Posted on by cheryloreglia · 39 Comments

Must Love Drama

“The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself.”

― William Faulkner

It’s a good day for a drive.

The weather apps predict high 70s, clear skies, no wind. So we set our sights on Point Reyes, along the California coast, with hopes of seeing new things and sucking down a few oysters before landing at the lake house. 

Larry slips the grey silky cover (nicer then my bed sheets) off his beloved Porche parked in the garage, mind you, and because the seats are so low to the ground, I lead with my butt, and free fall into the car. 

A good cushion helps, and no, I’m not talking about the seats. 

It’s interesting how unrelated events in one’s life are like pieces of an enormous puzzle that eventually reveal an elaborate image that clandestinely leads us towards our ultimate destiny. 

Tell me you understand this phenomenon. Lie if you have to. 

So there we are, rolling down the 101, top down, wind in my hair, Bob Marley playing on the radio, just to set the scene. We’re about to cross the iconic Golden Gate Bridge, where I traditionally contemplate what would happen if we suddenly had an earthquake. I know. I have a gruesome imagination.

This is one of the longest suspension bridges in the world, spanning almost two miles across the narrow strait where the San Francisco Bay opens to the Pacific Ocean. To distract my morbid thoughts, I shift my gaze to the towers extending 746 feet into the sky, and all I can think about is what it would feel like to hit the water from this height.

I spot a crowd of tourists gathered on the ragged cliffs along the West Peak of Mount Tamalpais, where the US military carved away the mountain to install a massive defense system, abandoned in 1982. There is a road that leads up to the vacated site with extraordinary views of the city by the bay. Does it feel like we are always at war with something or someone?

It does. Thank you for confirming.

Why is life such a battle, right down to the war raging within each and every one of us? Unless you’re Buddha, of course. The only rational response is God must love drama. Or is there something else going on?

Harmony, that’s the culprit, it passes unnoticed, and the potential for growth is abdicated for comfort. If the snake had not tempted Eve, we would still be walking around in the garden of Eden without our fig leaves or a She Shed (a nicely veiled hint for my upcoming birthday). If Jacob hadn’t stolen his brother’s birthright, they’d just be twins. If Moses hadn’t had to deal with a crazy Pharaoh, moving his people out of Egypt would have been a simple corporate relocation, with no plagues, angels of death, red seas, or burning bushes. 

Without the crucifixion, who would Jesus be? 

Well I tell you what, I spent a good portion of my day begging for his help, the crucified one, who went before me so I wouldn’t lose my way, who promises to save me from myself, who loves me just the way I am, but not exactly, so he pushes me past my comfort zone again and again because this is how I was designed to learn, how I stretch my self limiting beliefs, shift my thinking, and discover new ways of being in the world. 

We all do, whether we like it or not.

Discord makes this life meaningful, purposeful, and memorable because growth happens within the delimited conflict zone, like those jagged cliffs on both sides of a precarious bay.

It’s why we run when the kids are quiet because we know trouble is brewing. It’s the same thing with our lives. When things are balmy, watch out, because God is the consummate gardener, your germination is over, and you are about to be cultivated.

When I think about it, my growth is always instigated by conflict, it also anchors my memories and drives my passions. What if I stopped hiding from conflict, avoiding it at all costs, and went in search of it instead? That is sure to spin Larry up! Right? Let’s not settle for those metaphorical rocking chairs just yet because I don’t think they exist. The goal is not harmony.

It’s growth. That’s why we’re here.

Larry is a natural drama generator. He should patent this capacity. Seriously, he can’t even go for a leisurely drive because there is always someone he needs to pass. He suddenly kicks the 911 into sports mode, and we go from 65 to 85 in a second to get past a little old lady with an old dude sleeping in the passenger seat. Really? My hair looks like a wad of cotton candy, I think I just swallowed a bug, and my hand hurts from gripping the dashboard.

I don’t know why I didn’t jump out of the car at the first stop light. 

When we crossed into the valley of the Point Reyes Peninsula, it was as if we had left the modern world behind, especially all the Prius drivers. There are no cell phone towers, Starbucks, or charging stations—it’s as if we landed in a quiet, serene land just outside of a noisy world, and praise be to God, there is not a cloud in the sky. 

