Posted on by cheryloreglia · 51 Comments

Kindness

Shadow or Friend

“It is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world…” Naomi Shihab Nye

Good morning. I’m writing to you from my bed, my favorite spot in the house, okay, in my world. I call it the throne in the castle of my life, shrouded in bamboo sheets, with a view of the patio. It does not make me want to tie my shoes and go out into the world, as Naomi states above. It invites me to stay, to wrestle with words, to lean into an idea, and today, I’m butchering, I mean dissecting—kindness.

I think it’s curious how places are infused with the energy of the past. 

My sister and I sit in the same spot every time we have our morning coffee at her house. Those two spaces on the couch are forever etched with our essence, and when I enter her home, I can’t imagine sitting anywhere else. They’re layered with laughter, tears, and love, and I will assume long after I am gone, a part of me will always remain in the right corner of the cream couch, perpendicular to the back door. 

It’s the same with my patio. It might look like a collection of plants, with a long cast iron table guarded by a rustic fireplace leaning against the southern wall. But what I see are the shadows of the people who have gathered at our home over the years, breaking bread, sipping wine, and shamelessly lingering under a blanket of stars, nurturing our souls. 

Ironically, when I have a difficult encounter in a space, it leaves me phobic, feeling as if I want to avoid that place as if tainted with bad energy. It takes me a long time to push past the negativity and reencounter the situation from a place of love and trust, especially if there has been no attempt at repair. 

Looking back at the words I have just written, sipping my coffee, and staring out the window as if in a daze, I realize I wasn’t reminiscing about positive or negative encounters. I was exploring our affinity for generosity, compassion, and selflessness, or lack thereof, and this is my attempt to understand the complexities of kindness. 

I think one of the most important things I can do to increase my capacity for kindness is to let go of the way I want things to be, allowing the future to unfold organically, like the seasons. I must be willing to usher in periods of dormancy, birth, growth, and death—the basic properties of life. If I ever hope to be happy, I have to stop struggling against the evolution of my own future.

Right? 

This is our human condition. It’s how we grow, damn it, but more than that, it’s how we prosper and thrive in a precarious world. 

It’s so apropos that fall is knocking at our door. The evidence is indisputable, as the leaves of the giant Ginkos that line our street slowly fade to shades of yellow, brown, and rust. I yearn for inactivity, rest, and idleness as the weather cools. Darkness does this to me, even a good fog, as I rummage through my winter things sequestered in the back of the closet so I can sit in front of the fire in a state of blissful dormancy. 

I can’t express how happy this makes me feel. Fall is such a glorious time of year because it forces me to let the withered aspects of my life go, to reduce my limbs to their toughest parts—stems, trunks, branches, bark. What it’s doing is allowing me to prepare for a complete renewal. I’m defoliating, if you will, not out of vanity but vulnerability. 

Interestingly, my most productive time (in terms of creativity) is when I do less. Isn’t that weird? 

I had the entire morning to myself today. I spent the first half hour just listening. For me, inspiration comes through silence, when I’m breathing deeply and slowly, steeped in uncertainty and, oddly enough, trusting that all the great authors who have gone before me are acting as my cloud of witnesses. 

In this life, we are entitled to nothing, which makes me grateful for what’s next, whatever it is, because everything we have is a gift. It’s unwarranted, but it arrives nonetheless in its own time.

I don’t know about you, but when I experience tension, I usually try to avoid it, look for ways around it, or try to alleviate it. As Joe Moody notes, tension often comes when our ego isn’t able to do what our spirit knows it should. So what’s happening is we’re working out, using our tension to strengthen us. Moody (interesting last name) says this is also how our spiritual muscle is formed (like a bicep). Whenever we overcome mental tension by choosing what is right, we work out our spiritual muscles, which become stronger. Therefore, our capacity for joy and kindness increases.

I ask myself—how will my days continue to unfold? Who will enlighten me? Who will change the way I perceive the world? Are there doors out there that I have failed to notice? Which one will escort me into the future? 

I tend to trust that the universe is working for my good—not only my good but for the good of everyone. I believe there is something greater than us that has our backs—all of us, even the people who think differently from us, live differently and have their own beliefs, values, politics, and cultures. 

Think about that. What if we’re all doing the best we can with what we know and what we have experienced? Stepping out of our world to imagine the plight of another is a great way to expand our empathy. I need to stay curious, ask questions, and listen so I understand the person I am engaging with instead of molding my defense or cultivating the ground for my next story. 

