Posted on by cheryloreglia · 48 Comments

Empty Pepper Grinders and Missing Pieces

Warning, this post contains impolite language, do not read out loud if children are present.

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?” Kurt Vonnegut [obviously the policemen]

I know things are bad when it takes me three weeks to drum up the energy to refill the pepper grinder. I think I like the idea that it remains as empty as I feel. 

I read somewhere that depression and winter are an even worse combination than orange juice and toothpaste, it seems oddly applicable to my current conundrum.

When the juices of inspiration dry up and there’s nothing to say I usually hunker down and listen to my muse but today she remains stubbornly silent.

Bitch.

Yes, I’m in that kind of mood. It could be worse. 

This might have something to do with seasonal depression, which seems more prevalent than Omicron, and they’ve yet to develop a vaccine. Or it could be my peppery roommate? It’s a toss-up but I’m betting the familiar face takes the win. 

I hear plant lights help. And wine.

In my mind, there is nothing in my life worth noodling about, in fact, not one potential topic has courted me in days, it’s as if I need a dating coach because believe me, nothing is swiping up.

Have you ever felt that way?

I realize I’m in a funk. One way to get past the blockage is to walk. I put down 20,000 steps the other day. Nothing. The mood prevails and I’m left with sore calves and a hangover. 

I know, first-world problems.

Is writing about writer’s block the best I can do?

I feel rather small, the keyboard appears as big as a piano, and I shrink away from the enormity of an instrument I have no idea how to play. 

Here’s the other thing, I have promised twenty thousand words to my editor by February first, and I have only written one sentence. Specifically: Well past her expiration date, she was left unrefrigerated, fermenting on the counter, her essence now sour, spoiled, and yet some would say cultured.

My editor will surely love that line.

A few days later I’m having coffee with my sister Nancy, as I’m grousing about my woes, I throw in some talk about the essays I’m considering for the collection.

She listens, nods her approval every few minutes as if a Priest, but when she stifles a yawn, I realize I’m not in a confessional, and I’m putting her to sleep. Really? So I say, “okay, let’s do something productive, I need a cool title.”

She says, “I thought it was called Living in the Gap.”

“I did too but then Tony (my older son) suggested I come up with something a little more provocative, memorable, less boring. 

“Rude.”

“I know, but he’s right, remember the book that came out for new parents a few years back, I think it was called, Go the Fuck to Sleep? The title alone put the book on the bestseller list but it was also funny as hell.”

“Well, it’s memorable, I’ll give you that.”

“It jumped off the shelves, but I don’t think my readers would buy a book entitled The Fucking Gap or better yet A Pussy Past Her Prime.”

Nancy gasps and says, “Mom and Dad are probably hovering over us right now, and believe me they’re having a hissy fit.”

“No way. They’re lounging on some puffy cloud laughing so hard they’ll have to change their depends.”

“Cheryl Lynn, that’s horrible, no one pees in heaven.”

“Now that’s a good title.”

“Good Lord.”

“I know, I’m in a mood, let’s toss around some ideas.”

After using the total sum of our mutual intelligence, we came up with a list of sup par titles, but it’s a start:

  • Is It Something I said? (always)
  • Overselling Joy (never)
  • Sleeping in the Gap (that was Nancy’s)
  • Hunting For White Crow (as in something very rare)
  • I Didn’t Trip, I’m Living in the Gap (aging issues)
  • A Bold Leap to Nowhere (too Star Trekish?)
  • Every Flight Begins With a Fall (metaphorically speaking)
  • Who Ate My Breadcrumbs? (lost much)
  • Shooting the Shit (it’s what we do)
  • Stop Rattling My Cage (hints of Larry)
  • Crows, Cliches, and Other Controversies (sounds like a government report)
  • No One Pees In Heaven (Nancy’s big contribution)
  • A Pussy Past Her Prime (now that might be the one)
  • I’m open to feedback or a good scolding. Flood the comments with your brilliant ideas.

Well, we had a good crow about our intriguing and controversial titles before Nancy pulls out her phone and orders us some lattes. 

Nancy says, “it’s time to change things up, shake you out of this sully mood, let’s go antiquing.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Mackenzie, Nancy, and I pile in my car, pick up our coffees, and as if it were inbred, we head to the coast. 

Jumping on Highway 17, we snake our way to Soquel, Nancy has a place in mind she wants to check out. As we edge closer to the ocean, it’s as if the fog lifts, and I can feel my entire body relax. This is why it’s imperative I live in a coastal state. It’s where I go when I’m in need of healing.

It’s as if the salvific waters have palliative powers, washing away my doubts, bringing resuscitating waves of oxygen to this breathless soul. In my case, it acts as a defibrillator, an electric current straight to the heart.

