dawn, unstraps her seatbelt, opens the door, and quietly walks across her neighbor’s lawn to the coiled hose by the front window. Her grip on the garden hose reflects her grief as she moves reverently into the street and washes away the blood of a beloved cat who had been hit by a car the day before. “The water washed away everything but the chance to begin again…” notes Brain Andreas.

She picks him up, no questions asked, and drives the streets of the city until the stars have time to calm him, and she knows he is ready to return. The closer they come to home the more he fidgets in his seat, and she instinctively knows his fear, “I will go in with you,” she said gently patting his bent shoulder. He is young, he choose wrong, and yet they are able to leave it behind on a long leisurely drive. No words, just time. They will laugh about it another day, together, maybe under the stars.

Dressed in old shirts and jeans, they arrive in the early morning with buckets, squeegees, window wash, and gracious smiles. An unexpected gift of dear friends who hope to brighten the occasion. It is graduation day and this home will soon be thriving with sixty some guests ready to celebrate a daughter’s accomplishments. They get to work, circling the house, clarifying the view one window at a time. Oh how different the future seems with clean portals in which to see the world. 

They arrive with bags of groceries, pyrex dishes, extra sets of hands, smiles, warmth, but mostly understanding for the new mom with identical twins. They wash produce, chop vegetables, create sumptuous meals, hold babies. For weeks they continue to serve, honoring her work as a mother, becoming part of these precious new lives. The weight of nurturing newborns is only bearable when we hold them together.

They keep coming, friends from her youth, family, neighbors, and loved ones. They keep coming with food, flowers, presence and care. They keep coming to spend time with their beloved who is so close to death that heaven now seems closer to them. They keep coming to break bread, sip tea, sit together on the foldout, laugh, and love one another. What they do not know is how they are holding the children, the caregivers, those weighted down with the grief of their love. They keep coming, giving so much more than they will ever know.

The child is young and troubled by the many traumas of life. Thank God for the man with arms strong enough to hold open the doors of time, with just enough space for the child to squeeze through, and move in a new direction. This kind of love is grounding, it allows the child to pick up the reigns, resume control, and move on. He trusts in the nature of the child, not the deed, and therefore the child is trustworthy. An immeasurable act of kindness, “what you do to the least of these you do unto me…” Jesus.

She kneels down in the evening, I picture her in the room they call living, eyes closed, heart open, a rosary swinging from her soft hands, as she moves into the familiar rhythm of prayer it happens. She feels the presence of the one she holds in prayer, the one she is bringing closer to God with her humility, and devotion. She does this repeatedly when her friends heart is so heavy that even prayer seems impossible. 

She gently cares for the one she exchanged vows with decades ago, a lifetime ago, when their limbs were strong, and life seemed full of possibilities. Oh how passionately they loved one another, the children who came to be, the work they pursued. The juggling of life takes precision and cooperation but it is enormously satisfying nonetheless. Today her spousal love is expressed during a ride to the doctor, a meal shared in the evening, but mostly in the gentle words of encouragement, like vows, shielding them from the ailments of this world. “In the end I think I will like that we were sitting on the bed, talking and wondering where the time has gone…” Brian Andreas

She has walked beside death more than anyone I know, beside children, siblings, parents, and friends. I believe she has one foot in heaven and the other in life because when you are with her she radiates love, not the kind in a hallmark card, the kind of love that surfaces from the ashes of deep grief. There is an essence about her, in the way she moves, always to serve, to heal, to witness. For I know not who I am if not for you. 

They land on the patio just in time to hold her above the grief that she is drowning in, with laughter, talk, and compassionate eyes, like human life preservers they keep her afloat. She hopes they don’t notice the grief she holds behind her eyes, it spills out onto the ground, but they just push it away with their feet. [adapted Brian Andreas] This is life, it ebbs and flows, mimicking our pain, but so much closer to our joy. 

The woman places the gift of an angel in a space she passes by each day, as a reminder, yet she has always known. They are sisters in life, not necessarily by blood, but by choice. They have listened to each other’s words, letting the ones without worth pass over, holding tight to that which has meaning. Faded pictures guard their history like centurions of time but that doesn’t explain the way they are entwined, the angel does.

There are times when I have no idea what comes next and it’s the thing I’ve come to love most about being alive, leaning to hear the invitation of each day and feeling my whole body melt when I say yes, yes, yes, perfectly penned by Brian Andreas. Sometimes life wears me out, but I keep walking, even when my feet are sore. We want to give the people we love something of value but the truth is our acts of love are as priceless as a foot rub.

These actions are “deep virtues of kindness, of goodness, of curiosity, and enjoyment,” says Padraig O’ Tuama, “but they contain something that is actually a vessel of deep safety and community.” We don’t always agree on things, in fact we commonly have radical discussions, where we end up agreeing to inhabit the space between our differences, but always I have these acts of love in my back pocket, and those speak so loudly, I can not hold onto our differences. 

Padraig O’ Tuama says, “There’s a beautiful phrase from West Kerry where you say, ‘Mo sheasamh ort lá na choise tine,’ ‘You are the place where I stand on the day when my feet are sore.’ And that is soft and kind language, but it is so robust. That is what we can have with each other.” There are layer upon layer of stories to be told, I hope you find yourself in one of those mentioned above, and know that you are loved.

Help me to be less fearful of the measure of time, and more fully alive in the time that simply is. Help me to live time, not just to simply use it; to breathe it in, and return it in acts of love and presence. Avis Crowe


I’m Living in the Gap, drop in anytime, share a few radical acts of love in the comments.