I wonder if it is our impoverished human nature, our inadequate language, or simply our deprived imaginations that force us into defiance instead of resolution when confronted with complicated issues. We act like toddlers instead of a society that has been around for three hundred thousand years. 

Why is it that in 2024, according to the APA (American Psychiatric Association), one in three people are chronically lonely, confused, and depressed?

I am going out on a limb here to say kindness is the missing component, well, that and fresh coffee. But before we can contemplate the “gravity of kindness,” as Naomi Shihab Nye claims, “you must travel to a place that is as far from your understanding as possible.” 

Think about it, we could have been born anywhere with dreams that would never be realized because maybe we’ve been oppressed by another human being, or we live in an insecure situation defined by a culture that devalues women, children, or people in general. 

I didn’t do anything to earn this life. I was born in the 1960s in California to a middle-class family with parents who loved me. And they made a sister for me. Booyah!

No one is favored, even if it appears that way. Life is random, but I have to believe a stream of love runs through it. We’re all struggling to figure it out, but to know kindness, we must experience sorrow in the marrow of our bones, in the chasm of all suffering, as if we’re wrapped in a universal shroud that preserves and protects our innocence.

I like to believe that all circumstances and events, especially unexpected encounters, will eventually drive us towards our ultimate purpose, sometimes haphazardly and when we procrastinate, with greater force. It does not matter how long it takes us. We will get there one way or another. 

I prefer the freeway if you appreciate my metaphor. 

Life is such a mystery. I find it exciting, confounding, delightful, puzzling, heartwarming, and, if I am being honest, a bit challenging. I keep discovering that gratitude is the transmission (the mechanism by which power is transmitted from an engine to the wheels). It has the power to transform my experience or perception of an experience from indifference to appreciation and then illumination, which often moves me in the right direction or at least away from the traffic jams. 

I was thinking about RAGBRAI this morning, how the ride, the beauty of Iowa, and the generosity of the people completely transformed the heat, humidity, and camping shenanigans. I remember it all because Wynne Leon and Victoria Atkinson hosted me on their The Heart of the Matter podcast and invited me to share my experience of our ride across Iowa. It comes out this Friday, so be sure to give it a listen. 

Anyway, it got me thinking about the importance of what I choose to focus on and what I allow to be overshadowed by a more gracious view of the same event. The thing is, I can always remain obsessed with that which is challenging, complex, unpleasant, or even destructive, but if I redirect my thoughts, eyes, and heart to that which delights me, the part I am grateful for, my entire perspective changes, and it reconnects me with my greater purpose. 

To live, screw up, learn, and always find my way back to love.

Today is the day I’ve been looking forward to for months. It has ignited my joy, and that is why I’ve been grinning from ear to ear.

Tony and Thalita will arrive from Portugal this afternoon, and Kelley and Tim will fly in on Friday of next week. For the first time in more than a year, my little family will all be together. I’m over the moon with excitement.

I’ve been running around ensuring I have their rooms cleaned and supplied, some interesting food in the refrigerator, and time for important things like family dinners, relaxing mornings, and informal gatherings. 

I’m looking forward to a week bursting with laughter, joy, surrounded by the people I love. We have a challenging calendar of events for the next two weeks but I know when all is said and done, when my children have returned to their own lives, I’ll be walking around the empty house, thinking of all the tender moments, cool nights on the patio, leisurely exchanges where we chat about nothing and everything. 

I’ll savor all the unexpected delights, Audrey’s 10th birthday, Thalita’s bridal shower, touching ceremonies, and the moments that took our breath away. I will smile at the memory of my granddaughters spreading rose petals in frilly white dresses down the narrow aisle of a rustic chapel by the lake. I’ll remember the echos of Martica and Tim saying, “I do,” the image of my entire family dressed in their finest, the smell of our collective perfume, the smiles, the hugs, and the way our hearts long to be together even though there are great distances between the places we call home.

Do I realize how lucky I am? I can sit in my bed, tucked in luxurious bamboo sheets, and picture the weeks ahead. I have the capacity to create new realities in my mind, and those images will dictate how I entertain the future and, more importantly, how I will remember it. 

There is a cost to being part of a large family, the human family, if you will, and learning to accept that we are all different. We have our own way of encountering life, which can be challenging—especially with the ones we care about most. I suppose kindness is the only thing that makes sense in this life. It’s what we transfer to one another when we empathize with the plight of each other and learn to stand up for what is right and true. One kind word can change someone’s entire day, heal old wounds, and, best of all, kindness ripples out into the future, gathering momentum as it goes. Naomi Shihab Nye writes that kindness raises its head from the crowd of the world to say it is I you have been looking for and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend. 