The antique store was divine, full of cluttered, dusty, pieces from the past just waiting to be repurposed. I’m not sure where this love of antiques came from, I’m inclined to blame my parents, but Nancy and I absolutely adore rummaging through dented and disposed of trinkets, hoping to find that missing piece.

Okay, the truth is, I found several missing pieces that are essential to my sense of completion, Nancy’s puzzle seems more finalized, she prefers looking over buying. Clearly, Larry married the wrong sister. 

I found this darling little sign, you can never have too many of those, it says Keep the Water in the Tub. You’ll understand if you’ve met my grandchildren. I also purchased a charming towel holder for the refurbished bathroom and a nightlight for the lakehouse in the shape of a sailboat. 

I know, I know, it makes me want to pirouette too.

We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure, but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of the world says Jack Gilbert. Now that’s what I’m talking about!

Mackenzie was quite taken by a ceramic blue cross which she delighted in bringing home to decorate her already cluttered room. The concept of simplicity of lost on some people, and yes, I’m projecting.

Stashing our finds in the back of the car we head to another establishment in Scott’s Valley that has even more delectable, dusty outcasts for our perusal. I’ve been looking for a set of eight Dorthy Thorpe wine glasses ever since I saw some in Palm Dessert while shopping with Claudie and Jan. I was immediately enamored with the vintage style and thought they would be charming with my Mom’s china. 

Come to find out they’re as rare as a good muse.

Obviously, my luck is about to change, I call it a sign, but Nancy says it’s her astonishing ability to locate the best antique stores in town. 

Regardless, I almost missed them, they were stacked in the back of a deep shelf, behind a striking set of whiskey tumblers embossed with ducks. I had to kneel down, as if in prayer, when I found myself staring at a set of seven Dorthy Thorpe wine glasses, in perfect condition, monogrammed with the letter S. And the best part, there was a plant light right next to them, shining its light on this particular collection of vintage glass. Mom and Dad much?

Can you believe it? 

I almost bought them (the glasses not the plant light) because my mother’s maiden name was Severance, but with monumental willpower, I pass them up. I need eight and the S is clearly not an O, but still, it’s a sign. (Gail, let me know if you’re interested)

See, I can be as resolute as Nancy, sometimes I even say no to those Amazon daily deals, and second helpings at the dinner table. Hey, I can always go back if I change my mind. 

On the way home, as we’re shooting the shit, my mother-in-law calls, she says, “didn’t know if your husband gave you a heads up, but we’re coming over to watch the game, I’m bringing wine and snacks.” 

“That sounds like fun Nana, and no Larry didn’t mention it to me, thanks for letting me know. I’m coming over the hill from the coast, I’ll be home soon.”

After dropping Nancy and Mackenzie at their house, I drive the seven miles to my own home, hoping to clean up the kitchen before our guests arrive. As I’m loading the pepper grinder I think about the trinkets now stashed in my closet. 

I can’t help but smile, life is like that, the things you love, cherish, fuss over for forty years, somehow end up in an antique shop, only to be purchased by the lady who was searching for answers, who feels small, who needs not the thing, but the love left like dust on its surface. I suppose that’s true for relationships too, they’re precious when imbued with love, our last dance with immortality if you will, the memory of which is all that remains. 

I’m Living in the Gap, putting out a plea, please leave the name/s of your favorite posts in the comments. This is not a request, it’s mandatory, and what about those titles? 

Check this out even if you’re not into writing it sheds a little light in the darkness: 10 Ways to Banish the Writing Blahs by Colleen M. Story

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

Standing on the Parking Lot of Life

“Sometimes we are so busy looking up and looking forward trying to figure out the next moves in our lives – or looking backward at all the places we have been – that we don’t look down and figure out where we actually are.” Bob Goff

The Return

As we pull into the parking lot of Larry’s and my first apartment off SW Murry Boulevard in Beaverton, Oregon, 38 years melt away, and suddenly we’re 23, newlyweds, standing in the parking lot of our new home, with our entire life ahead of us, but we have no idea how this joint venture will engulf us, as if Jonah in the whale, only to be released nearly 40 years later, spit out where it all began.

You know me, I’m subjected by my own impulses, as I wrestle with these polarized versions of myself, one wrinkled, one freshly pressed…both forged from the same fabric.

Ahead of us lay decades of good and bad decisions we’ve yet to make, children we’ve yet to create, friends we’ve yet to meet, abundant opportunities we’ve yet to encounter, and then there’s the thing we didn’t know. 