As we approached the Point Reyes lighthouse after miles of driving in the most unspoiled landscape imaginable, I stood on the edge of a cliff, admiring miles of pristine coastline, with these magnificent waves crashing against the rocky headlands and expansive sand beaches. Your eyes scan the open grasslands, brushy hillsides, and forested ridges, and I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. 

Parking at the visitor center, we headed to the lighthouse. There’s a slight uphill climb, then down and up again, but that’s where it gets interesting. There are 313 steps down to the lighthouse, which boasts the oldest working original lighthouse lantern in the country. We check out the actual structure, walking all the way around her waist and into her inner sanctuary where the most beautiful light is stored. Isn’t that true of everyone? 

Anyway, after the thrill of the expansive views, a whale sighting, and exploring the mysteries of a lighthouse in general, we head back up 313 steps, equivalent to 25 stories, and yes, I am dying, and not exactly quiet about my woes. 

You know what I learned. 

You have to keep moving forward, every painful step at a time, because when you stand still, you cause a human traffic jam, or you’re forced to return from where you just came, and where does that get you? 

So I climbed, head down, appealing to the crucified one, because I assumed he could relate. I tried to keep breathing, one damn step at a time until I got to the top, over the hill and back to the car, landing soundly on my sore butt. Suddenly, the open concept of this convertible was appealing as the cool breeze dried my sweaty body and wet hair. 

We were both quiet while I recovered my breath, and Larry contemplated how he was going to talk me into walking several more miles along the cliffs to get a glimpse of the elephant seals now mating, birthing, and slumming it on Drakes Beach. 

He waited just long enough for my legs to stop shaking and my lungs to stop gasping for air before suggesting the hike. He said, “We can go back at any time, if you get tired.”

“I am already tired.”

“We can skip it, but we’ll miss the elephant seals.”

“Oh, for the love of God, let’s go.” 

And I’m so glad we did. It reminded me of the El Camino de Santiago, when at the end of a long day, with miles to go, I would search the landscape for flowers, especially the purple ones, and they would keep me going. I did the same on the cliffs of Drake’s Beach. When I finally looked up, the views were extraordinary, and the elephant seals seemed quite relaxed, unperturbed by all the people staring down at them from above. Maybe they thought they were watching us?

All this hiking sponsored a powerful hunger in us for cooked oysters. Tamales Bay is known for its local offering of succulent Kumamoto oysters, raw or cooked, with the distinctive smoky sweetness of the Pacific oysters. 

The secret behind this rich marine bounty is the upwelling process, where cold, nutrient-rich waters from the ocean’s depths ascend, displacing the warmer surface waters and fostering a vibrant and diverse marine ecosystem. I grabbed that from the Point Reyes website, consider that my source citation. I couldn’t describe the process of upwelling any better, which literally means to build up or gather strength. 

And that was my day.

So, we stopped at the first place listed by a travel blogger we were following for this Point Reyes adventure. We dragged our sorry selves out of the low car, hungry for substance, and when we got to the front door, the proprietor told us they were closed. Onward, we found another oyster bar along the 101, packed with cars, and we took that as a good sign. 

Larry and I are now both a bit grouchy (shocking, I know), and we aren’t past snarking at each other as we scrambled to secure parking, I point, he laments. It gets ugly. Larry locks the car and storms up to the counter. 

I’m only steps behind him, but with a slight limp, when I hear the lady say, “I’m sorry, but we have no more table seatings today.” 

In other words, they’re out of oysters and closed. Not deterred, we drove further north, feeling more and more desperate with each passing mile, but we found a pack-and-go place that had four oysters left. We took them and two cups of steaming clam chowder. 

Sitting on the dusty curb in front of the grocery store, we scarf down our grub, only pausing to wipe the juice of the oysters off our chins. Our perch did not have the charm of an oyster bar, with a cool glass of wine in my hand and warm French bread to dip in my chowder, but the flavors were both unholy and divine. 