Dedicated to Daniel Burns, who created KindLoook and is launching his dream into the world. 

Looking forward to engaging with you all in the comments. What are your thoughts about kindness? What did I miss? What can you share about your experience?

Want to enjoy a series of essays on the complexities of life, challenging our most beloved and ingrained beliefs, while exploring the secret of surviving the trials and tribulations we all encounter. It’s not what you think. 

Grow Damn It, ships in two days, or grab the audio version. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 52 Comments

All You Need Is Nerves of Steel

And Elegant Red Nails

I realize the picture is blurry, I’m looking at the ground, and you really can’t see my nails, but it’s the only proof I was ever at the conference.

“I’m not a stranger,” I said, and pointed to his book. “I’m someone who reads the same authors you do.”― Lemony Snicket,

I’m having my nails done because I want to be impressive or at least make a good impression. So, of course, I selected an elegant shade of red because it looks, well, elegant, and that is who I am going to be for the next few days.

My sister Nancy agreed with both the nails and the persona. 

She said, “Just be yourself. You’ll be fine. Writers are all alike. You’ll sit around drinking coffee, exchanging business cards, and now you have the perfect red nails. You won’t even have to talk.”

“That would be fabulous, but I’d be thrilled if they simply returned my greeting.”

“You’ll have a name tag, just point.”

We laughed. 

Somehow, my publisher talked me into attending the Black Rose Writing Authors Conference in San Antonio, Texas, during a heat wave. It was a last-minute decision. I wasn’t going to go. I’m an introvert, and you know what happened last time I went to a writer’s conference (Ruthless Confirmation). It was absolute horror. 

I wasn’t keen on repeating that experience. 

But my publisher wrote me a nice note, inviting me to go. What can you do? I signed up, but I made Larry go with me. And there we are, standing on the sidewalk at 7:00 a.m. with our matching suitcases, waiting for the Uber to show up. 

The driver pulls up to the curb, and the car looks like it has come straight from one of those illegal sideshow events. I look down the street to see if a cop is following him. There are more dents than I can count, and it seems as if a five-year-old painted the entire car matte black. 

It would be kind to describe the driver as disheveled. His hair is both greasy and uncombed. I’m pretty sure he got dressed in the dark. I have no idea if he’s wearing shoes, and I can’t make myself look.

The interior of the car is worse if that is possible. I open the passenger door while Larry loads the suitcases in the trunk (no dead bodies, thank God), and it moans. I’m not kidding. The upholstery is as dirty and stained as my old couch, and it smells squalid, like when you haven’t flossed in a while, and you dislodge a bunch of crap that has been decomposing in the crevices of your mouth for weeks.

I keep telling myself, breathe through your mouth! Breathe through your mouth.

Larry and I make eye contact, both of us communicating our panic nonverbally. What the hell are we doing? Should we get out while we still can? But the driver takes off before we can finish our silent conversation.

I reluctantly strap myself in because, at every bump in the road, it sounds as if the car is going to fall apart like a bunch of Legos. 

We scamper out of that car as if we have arrived at the gates of hell instead of the departure gate at the airport. Larry grabs our bags. I have the backpacks in a death grip, and we run for the terminal. 

I hope this is not a sign of what is to come.

Hours later, we touched down in San Antonio and decided it might be safer to take a taxi to the Contessa, our home away from home for the next three nights. It was a good call.

After unpacking, we head to the hotel bar for a cocktail. 

Calm down, with the long flight and the time difference; it’s 5:00 p.m. in San Antonio. I’m starving, but Larry thought we should go down and mingle. I would like to add that I have a horrible track record for mingling, but my nails look good. 

There are authors everywhere as if the hotel has an infestation. I see groups chatting on the couches, sitting at the bar, and little tables scattered around the room. 

Larry elbows me in the ribcage and says, “There’s a nice group,” he points, “Go over there and introduce yourself.”

I’m aghast, I say, “Are you insane?” 

He doesn’t give up. “Don’t be a chicken.”

“You go.”

“I will,” and he acts like he’s getting up.

“Sit down, or I’ll go over there and pull the fire alarm.”

He sits back down with a wry smile on his face because he secretly loves it when I’m uncomfortable.

By the way, I am totally fine being called a chicken and acting like one. I’ll even squawk if you want. 