In November of 1983, we were returning from our honeymoon in Puerta Vallarta, Mexico. We landed in San Jose, drove to the Northwest with my in-laws, as we were planning to gather in Chehalis, Washington the next day to open our wedding gifts now stored at my parent’s home. 

After years of our parents trying to keep us out of the same bed, we’re suddenly allowed to sleep together. That was sort of mind-blowing. Our first night in our first home as a married couple, would be spent with my in-laws in the next room, slumbering on a fold-out bed, with mismatched sheets, Larry and I giggling into our pillows.

The good old days. 

Stepping out of the car in 2022 I stare at the small apartment complex and try to remember which unit was ours? 

Larry makes his way confidently up the sidewalk, I follow (story of my life), arriving at the very back of the building, gazing up a single flight of stairs, the threshold to our new life comes into view. Apartment number 4808, images of passing through that portal assage my mind, both casual and ceremonial, joyful and piqued, but always with the energy and enthusiasm of youth. 

Everything was different, but nothing had changed, as if we’ve been incarnated into another womb.

After walking all over the dilapidated property, checking out the pool that froze solid in December of 83, we concluded the general condition of the building was well past its prime, not unlike ourselves. 

Driving the streets of our little town, remembering the breakfast joints we frequented, the places we shopped for groceries, I can’t help but acknowledge these memories are shrouded in a veil of innocence. It was the final weeks of 1983, as the wise men drew closer to the baby in the manger, we began our life as one, naively optimistic, unsullied as a newborn.  

Forging ahead with very little life experience, money, or imagination we made our fair share of interesting decisions, but as I’ve noted before, the best thing about the past is it’s the past. 

I admit I’m overly obsessed with the rearview mirror if you will, but as you know the images appear larger than the reality, and for that reason alone I believe the past should be properly disposed of, don’t you?

The Burial

Let’s consider it a moral act of bravery, an act that not only releases us from the umbilical cord of yesterday but entombs those decisions in the past, because clearly if those corpses never receive a proper burial, no words spoken on their behalf, no prayers offered for their eternal rest, they’ll haunt you. Seriously.

I could have been… 

I should have done…

I would now be…

What the hell was I thinking…

The thing is, like many of us, my world has always been envisioned with a heavy Judaio – Christian influence. You know what I mean? It’s how I made sense of things, this philosophy claims there are no arbitrary events, everything that happens is part of a plan, it happens for a reason, and that alone belongs to God. Susan Sontag puts it this way, “every crucifixion must be topped by a resurrection, every disaster or calamity must be seen either as leading to a greater good or else as just and adequate punishment fully merited by the sufferer.” Damn that girl was brilliant. 

But honestly, I’ve come to believe this is a rather restrictive, naive, parochial view of our glorious, but imperfect world. Is it wrong? I don’t know. I question the validity that every hardship is intrinsic to “the greater good” in a free-range world, because, unlike chickens, I think we build our own cages. 

Decisions are consequential by nature, some more than others, even the most insignificant ones can be far-reaching. I’m not smart enough to delineate the purpose and meaning of life, but at my age, you start seeing patterns. Patterns in our decision making, patterns in the consequences of our decisions, patterns in our communication, and it doesn’t matter whether we’re deciding on dinner options, a new sofa, or the outcome of an argument, there’s a pattern to our thinking, an equation if you will, and can I just say I’m always right. Bahaha.

I’ve noticed how suffering is derived from selfish decisions, but pleasure is different, it springs from a genuine giving of the self, as in marriage, sex, forgiveness, food preparation, even charity, but more importantly, it seems to be the crux of all our relationships, including the relationship we have with ourselves. 

Ironically, Larry and I are in Portland, Oregon for the wedding of our dear friend’s son Christopher to a lovely woman named Emily, and they will be starting their life in the rugged Northwest, just as we did. I consider that a good omen. 

The Trip Down Memory Lane

We arrive a day early so Larry and I can make a nostalgic trip to Chehalis, Washington, where my parents lived for over forty years, where parts of my father’s ashes are scattered, and memories of my beloved Mom and Dad are so intertwined with the landscape I feel myself unraveling with each mile. 

Our children spent a lot of time in the Northwest, we made the trip several times a year to hang out at the family homestead on Donahoe Road. Eleven acres of heavily forested land located on the edge of town, surrounded by fields of corn and peas, with a meandering creek that made it feel as if we were existing in a fairytale.

Driving all over town in our rental car, we check out Dad’s old factories, the kid’s playground, the movie house, Mom’s church, the Elk’s Club, downtown, the old hotel later made into apartments, the vintage library on the hill, even the Rib Eye Steak House with their famous peanut butter pie. 

The present rarely matches up with the version we hold of the past, even if the changes are subtle, they can be catastrophic to our treasured memories. Let me just say, it wasn’t the same, it was shockingly different, and I feel as if the levy between past and present has been forged.

