Posted on by cheryloreglia · 48 Comments

Life Is Either A Miracle Or It Is Not

I’m Going With Miraculous

“Everything you can imagine is real.”
― Pablo Picasso

I did not fear life before I was born, so I refuse to fear death before I die. I read that somewhere, not those exact words, but close, and it got me thinking. It’s also not entirely true because anytime you encounter the unknown, like death, fear likes to tag alone. I must be in a mood to contemplate such a morbid topic before my second cup of coffee.

When they say your life flashes before you at death, I think it must be like that time my cousin Gail photographed Larry and me putting our tandem bike together in a time-lapsed video. What took an hour in real life was 5 minutes in Gail’s version. All you could see were these staccato-like movements, the bike seemingly coming together independently, with Larry and I bent over the frame, focused entirely on the task. 

But that wasn’t the whole story. 

When you squeeze time, you can no longer see the grumbling, the laughter, the wrench that slipped from his hand, the continual commentary that passed between us as we assembled the bike (cussing may or may not have occured), or the kiss at the end when we completed our task. 

And I think that’s what we’ll see at death―our repetitive emotions, gestures, and activities as we move through life with the common goal of advancing our humanity. Time marches on, but squeezed in the marrow of every moment is the opportunity to be kind and gentle, harsh or critical, compassionate or unforgiving. It’s a choice and an important one.

We will age all the same. 

That brings me around to the topic of gratitude. It’s that time of year, but gratitude is one of those things a camera can not capture. It’s an interior sensation; for me, it brings the good things in my life into focus, and the rest seems to fade. 

Life is fascinating, is it not? 

I brought all these memories home from our recent trip to Key West, which I shared with you a few days ago. It was most definitely the time-lapse version, but the thing I didn’t tell you about was a magical grotto located across the street from our hotel. It was created by Sister Louis Gabriel, who dedicated it to our Lady of Lourdes. She blessed every rock, pebble, and even the cement that went into the creation of this grotto and asked the Blessed Mother Mary to protect the people of Key West from the destructive forces of hurricanes. 

Since its dedication, no one has died during a hurricane in Key West in over a hundred years.

It’s a special place. I could feel it. I reverently touched the rocks, said some Hail Marys, and then asked for a specific blessing. The change in my heart was instantaneous. And that’s all I’ll say. I asked, she answered, and I was permanently altered in a good way. 

When I come to the end of this life, souvenirs, memories, and mementos will not be needed, but suddenly, that Last Flight Out philosophy has taken on a whole new meaning. 

So what will we take with us? 

I read somewhere that an interesting table topic is to ask everyone at a dinner party to share a memory of a smell and the story that goes with it. 

The first smell that comes to mind is Chanel #5, my mom’s favorite perfume. It brings back memories of chicken pot pies, Mom in high heels, a touch of color on her lips, the babysitter’s arrival, the twinkle in Dad’s eye, and the two holding hands as they slipped out the front door. 

How is all this contained in a smell? 

Half the time, I’m convinced I’m just an ignorant cog in a massive progression of a reality that doesn’t actually exist. It’s a mystery we’re all caught up in, possibly the result of our universal memories. If this is true, what is the difference between life and death?

Okay, this is what happens when I don’t get enough sleep. I allow my mind to wander down pathways I usually avoid, but dear reader, if this is where I am, I’m taking you with me. 

When I started posting Living in the Gap, this blog, over a decade ago, I thought I would write about what I was doing, avoiding, and thinking but also the lessons learned, the miracles, the things that matter, and most importantly, how to draw out our similarities instead of our differences. Maybe I just didn’t want to be traveling alone. 

Are you not sick of me? 

I wanted you to see what I was seeing, to explore those crazy ideas about reality, relationships, death, intelligence, humanity, God, loving our neighbor, ourselves, and all those damn sunsets. All of it. 

You have stayed with me through it all, generously sharing your ideas and arguments for or against my stance, beliefs, and way of viewing the world. 

How did I get so lucky? 

I read every comment. I’m giddy about every one of your thoughts, especially your ability to understand what I am still trying to disassemble, like the old radio my parents gave me one summer when I was 5 so I would have something to take apart that they no longer needed. 

That is what I am doing with this blog.

Once I took the radio apart, I still didn’t understand its design. I stared at all the pieces and had no idea how to put them back together. And that brings me to us. I don’t understand our design, although week after week, I try to dissect our essence, slicing open the core of our being just to get a glimpse of a beating heart. 