With no uncertainty, I say, “I am here to learn about being a successful author, this is not a popularity contest, it’s a conference.”

“It’s a chance to meet other authors,” he persists.

“It’s awkward.”

“It’s awkward sitting here by yourself.” Hello, he is clearly sitting with me.

After a few stabilizing sips of wine, I pick up my glass with my red nails and bravely walk up to a cluster of writers and say, “Are you all Black Rose Writers?” I know—a stellar opening line. Who could resist me?

Oddly enough, they made room for me to sit with them and proceed to introduce themselves. Thank God, because I was about to faint. I promptly forget everyone’s name. They’re all lovely and welcoming, but as O’keefe says, it’s not enough to be nice. You’ve got to have nerve, and mine are currently frayed. 

Business cards are being passed around like appetizers, but I keep mine in my purse—they are the only ones without QR codes. No one told me!

They plan to take the Riverwalk to a local restaurant for dinner and ask me to join them. I can even bring Larry. 

This group got acquainted at last year’s conference and through interactions on our Black Rose Writing Facebook group. I thanked them for the invitation but returned to the bar because Larry and I decided to grab a quick bite at the hotel restaurant. Squawk, squawk, squawk.

After dinner, we join twenty or so writers milling around the bar, catching up, talking about their books, and watching the 49ers. It turns out that some writers like to talk. I’m grateful.

I like people, I really do, but I like them one at a time, and it’s better if I’ve known them for twenty years. 

I like people like Sara, the woman I met at the last conference in San Francisco, who didn’t reject me. I like people who write, who drink too much coffee, and will spend an entire day editing one sentence. I even like extroverts—people who can talk to anyone about anything for hours on end and never get tired. I like people who know me and love me despite my personality flaws. I like people who can do things that I can’t. I like people who make me laugh. I like kind people. I especially like pet people, even if it’s just a fish. 

The next morning, we checked in, were tagged, and thrown into a room full of chairs. But there is a massive pot of coffee that is as calming as an oasis in a desert. I scan the room, trying to identify the least threatening people to sit with, but the empty chairs are going fast. I find one and plop myself down. 

I’m already sweating, and it’s not even 9 o’clock. 

I land between two of the kindest people in the world, well, maybe not the world, but at least in my world. Pamala Taylor is on my right, and Carol Barreyre is on my left. They’re easy to talk with, fascinating ladies, and both seem entirely at ease in a room full of people, as if hardbacks holding up the flimsy paperback between them.

Reagan Rothe, our publisher, welcomes us, introduces the panel, and chats about Black Rose Writing and his plans for the future. Next year, he’ll publish fewer books and sign fewer new authors, making BRW contracts more coveted and distinguished. 

Reagan continues to adapt his marketing strategies and practices to keep pace with a rapidly changing industry. That might be why BRW is so successful. I just discovered that BRW is listed as one of the top 100 small publishers in the United States. When he opens the floor to questions, I’m amazed at the family atmosphere; issues are raised, support and inspiration are offered, practical advice is given, and endless encouragement ensues. 

We are writers. We’ve experienced rejection, sometimes repeatedly, but Reagan is the one who said yes, and we all appreciate the privilege of being published authors by a traditional publisher like Black Rose Writing. 

Then, he invites the first speaker to the podium. I pulled out a pen and paper but didn’t need them. This was a heartfelt story; you deeply feel his words, no need for notations.

Joe Siple has an incredible story. He’d been writing for about sixteen years. He had stories inside of him that he was compelled to write, but the problem was that all the big publishing houses had rejected his work. But that didn’t stop Joe. He kept at it year after year, driven by a passion for writing and bringing this story to life. 

Black Rose Writing was the first publishing house to offer him a contract, but when the first copies of his book finally arrived, he was scared. Joe told us with a catch in his voice that those books represented years of rejection, and instead of celebrating his accomplishment, he stacked the box in the back of his basement. 

Well, he was in for a surprise. His book has stirred the hearts of thousands of people worldwide, and he is now one of the top-selling authors at BRW. He is amazed, grateful, and ever so humble but hesitant to quit his day job even though he makes more in royalties than salary. 

What an inspirational person with a courageous story and a drive to never give up. His talk was efficacious for us all.

After lunch, another fabulous speaker, Janis Robinson Daly, told us how to utilize public libraries to publicize our books, give talks, and draw people into the library system. 

This is my big takeaway from the weekend. 