The Present

Early the next morning, at the Residence Inn in downtown Portland, we slip into our sweats, and walk the streets of Portland, trying to understand the destruction and carnage of this beautiful waterfront downtown. It’s painful to witness the disfigurement of once-thriving cafes, storefronts, and offices. I understand the importance of protest, how change happens, how the rights of the victim must be rectified, claimed, fought for, but the aftermath of destruction is disturbing, often cloaking the message in violence.

Maybe it is from these very ashes that change will ultimately arise? I don’t know, but as my kids say, I’m old, biased in many ways, less malleable as I age, but alas isn’t that my inherent value? 

I’m predictable. 

One of the highlights of this weekend was all the time we were able to spend in the presence of old friends, as Jill said, “it’s so rare we have an entire day together, makes me tear up remembering the laughter and joy on the faces of my dearest friends, gathered at the local sports bar, cheering on the 49er’s.” 

The Ride

Speaking of poignant observations, our Uber ride to the wedding was rather bizarre, and a little disconcerting. Steve and Jill order up a ride via their phone, we’re running a tad late, and our anxiety is gathering momentum as if the beginning of the Grand Prix. The ride finally pulls up to the curb and the four rush to infiltrate the economy-sized car. The first thing I notice is the upholstered seats are covered in birdshit, then I hear an actual bird chirping, as we hesitantly cram ourselves into the rancid interior. 

The wedding starts in ten minutes and our options are severely limited.

Larry squeezes into the front seat, knees practically in his chest, while Steve, Jill, and I gingerly perch ourselves on the back seat, traumatized by the live bird actually sitting on the driver’s head. Yes, that’s not a typo, there is a lime green bird sitting on a pile of matted hair, chirping as if it had not a care in the world. Thank God it was only a three-minute ride and we exited the car as quickly as possible. No tip!

Later that evening as Larry is extrapolating about his extraordinary observation skills, we find ourselves in a deep discussion about the strangest Uber rider ever.

Steve says, “what about that bird?”

Larry says, “what bird?” 

Jill, Steve, Cheryl, in unison, say, “seriously?”

“I didn’t see any bird, I was just worried about all the birdshit and feed scattered all over the car.”

I say, “There was a bird sitting on the driver’s head, not twelve inches from your face?”

“I never saw it.”

“FBI” 

I get the look (patterns).

The Wedding

The wedding venue is gorgeous, a combination of charming brick archways, old beams, stunning flower arrangements, with an appealing industrial feel. We are greeted by an attentive staff who warmly invites us into the space, offering us refreshing adult beverages as we relax, and enjoy the company of those gathered for this momentous but intimate event. 

The ceremony is captivating, moving, pivotal to the future Chris and Emily are envisioning. As the bride and groom bask in the glow of marital bliss, it seems as if their life is an oyster, just waiting to be opened! We spend the evening not only witnessing the vows of young love but listening to heartfelt speeches as family and friends lift their glasses to the newlyweds. Honored to be a part of their nuptial celebration we sip good wine, break bread, and express our joy on the dance floor. 

The Synopsis

But here’s the thing they don’t know, the thing that took me years to absorb, the thing I struggle to fully embrace.  

Our choices matter, the past can not be repurposed, what I choose to do on a daily basis is a revelation of what I value, and what I deem as worthy of my time. Opportunities are time-sensitive, they appear randomly throughout our life, as if a banquet laid out before us, what we choose either nourishes us or depletes us. 

Oh, how I abhorred cutting the cord to my childish ways, adopting a more magnanimous approach to life, but the one thing maturity has to offer aside from the obvious, is a broader perspective, a birdseye view if you will. To interpret our history is maybe to impoverish it, a depletion of sorts, one that attempts to make us more comfortable with our choices. The truth is we’re all standing in the parking lot of life, looking for the portal to our dreams, and crossing that threshold should always be ceremonial.

I’m Living in the Gap, between past and future, because that is all we have. Join me in the comments! 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 41 Comments

Let’s Charge 2022

Because I want my money back if it doesn’t work out!

I want to talk about the most misunderstood word in the world, appetite, one that happens to be essential to our health, happiness, and well-being.

My Mom used to say, “once on the lips, forever on the hips,” she was speaking about the consequences of appetite, something women have been traditionally groomed to deny.

In one of the largest surveys of its kind to date, nearly 30,000 women told researchers at the University of Cincinnati College of Medicine that they’d rather lose weight than attain any other goal, a figure that alone suggests just how complicated the issue of appetite can be for women.

This is the primary female striving?

The appetite to lose appetite?