I have always believed that our lives have a purpose. We are an intentional act of love, pulled from a cauldron of souls just waiting outside space and time, beyond our thoughts, transcending our understanding of existence. 

Oh, how we love to argue about these things.

Maybe we just happened, and if you asked life to share a memory of the beginning of time, the scent would be that of decay, from whence life spontaneously emerged in that little garden of Eden, populated with naked people, snakes, and a presence of love so powerful they felt compelled to give her a name.

It turns out she had a bit of a temper and kicked us out, something about apples and fig leaves. But the best part of being thrown out of our comfort zone is all the new opportunities, an abrupt shift away from the ordinary and the mundane, the barely contained excitement of the unknown, and, of course, the fear that energizes us just when we need it.

Not much has changed.

I have this intense curiosity about the nature of such an entity and a fear that I’ve made it all up in my head, and I’m sure I have, in one way or another. 

This is how I see it, if I wake up in the morning and smell the coffee wafting through the air, I know She’s there, not because of the coffee, because I woke up. Maybe she always has been there and always will be, but someone is with me at my best and worst, and I think it is She.

I read today that the oldest man alive just passed away at 114 years of age. I do not want to live that long. That would be too much living to hold in one body. Think of all the things you have to let go of at that age just to have room for the present.

Does faith have anything to do with death? 

I don’t think so. We will die regardless of what we believe, but like the memories I am grateful for, the stories of my faith go with me. The image of life after death is stored in my mind, informing this life and maybe the next. 

I think about space not having an end, which is as close as I can get to an idea of eternity. I don’t know about you, but I like the immensity of time and space; it’s eternal nature, and I’ve heard we have a similar design. 

And I thought the radio was complicated. 

I am 64 years old, and someday I will most certainly die, but today, I’m appreciating my ability to smell, remember, individualize myself, and yet feel our innate connection. How will I see myself on the other side? 

I love what Rossiter W. Raymond said, “Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.”

If, at the end of my story, I did anything to make someone happier, ease their burdens, bring some laughter into their world, and most importantly, make them feel loved, that is the best I can hope for, and maybe in the process, I found happiness too. If you have an opportunity to contribute to the world, add to the joy. Be grateful, cherish both the good moments and the difficult ones. Get out and smell life, not just the roses, and hold on to those memories as long as possible. 

Robert Frost said, “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

On this beautiful Thanksgiving morning, I’m focusing on gratitude and grace. I’m not going to live as if death is chasing me down, but with the knowledge that every breath is a gift, not a given. I’m not going to waste it on anger and discord, but spend it on good perfume, entwine my hand with the man I love, and walk around with a twinkle in my eye, knowing this life is simply a time-lapsed version of a beautiful and profound journey, and the best is yet to come. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 39 Comments

Last Flight Out

We All Have One In Us

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” Ernest Hemingway

On the way to the airport, a harvest moon illuminated the early morning sky, aglow with shades of dusty rose, sienna, and cerulean. There was something efficacious about the moon that morning. It felt like a promise. I could feel its gravitational pull all the way to my toes, and I thought to myself, someday we’ll be able to fly to the moon.

I’m sure Elon already has a ticket.

Speaking of securing our dreams, my credit card always goes into shock around mid-October because I’m trying to get a jump on Christmas. The temperature is finally dropping, triggering a colorful array of leaves, which means it’s time to start thinking about our anniversary celebration. 

See how my brain works? 

It’s patterned, tied to triggers and connections, and if you’ve been married for any amount of time, you’ll understand this in a whole new light. By mid-November, we will have been married for 41 years. 

It’s not a significant year, but 41 does have some merit. It takes approximately the same number of weeks to create a new life, symbolizes new beginnings, positive change, and growth in the spiritual realm, and is the number of chapters in Farwell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway. This seems unrelated, but I will make a case for its significance as we proceed. By the way, the gifts associated with the 41st anniversary are land and topaz. 

I think it’s interesting that we landed on an island surrounded by topaz seas.

My first thought for our anniversary was to fly to New York City and join the celebration for our son-in-law’s 40th birthday, which our daughter Kelley is hosting. All the major players in Tim’s life will be at this exclusive dinner, and I wanted to be part of it all. 

But Larry had other ideas, and somehow, we ended up in Miami instead of Manhattan. 