I hope to get my book in a few libraries by the end of the year. I might even try to hook a speaking engagement. I know that would be a stretch, but it’s not a goal if it’s easy.

We all enjoyed a delicious lunch provided by BRW, after which a third speaker, Mary Ellen Bramwell, shared her expertise on editing mistakes and how to fix them. After about fifteen minutes, I couldn’t focus. It felt like she was speaking a foreign language. I’m not an editor by any stretch of the imagination, but I took copious notes and refilled my coffee several times. I learned that hiring a professional editor who understands the elements of style is the only way to go. 

Larry is waiting for me at the bar when we are dismissed. He’s halfway into a beer, and I order a medicinal wine to go with my slowly fading anxiety. 

We took a long stroll along the meandering riverwalk. It’s gorgeous. The river is lined with lush landscaping, and pine and oak trees are cleverly lit and shade the path. Restaurants have set up tables along the walk so you can enjoy a view of the river while you eat and people-watch. 

After lingering over an incredible steak dinner for several hours, we return to the Contessa, but no one is lounging around the bar tonight. Okay, I’m relieved. I’m not the only introvert. 

Day two is a half-day. Regan starts by sharing his thoughts on marketing, what happens behind the scenes, and how we can partner with his efforts to make our books as successful as possible. Reagan has created a sense of family in this community. He is affectionately referred to as Uncle Reagan, especially if we want him to pay for something. I was surprised by the warmth and camaraderie I observed between Reagan, his staff, and this room full of writers.  

Next, Mary Ellen talks with us about how authors help authors. We have a chance to ask questions of the rest of the panel, Justin and David, who manage shipping, stats, edits, and create our beautiful covers. Regan ends the conference with raffle prizes, thanks everyone for coming, and announces that he’ll send us information on next year’s conference by October. 

I shoot out of there like I did from our Uber ride to the airport. Larry is waiting for me. 

He says, “Why are you the first one out?”

I say, “They’re all talking.”

“Go back in there and chat with people.”

“I will. I just had to catch my breath.”

Just then, one of the participants approached us, extended her hand, and said, “It was so nice to meet you. And by the way, I love your jumpsuit. Safe travels to you two.”

I take her hand and say, “It was wonderful to meet you, too. Safe travels.”

When she walks away, Larry says, “See, that’s how you do it.”

“Tell everyone I like their outfits?”

I get the look but reenter the conference room to say my goodbyes despite my fears. When I walk up to the podium where Reagan is chatting with someone, I wait for them to finish so I can shake his hand and thank him for encouraging me to attend such a fabulous conference. Reagan is always polite and welcoming, but now I realize he’s as introverted as I am, but he covers well. 

I say my goodbyes to various people as I make my way to the back of the room where Minna is stationed. Minna is Regan’s wife, but she also works at BRW. I got to know her at my book signing in Austin last year. 

I say, “Hi, Minna. It was good seeing you again, and I thoroughly enjoyed the conference.”

She says, “It was good to see you too. You have such a nice energy. I kept looking over at you and smiling.”

Okay, that made my year. I have appealing energy. My nails held up better than I did, but I came away inspired, educated, and excited for Larry and me to get our new manuscript ready for submission.

What I learned about this small group of Black Rose authors is they are the most emotionally aware people I’ve ever met. They’re writers. It is part of their skill set, and that’s why we write. They are safe to talk to, and they support each other while being encouraging and compassionate. This is why you attend your publisher’s conference. 

These are your people.

Before the conference, my girlfriend Sue coached me on how to get to know people. Not so much coached me, but she explained how she approaches people she doesn’t know. She’s quite an adept conversationalist. 

She said, “I ask three questions; if they don’t follow up with one for me, I leave.”

I say hello with no expectations, and if they return my greeting, I consider it a conversational triumph. They’ll have to ask me to leave. 

I’m Living in the Gap, all my children are going to be in the same zip code by the end of this week! We have a family wedding at the lake. I’m over the moon. How’s your week going?

Grow Damn It! is available on Amazon. An anthology of essays about overcoming my fears, strapping myself in, and enjoying the ride of my life. If you already have a copy, grab another and donate it to your local library! Win. Win. 

A bonus story:  Larry and I decided to stay an extra night, so we asked our son-in-law, Tim, for some dinner recommendations. And he did not disappoint. One of his many contacts suggested we try Mexicali; apparently, it’s all the rage. 

Walking into the door of this nondescript restaurant, we ask the hostess if they can accommodate two for dinner. 

She says, “Do you have a reservation?” It’s as if we’re wine-tasting in Napa.