In fact, Caroline Knapp says “I suspect the opposite is true: that the primary, underlying striving among many women at the start of the millennium is the appetite for appetite: a longing to feel safe and secure enough to name one’s true appetites and worthy and powerful enough to get them satisfied.”

It’s 2022 and what we need is a healthy appetite, not a new diet. It took me two weeks to figure out I’m a carnivore, not a rabbit, and like Jesus, I prefer wine to water. It took me six decades to realize my appetites are connected, deny one, you deny the other.

I’m obsessed with appetite, anxious when we’re apart, better when we’re together as if coffee and cream.

As women (men too) we have been starving ourselves for far too long, it’s time to identify our true appetites, and feed them! This is key to establishing a thriving future, one that nourishes both our physical and spiritual hunger.

That’s what I’m talking about, an appetite for life, naming the things we are passionate about, because if we love our aspirations as if the Velveteen Rabbit, they become real.

Privation is the cause of appetite, especially when we deny our potential, when we are starved for purpose and avail. Okay, and cake pops.

As the new year spreads itself over our world as if frosting on a cake pop, sprinkled with the leftover confetti from New Year’s Eve, I feel as if I have the world on a stick, and I marvel at her sweet appeal.

Am I the only one who has spent an inordinate amount of time considering the particular bite I would like to savor this year?

I want a finished manuscript, a new mentor, and help with marketing. What do you desire?

It’s been noted a time or two that I have a tendency to bite off more than I can chew, leaving endless possibilities languishing on the stick if you will, as I choke down the excessive nosh I consumed in a fit of greed.

It’s not unlike the overly ambitious resolutions I’ve lost my appetite for, by mid-January, our stomachs (in this capacity) are not meant to be graveyards, they’re crucibles, from which we prosper.

I’m starting to realize the things I feast on not only need to appeal but sustain me because they form the body of my life.

I hope the metaphor is not walking around naked, lost, and alone in the margins of this essay.

My Appetites form the body of my life.

That’s what I’m talking about, an appetite for the possibilities only you can bring to the table because there’s only one you! I think there is a great longing within each of us. We long to discover the secrets and mysteries of our individual lives, to find our unique way of belonging to this world says, Bill Plotkin.

Booyah!

Sadly, as I age, I find myself acting more like a scaredy-cat than the lioness I am meant to be. I worry about the speed at which time is passing and I’m afraid I won’t have time to recover if I fail.

This year I’m forcing myself to let that catnip go because the truth is I’m more disappointed about the things I leave on the plate than the tasteless ones I tackle with ease.

Safety is only beneficial when you’re serving pufferfish, elderberries, or red kidney beans, everything else can be slightly undercooked, seasoned the way you want, and spicey as hell.

What I want from this year are new flavors, textures, experiences to explore. What I’ll need to accomplish this is a willingness to confront uncertainty, my own ignorance, especially the things I fear.

Fear, I’m sort of sick of this seasoning, arent’ you?

You’re not alone in your desires to get beyond the restrictions, the masks, and the airline snafus.

I don’t want to spend the entirety of 2022 in the double-wide chair, nestled in the corner of the room, covered in a fur blanket, head bent over a computer. Who am I kidding? That is exactly where I want to be…OCCASIONALLY.

What is the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result. If I want this year to be different I have to embrace the unexpected, step away from the familiar, be open to encounters that God willing, might transfigure the banal into the brilliant.

I believe that has to do with taking on a new vision, one that will ignite my appetite for more novel, imaginative, avant-garde experiences. And this year I’m not doing it alone.

It sounds as if I’m describing a tandem biking experience, it’s because I am, but I’m also talking about a small team of people known to me as the Gecko’s who have been lifting me up, promoting my work, and feeding my appetite for the last two years. We connected at a workshop offered by Seth Godin and we’ve been meeting weekly via Zoom ever since.

We come from all over the globe, Canada, Singapore, Australia, Northern California, Southern California (a world all its own), Washington D.C., and the Midwest. We have writers, crafters, painters, contractors, film producers, podcasters, kindness organizers, and screenwriters, and although we utilize different forms of artistry, we all have an appetite for creativity.

What we discovered in each other is magic or as Tasha has labeled it “the secret sauce of the great geckos,” and it flavors everything we hope to offer the world.

This year make it your goal to find your people, form a new tribe, invite a few like-minded, or disputatious souls over for coffee, or join you on a weekly Zoom. I’m talking about people you trust, respect, individuals who can hold each other accountable, offer resources, brainstorm strategies for invigorating a hearty appetite. Because appetite is a profoundly social impulse says, Bee Wilson.