Larry thought it would be a grand adventure to ride our tandem bike from Key Largo to Key West. Grand is an interesting word choice because it’s about 100 miles of the narrowest strip of land you will ever encounter. There are bridges with two-way traffic that are no wider than my hall closet, and one of them is 7 miles long. You vere an inch off course, and you’re road kill.

I’m sweating just writing about it.

But let me ease into the story because that is what I like to do. Go on, grab another cup of coffee. I’m just glad you’re here and that I lived to tell the tale.

Our flight to Miami was uneventful, but getting all our luggage from baggage claim to the rental car was a mile of heroic grunting. Then, we had a three-hour drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic from Miami to Key Largo. Of course, by the time we arrived at our hotel, it was closed for the night, but they left the door to our room unlocked and not a single light on.

Welcome to Key Largo.

Larry and I were no longer on speaking terms when we threw our bags in a pile and our bodies into bed. I slept like a rock. When morning came, I discovered a Keurig in the room, so for me, this is more than enough proof of God’s compassionate existence. 

I grabbed my cup of coffee and walked right out the door and into the arms of paradise. It was like The Wizard of Oz when the cinematography suddenly changed from black and white to color. The skies are this brilliant blue, and the temperature is a balmy 80 degrees, with a slight breeze that makes your hair look tousled and sexy. Suddenly, I’m walking around as if I’m a runway model in my sweats and sleep shirt. 

I can never figure out if I’m looking out over the Gulf of Mexico or the Atlantic Ocean, but it’s a stunning span of water either way. And I stand there with my cup of Keurig coffee, tousled hair, wrinkled night shirt and just stare at the gentle waves. 

Maybe this wasn’t Larry’s worst idea?

I wandered down a rustic pier that extends out over the water. It is lined with Adirondack chairs, and you can watch both the sunrise and sunset just by shifting the chairs in one direction or the other. 

Larry joins me, but his hair doesn’t tousle in the breeze; it kinks or spirals, framing his face in grey, white, and dark ringlets as we both try to shake off the remains of sleep. He leans in for a kiss. And we stand there on the edge of life with no idea about the challenges that lie ahead of us. None of us do, but I wonder if we are more courageous, or is it foolish when we’re together than on our own?

After avoiding it as long as possible, we started putting the bike together, painstakingly joining the frame to the wheels, aligning the gears, dealing with the greasy chains, and installing the seats, handlebars, and pedals, all under the heat of the midday sun. As usual, several unexpected mishaps occurred, and our moods quickly deteriorated. I had to resist throwing a wrench in the works—literally. 

Happy 41st anniversary. 

If I were being honest, I would admit an old argument stowed away with our luggage, but we were doing a fabulous job ignoring her. The problem with old arguments is that they are like stains in a carpet; they just keep coming back up unless you use Resolve Carpet Cleaner. Get it? When you’ve been married for any amount of time, your conflicts can go covert. It’s all done in silence with dramatic eye rolls, stoic glares, or worse, total indifference.

When we were done connecting all the pieces, Larry took the tandem for a test drive. Thankfully, the bike works, but we’re down to one functioning gear, which happens to be the middle one. Don’t ask. Thank God Florida is perfectly flat because if there were a mountain, we would be walking. 

After showering and slipping into jeans, a slinky tank, and my new green shoes, we headed to Snoops on the water to enjoy some appetizers, which we slugged down with martinis. Not exactly the best fuel for a 50-mile ride, but we’re in Key Largo with a stowaway and a harvest moon full of promise that has followed us all the way across the continent. 

We grabbed a few glasses of wine and took them to the dock at our hotel, where we enjoyed the last vestiges of the sunset. It was spectacular until we spotted a medium-sized alligator floating right past our feet. I’m not kidding. We quietly sprinted back to our room and locked the door. 

This is what I mean when I say we’re better together.  

We’re doing this ride backward, starting at the 100-mile marker in Key Largo and hopefully ending at the 0-mile marker in Key West. Our plan is to ride about 50 miles a day, with extra stops along the way to check out national parks, famous grills, tiny deer, giant lobsters, and various points of interest.

At the end of day one, we agreed that the ride along the keys was way more stressful than we anticipated. The road is narrow, and most of the time, you ride alongside traffic, traveling at 60 miles per hour. Larry has to be ultra-focused all the time while I participate by clenching the handlebars and my jaw, cursing under my breath, and closing my eyes. 

I do what I can.  