I woke up early the following day, made a heroic move to get out of bed, and almost screamed. The struggle to the kitchen was real. I’m staring out the back slider overlooking the lake. It’s pitch dark, my feet are cold, but the coffee is hot, and I’m clutching a used copy of Patti Smith’s book under my left arm. 

It’s called Devotion.

After snuggling under a blanket in the double-wide chair, I start reading because I don’t have to move anything but my eyes. I stopped at the second paragraph. My breath is hitched and ragged, I might be crying, and I definitely have the chills. I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee, ponder, shake my head, and read the passage again. 

Patti Smith writes, “The pen is lifted, guided by the shattered muse. Without discord, it marks, harmony passes unnoticed, without discord, it continues, Able is rendered no more than a forgotten shepherd.” OMG. I’m so consumed by her writing, she glossing over the very concepts I only recently tried to grasp, it’s as if I stumbled on the future unawares. 

I dive back in, only to discover she likes crows, Bob Dylan, and New York. I’m soaking up her idioms like a sponge, and ever so slowly, I’m falling in love with Patti Smith. I’m so smitten that I don’t hear Larry entering the room.

He says, “If we’re going to clean up the courtyard today, we have to get started.” I have no idea what he said or who he is. 

I say with as much sovereignty as I can muster, “No, I’m reading today.”

“We’re weeding so you can plant the flowers you bought. Remember, this was your idea.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

He changes tactics. “Do you need some more coffee?”

Without looking up from my beloved muse, my mentor, my new friend, I say, “yes, please.”

He fills my cup, watching me like you would a naughty toddler, unpredictable, untamed, a danger unto herself. I’m in total conflict. When am I not? I cannot tear myself from the pages.

He moves to the kitchen and returns with a perfectly seared pancake, smothered in butter, and hands it to me. 

I take a deep breath, put down my devotion, and eat. 

He does not entreat me again, just walks outside and starts deweeding the front bed. 

I followed with my coffee, but I was frowning, Patti’s small book protruding out of my back pocket because if I left her on the side table, she might disappear.

Kneeling on the hard cement, pulling weeds, in silence, I contemplate Patti Smith’s words, the symmetry of her writing, the alienation of being a creative, the distinct passages when she takes me with her for a plate of ham and eggs at Cafe de Flore, how the hand of gravity is pulling her under, and in her genius she synchronizes Simone Weil’s biography with a Russian ice skater in perfect semitry. Smith climbs the side of a volcano, as I stare at Mt. Konocti, heat drawn from the well of devotion that is the female heart. 

I just can’t…get…enough. 

I drop the seeds in the newly turned dirt, noting how all things emerge from the darkness, like these flowers that will have to break out of their pods after being buried in the soil, or the baby out of the womb, and those fragrant words rising out of the depth of Patti’s heart. 

I’m trying to describe all these feelings to Larry when he smiles like it all just made sense to him. He says something crude which I will not repeat, but believe me, he did not get it. 

Here’s my theory. We need conflict, if not, what is there to shake us up, to drag us away from a comfortable life and into a place where we can grow and thrive? The flower is to bloom, a child is to grow, and the adult is to reach her full potential through trial and tribulation, trusting the core of her being will naturally turn toward the light, as if a sunflower, thriving under the intensity of a heated moment.

Back in Campbell, I’m home, but part of me is still at the lake. There is a distinct chill in the air, and the wind is howling outside, blowing the arbor curtains into the sky as if they were ghosts caught between this life and the next. The flames of a small fire warm the room, but I’m thinking of other things. Adulting is complicated, and as the winter fades, I’m intoxicated by the sensuality of spring, the lush foliage and cherry blossoms, the eroticism of the tulips and daffidiles, all this in direct conflict with the innocent lamb about to be slaughtered. 

Because that is where new life begins…. 

Then Mary Ellen sends me this quote from Anne Lamott, “It is still cold and will be for a while, and we’ll need the warmth of heaters and fires for a while, the light the little sunrises and sunsets we create in the fireplace, but I tell you, something is rising, unscripted, elemental, incremental. It always does, right about now, like clockwork.”