We’re not the sous chef here, we’re the head chef, the administrator, the creative force of our lives if you will. We can be selective, because we control what comes out of our kitchen, and this makes all the difference.

There’s a secret ingredient, I’ll get to it eventually, but you know how I struggle to get to the point.

I remember visiting Boston when Kelley first moved there, we spent a weekend exploring the sites, especially the restaurants and bars. Almost every establishment had a sign posted near the entry claiming to be “The Best” as in the best cannoli, best-baked beans, best lobster rolls, best clam chowder, best cream pie, the best experience.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, they were good, but the best? Why is that so important?

That’s when it hit me, I don’t have to be the best at everything I do, perfectionism is so overrated, it’s the desire to avoid failure dressed in, well, red socks. Bahaha

We have to find the courage, competence, and cunning to charge full speed into 2022, not looking over our shoulder, not comparing ourselves to others, but as if Captain Kirk, “boldly going where no woman has gone before.”

It’s why we’re here, in this space and time, doing whatever it is that is authentically you.

I’m sure of it.

Simon Parke says creativity is an act with no rivals, no opposition, no vying for position; and while applause is nice – it calms our ego – it is secondary, maybe thirdly… fifthly. You create in the way only you can, and with what only you have…and that is enough.

I love that.

We’re standing on the edge of a new year, it’s cold where I am, my beloved mountain is shrouded in thick fog, with the skeletal branches of a fruitless mulberry blowing in the wind, but I know what’s lies beyond the fog. The possibilities are endless, and although we might feel delineated by a pesky pandemic, our only limitation is our imagination.

How do we get started?

Do one thing, every day, that feeds your ambitions, desires, appetites. Take one small bite, savor it, lose yourself in the flavors, and you’ll be amazed how the tiniest forward momentum creates a vacuum. It draws the universe into its vortex, suddenly just the person you need shows up, the missing information arrives in your inbox, your older sister knocks on the door, charges into the kitchen, and says “Mangia.”

From experience, I can say it doesn’t matter if your sister, your mom, spouse, or best friend says let’s eat, that’s your invitation. It’s time to cook, slap on an apron, get a little messy. It’s okay if you fail because that is where deep learning takes place.

Parke says “we find that our courage has friends who wish to play; find ourselves hugged by the journey, in merry conversation with the adventure, which once looked rather lonely.”

The thing is you can’t fail unless you refuse to move from where you are to where you want to be.

My word this year is “CHARGE,” not as in charging Larry’s credit card (which of course we will do), but charging headfirst into 2022 and owning it.

The secret ingredient is embedded in the truth of your being, it’s incomparable, imperfectly perfect, and it happens to be just what the world needs.

I’m Living in the Gap, feeding my appetite, join me!

Anecdotes:

“It’s better to write something, anything, than to starve the monster. The monster must feed. And it will feed on your soul if not your words. Its appetite is insatiable. Write to save yourself from the monster.” Don Roff

“You must allow your free-will to roam as freely as you want and delve deep into your dreams. Never limit yourself nor live according to the appetite of someone else.” Mwanandeke KindemboRichard Powers

“The job of taste was to thin the insane torrent of human creativity down to manageable levels. But the job of appetite was never to be happy with taste.” Richard Powers

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 31 Comments

He says, “Trust Your Husband.”

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!” Hunter S. Thompson

The aftermath of Christmas is not unlike bringing a newborn home, there are the sleepless nights (overindulging on Netflix much), people in need calming (as the bills come in), and for reasons unknown, the laundry room is full of soiled garments?

Am I the only one?

So out of these domestic affairs, Larry says early one morning, “pack a bag, honey, we’re going on a ride.” And by ride, he means as in the Flintstones, where my feet are actually what power the vehicle. In this case, we’re talking about a tandem bike, the Christmas gift I somehow got roped into, the thing that has become our 2022 linchpin, along with padded biking pants (like my butt wasn’t big enough), and riding gloves.

“Wait a minute, my weather app says a storm is coming in later today and tomorrow, and I’m not keen on riding in the rain.”

“If we leave by 9:00 (mind you it’s currently 6:45 am) I think we’ll just make the window.”

“The window?”

“Yes, as in we’ll ride in between the two storms.”

“It’s rather cold and windy don’t you think?” The truth is I’m snuggled in my warm bed, fire softly burning, contemplating my next post. I would prefer to remain in this state of utter bliss for the next several hours, after which I plan to exercise on my stationary bike (not in a storm) and maybe organize the fish bathroom, spruce up the kitchen. I know…gives me the shivers.

Speaking of shivers, he says, “Yeah, you’ll need gloves and a warm jacket.”

Out of curiosity, I say, “What exactly am I packing for? And where are you (emphasis on you) planning on riding?” I think those are fair questions given the circumstances.