As I’m icing my bum knee, wrapped in a white bathrobe, in our fabulous bungalow at the Tranquility Hotel in Marathon, halfway through our ride, I found a bunch of images on Instagram of Tim’s birthday dinner, and I’ll admit the FOMO was intense.

I glance over at Larry, who is replacing the bandage on his infected toe (he’s been battling an antibacterial-resistant infection that wiggled its way into his big toe for weeks) and icing a painfully swollen Achilles from pedaling for 50 miles, only putting pressure on his heel. It made me think about the day we promised to love, honor, and cherish each other, in sickness and in health. No one can fully appreciate the meaning of that sacred vow until you’re bartering with each other over whose turn it is to get the ice.

Tonight, we headed to a local joint. It’s just an elevated bar with great sunset views, incredible chowder, and excellent margaritas. A sign over the bar says, “In Florida, we salt margaritas, not sidewalks.”

It’s an absolute miracle that we survived day 2. I was amazed we didn’t blow a tire with all the rubbish on the road or suffer a painful crash because a clueless iguana suddenly sprints in front of us. Most of all, I was surprised we didn’t completely lose our cool on all the bridges when we could actually feel the wind from the cars, trucks, and buses whiz by our shoulders with inches to spare. 

When we rolled into Key West, we were enormously grateful and covered in sweat. By now, we’ve managed to dump the stowaway and are ready to relax into the bohemian lifestyle for a few days. 

Key West is a unique place—a small island in the straits of Florida that appeals to just about everyone. It’s tropical, with temperatures ranging from the 40s to the 80s. It’s never snowed here, there’s never been a frost, and the temperature has never reached over 90 degrees. 

Ever. 

There is always a light breeze. You are surrounded by turquoise water, banyan trees, and a slew of shops, restaurants, and bars. But never far from your mind is the fact that you are surrounded by water. Not just any water, but the ocean, where hurricanes spontaneously form, winds can gust up to hundreds of miles per hour, and ocean levels can rise above the height of most of the houses. 

How do people sleep at night? 

There’s a distinctive old-world charm to this place, with these impressive colonial houses, all painted white, with metal roofs, charming details, and all with extraordinary histories. Don’t forget you’re surrounded by people who are on a perpetual vacation. It’s as if Casa Blanca hooked up with Margaritaville, but no one had any plans to leave. 

Okay, the very best part is that Ernest Hemingway spent some time in Key West, and as I’m sure you already know, he finished A Farewell to Arms on the island. Apparently, he wrote that damn novel over 39 times before he got the ending just right. It does make you wonder what exactly he changed in the 39th version that clinched it for him. I will go out on a limb and say it had something to do with a girl. 

They found lists of possible titles for this novel, which I thoroughly enjoyed. A favorite–I Have Committed Fornication but that was In Another Country And Beside The Wench Is Dead. Obviously, that didn’t make the cut. Too much information? Others included Disorder And Early Sorrow, and my favorite, Of Wounds And Other Causes. 

Bahaha.

Now, Earnest liked to hang out with the guy who owned a bar named Sloppy Joes on Greene and Duvall. His name was Joe Russell, and his famous pub earned its name from the messy sawdust floors mixed with melted ice. Later, they added sloppy joes to the menu. 

Larry and I slipped in there for lunch one day and I have to say, it was legit. Around the corner from Sloppy Joe’s is a small shop on Greene Street that sells Key West souvenirs and memorabilia. It’s dedicated to the “Last Flight Out,” owned by a former Air Force pilot, Clay Greager. 

Greager coined the phrase “Last Flight Out” as a philosophy. It is both a warning and a state of mind. In the 1970s, there were only two ways to arrive or depart Key West: drive your car or fly out on Air Sunshine.

The first flight took off at 8:00 a.m., and the last flight out was at 11:00 p.m. Because the airline could not fly on schedule, Conches (residents of the Keys) affectionately called it “Air Sometimes.”

Tourists visiting Key West like to enjoy Florida’s best-kept secret for as long as possible. The rallying cry became, “I’m not leaving until the Last Flight Out.” It was so popular that bartenders, instead of announcing “Last Call,” would shout, “Last Flight Out.”

The rush to the airport resulted in overcrowded flights, and the stranded tourists consoled themselves at the tiny airport bar that never closed. Sometimes, the pilots and crew ended up at the bar, and there was no flight out at all.