Larry says, “No, we just arrived in town, and your restaurant was recommended, so we thought we’d give it a shot.”

“It’s a price-fixed menu. There are eight courses paired with local wines at $165 per person. Would you like me to see if we can accommodate you?”

“Oh, we didn’t know it was that type of dining experience. I think we’ll try something else. Thank you,” and we head for the door. 

The owner runs after us and says, “There is another option. It is also a price-fixed meal, but only four entries at $85 per person with the same wine pairing. If you are interested, I can see if they can accommodate two more.”

Larry agrees, and she disappears for a minute, returning with an affirmative from the chef. We order a margarita at the bar while we wait for our table to be prepared. They served us our first course at the bar. It was an oyster in the shell, but it was covered with fluffy white foam. There is one for each of us. You sort of down it without seeing what you’re eating, but the flavors delight your taste buds all the way down. 

They move us into the formal dining room. Each dish is beautifully presented, the food tastes like nothing I have ever experienced, and each is delightfully paired with the perfect wine. 

What an incredible culinary experience. It took over two hours. I was thrilled.

Larry was still hungry.

When we returned to the hotel, we ordered a plate of chicken wings (so appropriate) to fill our stomachs. God forbid we go to bed even slightly hungry.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 46 Comments

The Unabridged Version

Best Left Alone

Every couple has two stories – the edited one to be shared from the couch and the unabridged version best left alone. Emily Giffin

It’s hard to admit, but Larry and I went to the annual La-Z-Boy Labor Day sale last week. I know, it’s embarrassing.

The thing is, there are two versions of this story, Larry’s version and my version, although mine is the only one that counts. Let’s keep the details to ourselves. There is no need to upset the “other” party. 

Thank you in advance. 

Apparently, an enticing ad came across the television while Larry was watching some sort of competition involving a ball and a bunch of beefed-up guys. Anyway, he came sauntering into my writing space to tell me about it. He thinks we should check it out, but I know better. 

When something is too good to be true…it usually is. 

Let me tell you what is really going on here. It involves a 911 Porsche. That’s right. Don’t be fooled by the “Honey, there’s a sale at La-Z-Boy. I know you’ve been wanting a new couch for the better part of a decade. So let’s go take a peek.”

Here’s the real conversation. “Honey, I want a 911 Porsche. Now I know our couch is 26 years old. We raised four kids, two dogs, and a cat with this couch. It’s trashed, tattered, and hopelessly stained. The condition of our couch has made you highly embarrassed, and I’m aware you rarely bring guests into the living room. I, on the other hand, want a Porsche, something we don’t need and can’t afford. So I am willing to shell out a seventh of the cost of a Porsche so you can get a new couch, and it will feel as if we are even.”

My mama didn’t raise no fool. Or did she?

“I can be ready in ten minutes.”

“I’ll pull the car around.”

So we head over to La-Z-Boy, smiling like Cheshire cats, both with a mouse in sight and now we think we have it trapped. 

He’s thinking, “She totally bought it.” I’m thinking, “Strike while the iron is hot.”

As we walk into the showroom, I say in a very stern voice, “By no means does buying a couch mean you get to buy a car. Are we clear?” A man’s brain is like a refrigerator, and I think it’s essential that you stock it with the proper provisions. 

He says, “It never even crossed my mind. We need a couch. That is all this is about,”

Bahaha.

As we enter the store, we notice that no one else is shopping the Labor Day sale. The store is completely empty except for some salespeople playing with their phones. 

A woman greets us, welcomes us into the store, and tells us about the sale. Larry is listening while I make a beeline for this extraordinarily beautiful couch highlighted in the center of the room. 

It’s gorgeous, plush, striking. 

I plop myself down in the corner seat. It’s a sectional covered in soft tan leather with light stitching. It has a high back with big armrests and is super comfy. 

Larry follows and does the same.

I say, “I like this one.”

“I do, too.”

He looks at the price and says, “It’s the most expensive one in the store.”

I shrug, “Is it?”

Larry pulls out his measuring tape and the measurements we took of our living room before we came and starts making some calculations. We grilled the saleswoman about the features, the mechanisms, the quality of the leather, the guarantees, the sale price, and availability. When we were satisfied with the answers, we headed home with a detailed flyer that had all the measurements so we could tape it off in the house and see if it was a good fit. 

It’s not the right configuration for our living room. I ponder, scratch my head, and stare at the room as if I’ve never seen it before. How can we make this work?