As we emerge from the sacrifices of Lent, the miracle of Passover, or simply slip into the first sleeveless shirt of the new year, I’m going to welcome the conflicts and discord in my life, it is the schism in which we are designed to thrive in a world where our memories of the beginning and end have been severanced for our own well-being. We are here to grow, which happens when things are ruptured, broken open, when our inner core is breached, and somehow we emerge from the darkest of places with a new appreciation for the light. The thing is the conflicts will come as if contractions, pushing us forward, into a new existence, curious, ready, and able to exit the womb, our childhood, the wonder years, adulthood, and finally this life on our own. 

I’m Living in the Gap, welcoming discord, and a few growing pains! Join me…

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 58 Comments

Your Phone Is Not Your Friend

Don’t Tell It Your Secrets 
Don’t Let It Seduce YOU
And Other Things Your Mother Never Told You

Not to put too fine a point on it, but it feels like the machinery of late stage capitalism coughed up the internet for us with its empty promises of connecting us all through social media – only to leave us in a mirrored fun house of confirmation bias. Nadia Bolz Weber

What is our greatest human accomplishment?

That we’re still here. We haven’t been completely obliterated since our unlikely conception by gruesome wars, plagues, climate change, politicians, or vegetable oil, despite the odds. We’ve survived the worst atrocities imaginable, only to be reduced to a paranoid and isolated version of ourselves by our iPhones.

It’s as if my iPhone has become my most intimate relationship and it’s getting weird. You know what I mean?

In an attempt to be as transparent as possible, I offer a warning about the following content. It’s not for everyone; it’s crass, and my mother would be appalled, but the truth is it’s happening to many of us, and I figured I’d risk your disapproval in preference to exploring the reality of modern society and the damaging effects of these damn smartphones.

The other day, Larry and I were sitting in the double-wide chair at the lake house, talking with our son Tony on our phone. Tony is renovating his home in Portugal (Link here). He’s reattaching the old baseboards Larry removed so they could resurface the floors, but some of the wood is missing or warped, and Tony’s trying to figure out how to conceal the damage.

Tony said, “I’m trying to decide if it’s best to screw the boards back in place or use a nail gun?”

Larry says, “The nail gun is your best option. I think your friend Lucus mentioned he had one.”

“The bigger problem is the huge gaps between the wood and the walls.”

“Caulk is your savior. It hides everything. Fill the gaps with plenty of caulk, paint it, and no one will ever notice the imperfections.”

We chatted about a few other things, finished our call, and Larry and I continued on with our day until I noticed he was curled up on the couch, cradling his phone as if it were a cube of pure gold, laughing like a schoolboy. 

I said, “What the hell is so funny?” (I know, I’m such a sweetheart)

He couldn’t even respond. Red-faced, feet kicking, curled up in the fetal position, cackling like a hyena, tears rolling down his face. He finally wipes his eyes and says, “I sent you a reel. Unbelievable, I mentioned the word caulk, and now I’m a predator. Our phones are listening to everything we say.”

I grabbed my phone. Now, mind you, he could have walked 10 steps across the living room to show me the reel from his phone, but no, let’s use our screwed-up technology instead. I’m a little perturbed because now I will get the same sort of content the minute I open up this reel. 

It’s a cartoon (linked below, content warning). There’s this buffed, unshaven guy with a low-hung carpenter belt holding up a caulk gun, and he says to the lady standing in the doorway to her home, “I heard you had a hole that needed to be filled.”

She laughs, her face turns red, and she says, “Yes, is that a big job?”

“Nothing my caulk can’t handle.”

“So you just fill the hole with your caulk?”

It goes downhill from there, and as I listen to the rest of the cartoon with a perplexed look on my face, Larry starts losing it again. I look over at him and realize we truly are two different species. 

What was God thinking? 

Larry finally pulls it together and says, “Whatever I say when I’m near my phone, I end up with some sort of ad, product information, or, in this case, a guy obsessed with his caulk.” He can’t help himself and starts laughing again. 

“Well, they’ve certainly nailed you, so to speak.”

He tries to defend himself, “My feed is normally all about renovations, traveling, sports, and cycling trips.”