Instead of despairing, visitors extended their stay one more day. They say there are people in Key West who visited in the 1970s and are still waiting for their Last Flight Out.

Last Flight Out is a philosophy. It’s a hopeful, daring, and trusting way of looking at life that considers our very existence the ultimate adventure. It challenges us to believe in ourselves, to drop the pretenses, and just live courageously, as if our entire lives were a mission of hope, like the astronauts of Apollo 11, who flew all the way to my harvest moon. 

Maybe we all have a Last Flight Out within us. 

It begs you never to say “I can’t” when you can always say “I do,” as Larry and I did 41 years ago under a harvest moon. It challenges us to step out of our comfort zone and take a leap of faith, trusting that life will catch us, to believe in the celestial bodies that will always illuminate the way. The best things in life are free because they are about our state of mind, not the challenges or provocations…it’s about where you’d like to be…and with whom you’d like to be. Someday, we’ll all be able to fly to the moon, but for now, I’ll enjoy basking in her eternal illumination, remembering it was always about a stoker and her captain, who said yes to an incredible journey without end.


As you know, Christmas is coming, and this is the perfect time to gift someone you love an audio copy of Grow Damn It! Tantor Media has permitted me to offer you a 70% discount! Oh, and there is no limit on how many you order! Use this link to access the sale until 12/6/2024. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 42 Comments

It Takes Both The Left And The Right

To Tie A Shoe

“We have to ask questions, admit to not knowing, risk being told that we shouldn’t be asking, and, sometimes, make discoveries that lead to discomfort.” Brené Brown

Disclaimer, I’m feeling off this week, or my asthma is kicking in, but the truth is I have nothing of value to say. If you decide to read this blog, I am not responsible for any derogatory or wayward influences my words might have on your psyche and/or your well-being. With that being said, we can all get back to Yellowstone. 

We are such strange creatures, don’t you agree? Oddly defined by an evolutionary process that sadly did not favor wings but preferred long legs, big hearts, and a backbone that is conveniently connected to our frontal cortex. This means we can be ridiculously rigid, sometimes funny, undeniably social, occasionally witty, and, under extreme circumstances, run like hell when chased by our deepest fears. 

Don’t you think it is odd that we are born with one hand that can do just about anything and the other one is absolutely useless? I don’t care if it’s your right or left; one of your hands can not hold a pencil or a martini glass. In fact, it struggles with buttons, scissors, and nail polish.

What the hell?

Not to totally dish on our wingless, single-handed design, but we do have opposing thumbs and free will, which is possibly our most radical gift because we have a choice.

And we get to vote.

I realize a third of us are struggling with the new administration, a third are triumphant, and a third refused to get involved. Maybe we’re all secretly disillusioned and disenchanted with our current reality, but that doesn’t make it any less real. 

There is something I know, we all do, but I often choose to ignore. One day, I’ll shut my wrinkled eyes for the last time, game over, and there’s a pretty good chance there is nothing after that, no do-overs, no second chances, just nothing. I’ll simply cease to be, says Alan Watts. 

And even though I know this day is coming, I rarely think about that last moment when I’ll look back on my life and maybe regret the dreams I didn’t chase, the places I didn’t go, obviously never getting into yoga, and most important, I will most likely regret the grudges I held on to for far too long. 

Life happens, and we let it, but maybe it’s time to reevaluate a few things.

So, instead of sitting in my house tonight, listening to the morbid yet titillating news, I’m hosting a girl’s night in. This is the best excuse I can come up with to gather a few friends, stuff ourselves with comfort food, indulge in a wee bit of wine, and have delicious conversations. 

By delicious, I mean slightly scandalous, hopelessly controversial, and definitely sordid. 

When you find people who nourish you, treat you with kindness and respect, and hold space for you, even when you disagree with each other, then, for goodness sake, make room for that kind of person in your life. Shove everything to the side, open the damn door, and let them in. 

Without too much arm bending, I convinced my sister Nancy and our dear friend Delene to drive over in the rain and hunker down with me for the evening.

I lit the fire and some pumpkin spice candles, opened a good bottle of wine, plumped the couch pillows, and waited patiently for them to arrive. 

Of course, we’re remodeling the front bathroom, so the hallway floors are covered with brown paper, there’s dust on every imaginable surface in the house, and crap from the old bathroom is stacked in between the pumpkins, witches, and spiders. 

It’s a look.