We’re trying to accommodate our highly prioritized retirement rituals, which involve ice-cold sodas, a bowl of hot buttery popcorn, and reruns of Yellowstone, Breaking Bad, or Ted Lasso. The problem is that Larry and I have to share a horribly disfigured ottoman; there’s no place to put our drinks, and the bowl of popcorn has to sit between us on the stained couch. Trust me. It’s not ideal.

Is your heart breaking?

Our vision was to purchase a couch with built-in recliners and one of those ugly sections that sits between the recliners that hold our drinks and has a little table. I know, I know, we have officially gotten to this awkward stage in life. It’s mortifying. It’s not really about what couch to buy. It’s about how we want to live the remainder of our life. And we want to put our damn feet up. 

We’ve become recliner people. 

So, I reviewed the complicated schematics like a detective and suggested we completely rethink the configuration. I carefully explained my new vision to Larry, who just kept staring at me as if I had grown horns on my head. 

I’m using precise language accompanied by hand signals and moving around the room using my entire body to show him how everything would fit. Nothing. Totally blank.

Then he says, “I can’t understand a thing you are saying.”

What’s new? Right?

I explain again but with exaggerated movements and long pauses. 

He finally says, “Oh, you want to purchase the entire sectional with the corner piece and a separate recliner to balance it.”

“Yes.”

He pulls out the measuring tape, mumbling to himself as he tapes off the room with the new couch and recliner configuration, and says, “That works.”

Of course, it does.

So we returned to the store and bought the entire sectional, a separate recliner, and a coffee table that lifts to table height if we wanted to eat dinner in there occasionally. A house is not a showroom; it’s where we nourish our well-being, which includes EATING DINNER IN FRONT OF THE TELEVISION once in a while.

I know, I might have to shut down the comments on this post. 

So, there will be four available recliners, a corner piece, that ugly drink section, and an adjustable coffee table. 

It arrives in December. How much do you want to bet a new car will be in the garage by then?

On the way home, we went to Lazy Dog Grill (it seemed fitting) to celebrate with a cocktail and appetizer. Who are we? Retirees…with a new couch with built-in recliners and a dream car that is still a dream.

Larry asks, ” What will we do with the old couch?”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, it is not going to become our lawn furniture.”

“I’m going to miss that couch.”

“Me too.”

I don’t know about you, but I think a good couch sort of defines the culture of a room. If it is true that our culture shapes our values and our values determine the future, then for Pete’s love, find the right couch. We buy objects to remind us who we are because, at my age, I sometimes forget. So, really, everything in the house is propaganda for a lifestyle we envision ourselves living. Everything in the garage is propaganda for getting off the couch. 

I’m Living in the Gap, waiting for the new couch to arrive, what are you thinking about replacing?

I’m in San Antonio, Texas, attending a writer’s conference with Black Rose Writing this week. I’m learning a ton. As usual, I wish I had known all this a year and a half ago when my book was first coming out. Will life ever slow down?

Grow Damn It! Here’s how you support an author. Leave a review. Recommend it to a friend. Buy one for your mom. Request it at every library you know with a simple phone call.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

Hold On, I’m Coming

The Entanglement of Joy

What if joy is not only entangled with pain, or suffering, or sorrow, but is also what emerges from how we care for each other through those things? Ross Gay

It’s Tuesday, and I haven’t written a single word for the better part of a week. And yes, I’m a little cranky about it, but I feel confident I will find something worthy to write about. 

Which got me thinking about the definition of worthy: having or showing qualities or abilities that merit recognition in a specified way. 

So I sat down this morning to write about something worthy after I made lunches for the grandkids, sent them off to school, had coffee with my sister, frantically raced Kelley back to our house for a conference call, did a short tandem ride with Larry, organized a shower for my son’s fiance with Kelley, and then sat in my chair praying for inspiration to hit. 

When it didn’t come, I sat in silence, desperately trying to capture a radical idea, but that was impossible because Larry kept hammering me with questions about the old fish bathroom we’re considering renovating.

What do you think about this tile? 

How long should the new vanity be?

How narrow can we make the shower and still consider it functional?

What are your thoughts on lighting? 

Should we put a half wall here?

I’ve taped everything off. Come look.

I’ve put my computer down at least a dozen times, which qualifies me for sainthood, but I didn’t write anything worthy.

It was a full morning.

In fact, it was a full weekend. 