“Mine is filled with babies, skin care, a Rabbi with an attitude, and Mel Robbins. How did we ever marry?”

I think it’s sort of alarming that we have allowed our phones to spy on us; they know what we want, what we believe, and in a way, they’re shaping us without our knowledge by confirming our biases and preferences. That should shake us up enough to put the damn things in an incinerator, or at the very least, store them in a soundproof box when we don’t need them. I feel a little like Chucky, I’ve transferred my soul into a recursive algorithm, and now it’s planning my execution.

I tell Larry, “The other day, I was joking with Nancy (my sister) about my turkey neck (suddenly he’s inspecting my neck and I have to wave him off), and now I get ads for crappy skin creams, silk chin straps from Japan, a retreat in Barcelona with Dr. Amanda, the Midlife Muse, and a man named Ben is offering me energy healings in an Appalachian yurt for $1,000 an hour, but the sale ends soon.”  

“I can do energy healings from a tent in our backyard if that’s what you need.”

“Can you now? Maybe for Lent, we should have given up our phones?”

“At the very least, you should block Ben. Is that really his name?”

“His spiritual name is Isa and he has incredible hair. All that energy healing I suppose.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Bahaha (Just between you and me, I totally made up the Appalachian yurt part)

What are the more serious implications of all this mirroring? We are being profiled by some invisible AI who is monetizing all this information with product ads, which makes me think I’m not good enough, firm enough, happy enough, and I smell bad. If the ads reflect our personal dreams and desires, what does it mean that I’m bombarded with offers to botox my feet so I can wear heels all night, or how to make expresso martini jello shots with real coffee beans, and Mel Robbins chanting endlessly about the Let Them Theory which is like telling that little Dutch boy to pull his finger out of the dike and just Let Them deal with the flood in the morning. Okay, she’s pretty interesting, but is this what I really need?

The fact that I click on the bait and then share it with my cousins, friends, and sister probably doesn’t help. It’s like we’re all a bunch of brainless flies caught in the sticky web of the internet. 

Our Phones are seductive and so good at persuading us to think we can’t live without them. In fact, most of the time, my phone is either in my hand, in my purse, or lying on a table nearby, listening to everything I say. It’s creepy. I think I’m using it to relax, see what my friends are doing, and play a little solitaire, but what I’m really doing is affecting my identity, making choices about how I spend my time and money, and ever so subtly, it is confirming my own phobias, biases, and beliefs. 

I have become a highly marketable algorithmic niche with seasonal interest and mild anxiety. Oh, and as a courtesy, do not click on any snake videos, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Victor Frankl says, “Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing, your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation.”

What if we all start whispering random things like, “Should dust mites have legal rights,” “If I tie helium balloons to my hair, will it give me the lift I need,” or  “Should fly swatters be considered lethal weapons,” just to confuse the damn algorithms.

The thing is, we can fight back, put the phone in another room, create No Phone Zones, or better yet, we should be fasting from our phones because they are way worse for our humanity than sugar, fast food, the Marlboro Man, or alcohol ever was. I have to believe we are smarter than our smartphones, and together, we can beat the system.

What if I tried to learn about the world by talking with actual people face to face, instead of texting and sharing reels from a chair in my room? Maybe I should challenge myself to touch others as much as I touch my phone, to watch a documentary or read a book instead of scrolling for answers, to engage in conversations that make me uncomfortable, because they actually challenge my thinking instead of confirming what I already believe. Let’s figure out how to fill the holes in our lives with beautiful, frustrating, loving, annoying, funny, demanding, and heartwarming people instead of an algorithm with a caulk fetish named Jamie. 

I’m Living in the Gap, trying to upset the algorithms of life, love to know your thoughts.