We exchange the customary salutations as we wiggle out of our coats and settle into the couch. But there is a moment early on, as if a fire slowly warming a room, where we let our guard down and allow the real, meaningful shit to drive our conversations. 

It’s the sweet spot of the evening when we allow the raw, unguarded truth to emerge and our pretentious, fabricated personas to deflate. 

It can be scary. You feel naked, exposed, and vulnerable. And that’s when you force yourself to resist running through the kitchen, retrieving your armor, and racing out the front door. 

After we stuff ourselves with lasagna, refill our wine, and return to the couch, Delene asks, “What are you writing about this week?”

I say, “I have no idea (mind you, this was two days ago). I’m considering drafting a brief note excusing myself from posting this week like my mom used to do when I was feeling out of sorts.”

Nancy laughed, “Mom did not like it when we messed up her plans with an unscheduled illness.”

I said, “She loved the freedom of doing her own thing during the week.”

“I totally get it.”

Delene interrupts our sisterly exchange and says, “I have an idea about what you might want to tackle in your blog if you’re brave enough.”

Well, that grabbed my attention. I immediately said, “I don’t do politics if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m divisive enough with all my trauma issues.”

Nancy says, “If we have to read one more word about your inner child, we’re all going to block you.”

“Nice, real nice.”

Then Delene says, “I’m not suggesting you host a political discussion, but explore how our political affiliations affect our relationships.”

I must look confused because she adds, “I don’t understand why politics are breaking up families, destroying friendships, and polarizing co-workers. What are your thoughts on all that?”

It’s as if my brain shut down, and I start scratching my psoriasis with my dominant hand.

Nancy pipes in and says, “Oh, believe me, she has thoughts.”

I squirm, “But I’m hesitant to explore them because everything feels so divisive right now, and I have this phobia about not being liked.”

Delene says, “And that’s when we need to be brave.”

Nancy smiles and says, “Oh, stop it. We never vote the same, and I still love you.”

“You’re sort of obligated, but thank you.”

I don’t care who you hang out with or if you’re on the right or left, we all have our own opinions, interests, and affiliations, but sadly, we’re allowing them to destroy our most important relationships. 

And I get it. We’re afraid, but here’s what I fear. When we are vulnerable with each other, it’s fucking risky, but without it, we can’t experience any sort of real connection. I know this, but there is also a part of me that would rather break my own jaw than talk politics. 

Inner child problems. 

I avoid controversial topics as if the plague rather than expose the screwed-up, confused, frantic blogger who truly believes it is impossible to fully grasp all the intricate and complicated issues of our time when I can barely get Wordle in six tries. 

We’re all scared of not getting it right.

And fear is a feisty bitch. She forces me into this tense dance, as if a tango, between opening up and shutting down. 

I mean, think about it, if I share my innermost thoughts with you and you leave me standing there, arms in the air, moving to a melody only I can hear, where does that leave me?

Humiliated. Alone. Vilified, as if Martha Steward, who was unjustly imprisoned but still claims our failures do not define us. She says, it’s how we respond. I love that. 

Some people are born with solid foundations, a confidence that defies the harsh breath of emotional confrontations, and I envy them. The stronger the foundation, the easier it is to be vulnerable, to stand your ground, and yet remain open to your neighbor’s fears, beliefs, and needs. 

I suppose the more we trust ourselves, the less threatening it is to have an honest discussion and know we can disagree without jeopardizing our essential values. It becomes an invitation to meet each other where we are, without all the bullshit, and just trust in the nobility of our most important need—belonging.

If you’re on the left, you think the right is useless; if you’re on the right, you believe the same about the left. But this isn’t about handedness. These are people, and we are not built to thrive in isolation.

But I also believe it is not safe to share your views with everyone. It’s like sex, a certain amount of discretion is required, and it’s never without risk. Look what’s happening in retirement communities across America—STDs. That’s what. I get it. They can’t get pregnant, so they don’t use protection, but it’s the same with conversations. You have to be prudent with your intimacy, become a human prophylactic, if you will, or choose abstinence.

The best part about vulnerability is that it’s contagious. Bahaha. But seriously, when we’re raw and authentic, it gives both parties permission to share their true feelings without pretense. I firmly believe this is when the unexpected can occur—something profound, startling, transformative. 

Embedded in every conflict is the possibility of connection. If we chronically avoid difficult conversations, we miss the opportunity to challenge our beliefs, our knowledge, and our biases. 