Half the Oreglia clan and several friends gathered at the lake to celebrate Labor Day and my father-in-law’s 86th birthday. Martica and Tim were simultaneously hosting a bachelor and bachelorette party at my sister-in-law’s lake house up the street, so we invited Ken and Marta (their parents) to stay with us.

My daughter Kelley, her husband Tim, Larry, and I are babysitting our grandkids for a few weeks while Julie and Nic travel to Italy for a wedding, so we all drove to the lake to join the festivities. 

It’s been a busy, memorable, and exhausting weekend.

I love watching the grandkids delight in the most mundane things: doing cartwheels across the living room, playing with a pile of dead rice flies, skipping rocks on the water, jumping off the dock, building castles in the wet sand, playing hide-and-seek with the Wallingers, eating waffles with Nono, making s’mores under the stars, rising at the crack of dawn to snuggle with me in bed.

I observe my father-in-law and how he enjoys engaging with great-grandkids, oblivious to all the noise and confusion around him. He was just happy to be surrounded by family. As he ages, I see how his body struggles to do the things most of us take for granted, like mobility, stamina, and balance. He’s slowing down. 

It’s not easy this whole aging thing. 

From my vantage point, I can see how dependent we are on each other, which is one thing that increases as we age—our interdependence.

Like offering an arm when someone needs assistance walking across the room, holding the gate open for a child, carrying heavy bags in from the car, cleaning up the dishes after a meal, caring for a person who feels overwhelmed, or holding a tired child who is having trouble monitoring her emotions. 

I see kind-hearted people everywhere—those who stop to help when they see you are struggling, reach out when they notice you are grappling with loneliness, or simply lift you up when you feel down. 

My granddaughter, Cora, was trying out the canoe one morning when a powerful current pulled her out beyond the dock. She panicked when she couldn’t control the small boat in the wind and current. Her twin sister, Sienna, heard her screams. She yells, “Hold on, Cora, I’m coming,” and she swam out to her sister, bravely pulling her canoe back to shore. 

It was heroic.

You might ask, where in the hell were the adults? Oh, they were there, standing by, ready to assist, but what a pleasure it was to see the confidence illuminating Sienna’s face when she was able to rescue her sister all by herself. 

I also remember when I upset Kelley unintentionally. I wanted to repair the damage in the morning, but it’s not easy to admit when you’ve been hurtful, struggled to keep your emotions in check, or were overwhelmed. When we refuse to restore our bonds, the wound continues to fester, eventually destroying the relationship. 

It’s one of the most powerful things we can say to each other, “I’m sorry. I love you. Please forgive me.” When someone accepts your apology, it reveals our deep need to be seen, validated, and, despite it all, to know we are loved even when we mess up and let our vulnerabilities show.

Garbor Mate says everything in life only grows when it allows itself to be vulnerable. The word itself comes from the Latin word vulnus, which means the ability to be wounded. He says we shut down our capacity for growth when we hide behind our defenses, like self-righteousness or a sense of superiority, because being vulnerable is too painful.

We are designed to care for each other, and as Ross Gay claims, it’s always a lie that convinces us to act or believe otherwise. Always. 

It’s as if we were a grove of trees with our roots entangled. We know exactly what each other needs because our relationship is symbiotic. We’re not rooted in allegiance, obligation, or fear—we’re rooted in love.  

When I return to that original quote (at the top of the page) about joy and how it emerges from our entanglement with each other’s pain and suffering, I see this so clearly, especially as I age. 

I can’t do all the things I used to be able to do, and that gap will only continue to widen until I can’t do the things I need to do to survive. I’ll return to the vulnerability of a child whose survival is dependent on the caregiver and whose ability to thrive is dependent on the quality of that care. 

It’s dangerous to be vulnerable, to age gracefully, to fully expose ourselves when all the pretensions we usually hide behind are gone, but it also requires acceptance and grace for the limitations and restrictions of those offering to help.

In my opinion, caregiving, part of all our interactions with others, does not make us worthy. It makes us human. What is unworthy is when we deny this to each other because we’ve bought into the lie that our desires, perceived injustices, or sense of self-importance take precedence over that of the person in need. 

The truth is, we are all struggling. It’s part of life. I believe our connection grows when we allow ourselves to be vulnerable in the presence of each other. Slipping beside a child as she falls asleep or a parent struggling to take her last breath and then gently closing their eyes with your fingertips is a courageous act of love entangled with our ability to experience joy. 

I’m Living in the Gap, watching the grandbabies for another week, so I apologize for missing your posts and not responding promptly to your comments.

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