Big news, Grow Damn It, the audio version with the fabulous Hilary Huber, is on sale! I know, 50% off, maybe mention it to your phone. Here’s the link, just click it, and it’ll take you directly to the sale page. https://www.audiobooks.com/promotions/promotedBook/710778/grow-damn-it-the-feeding-and-nurturing-of-life?refId=184493

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 28 Comments

The Secret To Life

What To Keep
What To Let Go

“Any Portuguese town looks like bride’s finery – something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.” – Mary McCarthy

Portugal is always calling me like a shot of espresso, the memory of a fresh pastel de nata, and the allure of being near my kids, especially when they need me. Just when I think I’ve fulfilled my maternal calling, I’m drawn back through that portal again and again, besieged by the joy of being reconnected to my sweet daughter-in-love, and wanderlust son who bought their first home on the Iberian Peninsula in Southwestern Europe, otherwise known as Portugal.

Larry and I made a last-minute decision to help Tony and Thalita move into their “new” home because we wanted to be part of this momentous occasion and at my age the idea of missing out on anything is real.

We Uber from the airport to our little rental on the coast of Carcavelos. There is a storm in full force and the windshield wipers are barely able to keep the window clear. The piercing sound of someone laying on their car horn fills the air, and suddenly the fist of our driver rises out of the lowered window waving wildly at the grievous offender just in front of us. I prepare myself for the inevitable crash, when both cars screech to a halt. I hear someone shout, “Que porra é essa?” The crude expression is returned only louder by the second car. 

Everyone moves on, no harm, no foul.

This is when I know I’ve arrived in Portugal because as Thalita says, “Driving in Portugal is like living in a video game, things just happen without warning or reason.”

It’s true. 

The problem is everyone drives at breakneck speeds, ignoring traffic laws, and honestly, there are no perceivable lanes. People walk onto the street without looking, a dog appears out of nowhere, or someone decides to double park right in front of the bakery so his mother can wrangle out of the car, hold up traffic for ten minutes while she selects fresh queques, croissants, brioches, and savory meat puffs. Without remorse, she walks back to the car, hands her son the bag of pastries, slowly reenters the vehicle, and they drive away. 

It’s absolutely baffling.  All I can say is thank God for good brakes. It appears to be the only mechanism keeping Portugal from falling into total social unrest. 

A brake is simply a device. A soft tap on the pedal and the car slows down, but what’s interesting to me is how it defines not only how we drive, but how we live. 

Portugal, like most countries, has a complicated history. They have always been known for their courage at sea and navigational expertise, think Henry the Navigator, and how they have sailed with that opportunity for centuries. Portugal was a enormously influential society, establishing colonies worldwide, maintaining its dominance at sea, establishing novel trade routes, and mining gold from Brazil. However, they suffered a severe brake in their success under the Philippine Dynasty. In 1755 the country was flattened by a catastrophic earthquake. Just when everything literally came crashing down, the stunned survivors followed Sebvastiao de Melo famous advice, “What now? We bury the dead and feed the living,” and they rebuilt their country with unusual speed and competence. 

If conflict, unexpected challenges, and sudden changes are simply part of our universal experience, then good brakes are essential…it’s a microcosm for life. 

For me, Portugal is charming and inviting, the food is flavorful, with enticing aromas, and generous proportions. Each night as Larry and I sit on the balcony of our rented apartment in Carcavelos, overlooking the enchanting Sao Juliao da Barra Fortress, maybe a thousand feet from where we sit, it feels as if the sea and the sky merge, and I sit there witnessing an explosion of breathtaking colors. 

You know what I feel? 

Gratitude, enormous gratitude, and it comes from the core of my being, only to be interrupted by the occasional horn, and a few cuss words coming from the causeway below. It makes me smile because isn’t that always the way, our bliss is continually interrupted, our gratitude challenged, and then something swoops in and takes the last cracker off my charcuterie tray, in this case it was a seagal. 

Portugal is mesmerizing, from the cobblestone streets, to the sea of red roofs, and charming stucco houses decorated with colorful ceramic tiles. The rolling hills, lush landscape, and rustic coastline are entirely captivating. But I have to admit, the minute I land, I find myself counting the days before I have to leave. It’s as if I’m a human hour glass and someone has turned me upside down. 

Don’t get too literal, my sand is constantly shifting, enough said. 

Saudade is a unique word that is difficult to translate, it has something to do with the melancholic feeling of loss and the desire to meet someone again or find something that we have lost, it is a very Portuguese feeling. 