Maybe the secret is not seeking validation or approval but consciously holding space for each other, staying curious, and yes, risking the possibility of being in a very close relationship with someone who has a different perspective. 

Life is not black and white. It’s murky. Dive in any way.

What we’re trying to do is something like Rumi suggests, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there.” He says to keep the portal between our two worlds open so that our souls can dance, fully embracing each other’s humanity. 

But remember, it’s a dance, not a marriage.

Delene says, “It breaks my heart when politics destroy families. There is corruption on both sides, but that doesn’t make the people trying to understand these issues corrupt.”

Nancy says, “I find that most people fall somewhere in the middle. We want the same things out of life, affordable housing and food, access to healthcare, clean water, and some way to charge all these electric cars.” 

I add, “Who ever imagined a world where retirees would need more birth control than teenagers?”

Nancy warns, “Cheryl, do not put that in your blog.”

“Oh no, that’s just between us.”

This post isn’t about birth control, my political preferences, or if we bend the arc of moral justice with our right or left hand. At the end of the day, our jobs, our degrees, our political affiliations, and the wealth we have amassed mean absolutely nothing. It’s about our most fragile resource, our human connection, and how the backbone of society is fused with our political sagacity. 

Delene says, “I believe with all my heart that it is possible to share our political views without destroying our relationships.”

Nancy says, “The world might be unpredictable, but my relationships make me feel safe.”

“I have a feeling all this social unrest has been contrived by social media that thrives on our divisiveness. Anxious people are easily controlled.”

If I can’t tie my shoes, put on a bra, or fully embrace you without my right hand helping the left, then maybe we need to create a more ambidextrous world. 

Right?

I want to grow old with the people I love, I want to laugh until I pee my pants, and no one cares because we’re all struggling with incontinence in one way or another. 

The truth is, I feel a sense of peace when I manage to accept how things are rather than how I want them to be. It bubbles up in the midst of all this amicable diversity when I realize there is room for all of us, our range of experience, even our single-handedness. I can’t help but believe we are connected by a force greater than ourselves—a force so grounded in love and compassion some of us gave it a name. All I know is that when we let our hearts break open, it’s the only thing that feeds our weary souls, but like communion, its potency depends on how it is received. 

Thank you for reading, I realize everyone is feeling fragile, so let’s be gentle with our comments. 

This week is the one-year anniversary of Grow Damn It in an audio version, so Tantor Media has given me permission to offer you a 70% discount just in time for Christmas! Use this link to access the sale until 12/6/2024. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 45 Comments

Building Personal Equity

One Breath At A Time

Breathe deeply, until sweet air extinguishes the burn of fear in your lungs and every breath is a beautiful refusal to become anything less than infinite. – D. Antoinette Foy

When I was preverbal, a mere toddler, I used to get so frustrated that I would hold my breath until I passed out. I know. It’s one of my many innovative and unorthodox talents. The problem is that life requires us to breathe, and I’ve noticed that when you hold onto anything too tightly, it changes the structure.

Think relationships, the past, and chocolate, even your own breath…

When I asked Nancy about my ability to pass out at will during one of our morning coffees, she laughed and said she remembered the stories but never actually witnessed an episode. 

She prompts, “An encore performance?”

My sassy response, “Don’t hold your breath.” Bahaha

Family lore claims I did this when I was overwhelmed. How novel. More specifically, it was when we were out in public, leaving my young parents feeling humiliated and desperate. They didn’t know what the hell to do with this bizarre behavior, so they decided it would be best to put me down, walk away, and let me come to on my own. I think they figured the less attention they gave the behavior, the quicker it would go away. 

I get it. My parents were in their early twenties, their brains weren’t fully developed, and they were being methodically tested by the ingenuity of two young children—correction, two young females—who are undoubtedly the more challenging of the two sexes. 

Nancy says, “From the family gossip, I heard no one would babysit you except our grandparents.”

“I heard that, too. I was probably just hungry and had no way of communicating my needs.”

“The problem was mom stuck with her schedule come hell or high water.”

“Don’t I know it?”

“Thank God I was so docile and sweet, clearly their favorite.”

“And how has that served you?”

She peers at me over the rim of her glasses like older sisters do and says, “I was never as hungry as you.”

“Oh, that’s provocative.”

“It is indeed.”

What our young and devoted parents didn’t understand is how our early childhood experiences wire us for the rest of our lives. By the time you are five, they say, you have figured out how to get your most important needs met—and belonging is the one that overrides all the others—even breathing. 