“Half Moon Bay. I booked us a room, the hotel is right across from the beach, our balcony actually faces the ocean. The paved trail we want to catch runs right in front of the hotel. It’ll be the perfect practice ride for our Palm Springs trip.” (Larry signed us up for a 50-mile ride in the desert in February, which seemed miles away in 2021, but inches closer as if a tarantula.)

Here I’m visualizing a warm fire, endless cups of coffee, reading a few pages from the book Seth recommended, a novel so important it has the capacity to change the trajectory of the entire world. The one that came in the mail two weeks ago and I’m still on page seven (Seth Godin’s post linked here).

As G.K. Chesterton claims, an adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered. Interesting, don’t you think? Adventure and inconvenience appear in both statements, like marriage, they’re a pair.

I say, “So we’re spending the night?”

He says, “Yes, and there’s a great restaurant we can walk to for dinner.”

“So I’ll need heels and a dress?”

“It’s casual, you can wear your biking pants if you want.”

“I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Don’t I know it, hey, I’m going for a ride with Stu, be ready to head out by the time I get back.”

“You’re going for a ride before our ride?”

“Yes, a warm-up.”

“A refill before you go,” I hold up my coffee mug.

When he returns with the hot mug of Jo I lean back into my pillows and consider falling back asleep. I mean he’ll be gone at least an hour or two. I’m not washing my hair just so I can stuff it into a bike helmet all day, sweating, and windblown. I calculate a five-minute shower, slipping into my biking pants, throwing on a couple of warm shirts, my ski coat, tennis shoes, and gloves in less than ten minutes. I can pack a pair of jeans and a sweater for dinner, a toothbrush, sunscreen, some earrings, and my adorable booties.

In my mind, I’m done, so I relax, knowing I could be ready in 15 minutes tops.

Relaxing back into my pillows I grab my new book and return to my musings on page seven.

That’s when I hear the door open? What the hell? Has it already been an hour? Shit! It’s been over an hour. My how time flies when you’re relaxing for the first time all damn year (granted it’s only the 2nd of January, but still)!

Larry blasts into the room, bringing the cold air with him, he says, “well, I can see you’re ready to go.”

“That was a fast ride?” I say as I scramble out of bed knocking a pile of folded laundry off the hope chest at the end of the bed.

“Not really, it’s been over an hour, and by the way, we’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“Stop for coffee’s on the way out?”

“If you hurry.”

When it comes to coffee I can be quite motivated. Showered, geared up, and packed in mere minutes. It may have seemed longer to Larry, but he’s a type A, he doesn’t understand time as I do. It’s not an exact science, time follows my schedule, not the other way around.

He had to take both the wheels off the bike to get it in the car, the contraption has a massive frame, we had to put our bags on top, helmets on the floor, while my boots got thrown under the wheels.

The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experiences says Eleanor Roosevelt.

There’s wisdom in that statement, I just can’t find it?

Arriving in Half Moon Bay we’re lucky to find our room at the Ocean Front Hotel is ready and we don’t have to leave our belongings in the car. The hotel is what I would call unique, to say the least, the word funky comes to mind. Larry was right, it’s located right along the coast, literally the waves are crashing not twelve feet away. The entire building is elevated by gigantic cement stilts, as it appears the tides wash up on occasion and can just flow right through the building. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen tonight.

The structure is old and fairly dated but I am charmed by all the trinkets and paraphernalia the owner Ann has stashed all over the place. The lobby is full of surprises, a coffee bar was set up in the corner, all for free, a snack area by the front desk fully stocked with fruits, beverages, wine, and nuts. There’s an old dusty bookcase stuffed with classic novels from floor to ceiling and on every available surface are nautical doohickeys that are somehow pleasing to the eye.

Our room, named the Carmel, is gorgeous and I can’t stop gloating over the fact the floors are heated. The spacious room is anchored by a beautifully dressed king-sized bed, a small balcony overlooking the ocean, with two large windows that let in soothing light, and a cozy gas fireplace for even more ambiance. The jacuzzi tub in the bathroom looks brand new, it buts up against a glass shower, double sinks, and the floors are heated in here too. In the closet two vintage robes hang on wooden hangers, one grey, one pink.

Adorable.

I’m barely able to use the facilities when Larry is chasing me out the door so we can put the bike together and get on with our ride.

Putting the wheels back on the bike is not as easy as taking them off, it never is, but we manage with a fair amount of cussing, straining, and complaining. Before I could remark about the shockingly cool temperature we were on the bike and making our way along the mesmerizing coast.

The trail is nicely paved, but apparently, everyone else had the same idea, and maneuvering our huge monster bike past groups of walkers and other bikers is tricky. I’m on the back, I can’t see anything in front of me as my view is blocked by Larry’s back. I have to depend on him to warn me about what’s coming up verbally, when I’m supposed to glide, when to lean into a sharp turn, etc.

Let’s just say it’s a work in progress.

The responses we get from the people we pass on the trail are hysterical. One couple felt the need to yell out, “we used to have one of those.”

Larry slows the bike to say, “yeah, how did you like it?”

The wife says, “it didn’t work out for us, I couldn’t stand being on the back, no control. We sold the tandem, we’re much better riding our own bikes, at least we’re still married.”

The husband says, “this woman is particularly difficult, you’ll be fine, trust your husband.”

I yell back, “he keeps telling me control is an illusion,” I hear them laughing as we round the bend.

After about six or seven smooth miles, I find myself marveling over the beauty of the ocean, the charming houses docked along the path, the flora and fauna, the sun warming my back. I’m silently overflowing with gratitude for the opportunity to experience this exquisite scenery, when suddenly the topography changes, as in life, things get turbid.

Just beyond the pine trees, the trail is no longer paved, in fact, we find ourselves riding on a bog. It’s wet, extremely muddy, and not easy to maneuver this monstrosity. We have to get off repeatedly and walk the bike through the worst areas or should I say Larry has to walk the bike through the muck, I tiptoe around the worst of it, leaping over the puddles as if a ballerina.

Larry looks bedraggled, he says, “this is not fun.”

Every time we get back on the bike we practically tank on the slippery ruts, I moan, “the mud is spattering off the back wheel, it looks as if I pooped my pants, I’m a human fender.”

He laughs, “that happens when you’re riding in the mud, we should get back on the paved trail, this is not working.”

“See, we do agree on some things.”

So after walking most of the way back we return to the paved trail and try to avoid mowing over the pedestrians milling about.

There is one tense moment when we come upon a group of eight or so walkers, they’re chatting it up, taking over the entire path, Larry yells several warnings, “on your left. On your LEFT! ON YOUR LEFT.” No response, they just keep sauntering along until we almost crash into a few of them as we attempt to come to a full stop. The bike is heavy, especially with the two of us riding, it’s impossible to stop on a dime, if people don’t move over to allow us to pass it gets ugly.

Well, they have words, Larry has words, while I try to pretend to be Switzerland, and remain perfectly silent until I’m sure no one was going to throw a rock at my back.

Then I say in a loud clear voice, “if I am going to be riding behind you, TRUSTING MY HUSBAND if you will, I expect better behavior when it comes to the pedestrians.”

“I know, I was out of line.”

“Good, I think I need a Bloody Mary.”

“Sam’s Chowder House is about five miles up the road here, we’ll stop there for lunch.”

“Well earned I’d say.”

“It’s been an interesting ride.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

After lunch, we get back on the muddy bike and ride another ten miles before calling it a night. We completed about twenty-five miles total between storms and I was ready for a warm shower, warm meal, and a glass of wine.

After sprucing up, we come downstairs and linger by our car for a minute trying to decide if we want to drive across town to the Mezza Luna Italian restaurant or just eat at the local joint, Miramar Beach restaurant, located right across the street. While we’re standing there in the dark this random lady walks up to our car, parked not ten feet from us, and starts looking in the car windows.

Now if I were to describe her, I’d say she was shady looking, with a creepy presence (I really should have gone into law enforcement).

Larry walks up behind her and says, “what the hell are you doing? Looking for something to steal?”

I’m desperately digging my phone out of my purse in case I have to call 911.

She moves around him, ignoring his question, and starts walking away.

Larry says, “I’m taking your photo and I’m sending it to the police.”

Doesn’t faze her in the least, she just keeps walking and disappears into the night.

I’m like, “that’s crazy.”

Larry says, “she was casing the parking lot for cars to break into.”

We decide to move our car closer into the hotel parking lot under a floodlight and eat across the street so we can keep an eye on things. I can’t imagine she wants a muddy tandem bike?

After a scrumptious dinner, we fell asleep listening to the sound of the surf crashing against the shore, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast near the wharf early the next morning, and while driving home along the coast we identified several other biking trails we might want to try someday.

I say as we pull into our driveway, “now that was a great adventure.”

He says, “I told you so.”

I smile and say, “My knight in shining armor would never say I told you so.”

“I’m not your knight, I’m the guy who brings you coffee in bed, I’m more like your houseboy.”

“In that case, if you could bring in my boots, and my bag.”

I get the look, the one I’ve come to know, to love, and trust.

I’m Living in the Gap, doing it tandem, join me in the comments!

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