So here I am at 64 years of age, trying to imagine how it would feel to wake up all alone in an empty room, scared, upset, and abandoned by the people I depended on the most. 

I metaphorically picked up that little girl and held her for a while. It felt good. Then I went into the kitchen and heated up some leftover pizza. When you’re hungry, you’re hungry. 

We celebrated All Souls Day recently, and for those unfamiliar, it’s a day when people all over the world honor the dead. This always reminds me of the story of Lazarus from the Bible. He was Martha and Mary’s brother (Remember the crazy sisters who have very different approaches to life—remind you of anyone?), but he was also super tight with Jesus. Unfortunately, Lazarus got sick and died while his friend was out of town. 

Martha and Mary were inconsolable.  

Anyway, they laid poor Lazarus in a dark cave for four days, swaddled in burial linens, surrounded by his grieving friends—just imagine the odor. When Jesus finally sauntered back into town, he tried to console Martha and Mary, but to no avail. They blamed the death on his absence. Isn’t that ironic?

I get it. When I’m hurting, I want someone to blame too. 

What could Jesus do? He bawled his eyes out before bringing Lazarus back to life. That was easier than dealing with the wrath of Martha and Mary.

Imagine how Lazarus must have felt when his breath was restored. He was alone, lying in a dark cave, with a bunch of rubberneckers milling around when he heard Jesus yelling, “Come out of it, dude.” (I’m paraphrasing)

I can totally relate. Bahaha

No wonder I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to be a people-pleaser, the one who ignores her own needs rather than risk being abandoned. It’s not a surprise that I have deplorable boundaries and struggle with social anxiety. I’m sure there’s more, but we don’t need to peel the entire onion today.

Some of these behaviors are obviously cultural. Women are taught to nurture others, never show healthy anger, or put their needs first. It’s a toxic combination. According to Gabor Mate, when we continually suppress our emotions, we also suppress our immune system and unconsciously allow our primal fears to make all the decisions. 

Let me just say I create a lot of unnecessary drama for myself.

So, lately, I’ve been advocating for my own needs as if I were a public defender, but I’m representing myself. It’s complicated. Like Martha and Mary, I want to be an inconvenient woman, free to express my thoughts and know my own worth. I’m billing it as personal equity.

I think it is essential to stay curious about one’s own patterns of behavior, especially the ones that are no longer working and creating more problems than they are solving. 

Like a lawyer, I forced myself to stand in front of a mirror and answer some difficult questions. What do I see when I look in the mirror? Do I see my inherent value, or is my reflection based on how others see me? Do I see myself as a woman of integrity with much to contribute, or is my worth based on societal norms that trivialize women as they age? Am I looking at myself through a loving lens or one that is critical and depreciating? Do I see the gentle soul standing before me, longing for love and acceptance, who refuses to be overwhelmed by her hunger for life?

When I get quiet and mindful, I realize the pain I feel in my heart has to do with my fear of abandonment and a desire to sustain my relationships with others—enjoy social inclusion and emotional support. Gut distress is generally about my need for independence, both from other people and restrictive or judgemental environments. The fear in my head is usually about my desire for safety, competence, and predictability. That’s where my sweet mother lived, in her head. 

So I made a deal with that little girl who resorted to holding her breath when she didn’t know how to communicate her needs. I reminded myself that this is no longer our reality. I have a voice and will not abandon myself because I’m afraid to say what I think. I’ve given myself permission to be exactly who I was meant to be, with the authority to change and grow as needed. 

I suppose by acknowledging the past and honoring my childish fears, I’m learning to let them go—well, at least not put them in charge of my ability to breathe. I’ve learned a lot about myself, and now that I know better, I’m doing better. And yes, I’ll risk peeking into those scary places once in a while where I harbor old doubts and fears, but they will no longer define me.

Life is all about breath. 

Remember how God breathed into the dust to create life in the first place? Maybe that’s because breathing corresponds to taking charge of one’s life. Who’s to say if the joy of breathing is truly worth all the suffering and effort that life requires? But I’m opening myself to the possibility that God has been waiting to breathe new air into my lungs all along so I can be restored, reenvisioned, renewed. I know this, my friend—if we wake up breathing, we have another chance to get it right. 

I’m Living in the Gap, fogging the mirror with all this talk. Let’s chat in the comments.