As a country, the Portuguese women were separated from their men for years at a time as the men crossed the seas, defending their colonies and trade routes. It is part of the Fado tradition, where the feeling of loss and heartache are sung often while the audience is enjoying a traditional Portuguese meal, it is the music that makes Saudade universal, and although Tony and Thalita are not lost at sea, we are separated by one and somewhere deep inside, I intimately understand the meaning of this deeply felt emotion.

I stand back and watch Tony and Thalita encounter their new home with the perpetual energy and enthusiasm of youth. What we all thought a little paint and elbow grease would fix turned into a monolithic renovation project none of us expected. I suppose we all have to be reminded again and again –  we are not in control, we never have been and never will be. 

Control is an illusion and that’s why we need reliable brakes.

After twelve hours of flying and four hours of sleep, Larry and I landed in Portugal during a horrific rainstorm, the day after Tony and Thalita were handed the keys to their new home.

I love the rain but drenched doesn’t fully describe our state of being after several trips hauling things down from their old place (fourth floor walk-up, no elevator), into the rented van, and up to their new home (fourth floor walk-up, no elevator). By the way, I lost count of my steps at half a million.

They bought a charming three-bedroom, two-bath home with a vintage fireplace that beautifully anchors the space. It has been under the same ownership for over 40 years. The elderly couple came down from Porto last week to show Tony and Thalita all the house’s secrets. 

It has an attic with a mysterious door in the back, some cleverly disguised hide-a-beds, and how the fireplace is designed to warm the entire space. In an adorable twist of events, the elderly couple asked if they could sleep in their home one last night before they returned to Porto. 

Who could resist?

They left most of their furniture behind for Tony and Thalita to enjoy. But sadly, it is not their style, which meant we had to make some difficult decisions. What to keep and what to let go. It’s a holy process, in my opinion, and it made me realize that this is something we encounter throughout our lives, regardless of age. 

We decide what and who we keep in our lives, what we do with our days, what we believe in, and sometimes what we’re willing to fight for. But this means we must also decide what to let go, what no longer fits, or serves our sacred purpose. I suppose, in a way, this is how we continually recreate ourselves. 

After a close inspection, we realized every room had been wallpapered repeatedly over the decades of ownership and had finally been painted over to dress the house for sale. If we had any hope of removing the bulges and wrinkles dominating every wall, we had to let the wallpaper go. 

Thalita and I spent the next eight days peeling the wallpaper in every room down to the original plaster. The first layer is always the easiest to remove, but as you work your way down through layer after layer of a person’s life, various color schemes, images, and trends start to emerge, but the glue at the core is the most stubborn. I felt intimately attached to the history of this place, and all I know is that it has been dearly loved. 

The ceilings were painted with a shiny enamel paint, the lighting was wired in the last century, and the fixtures are just as old. Larry started painting the ceilings, doors, and molding straight away, which meant climbing over and under furniture as he worked. As we depapered the walls, he redressed them with a soft off-white paint.

Around 3:00 p.m. each day, my fingers start to cramp up, like your legs do after a sixty-mile ride. I have to put down the scraper, remove my yellow latex gloves, and aggressively massage them to work out the cramps. 

Who knew fingers could do that?

Day after day we’d walk to their apartment after a cup of instant coffee and a piece of buttered toast in our sweet little rental, arriving around 9:00 am. We’d get to work sanding, soaking with warm water, scraping, peeling, sanding, more water, scratching, peeling…while Larry painted until it was time for lunch. Then the four of us walked to a local hamburger joint, or the kids would pick up sandwiches to eat in their adorable sunlit kitchen, and of course we enjoyed a traditional shot of espresso after lunch.

It very quickly became our beloved way of life.

Around five oclock in the evening, Larry would put on the brakes, he’d yell, “Time to go home Cheryl, let’s pack it up,” and we’d walk back to our apartment to enjoy a glass of wine on the patio, while I iced my knee, and massaged my fingers. We’re clearly not spring chickens anymore. Mind you, Tony and Thalita, continued to work while we watched the sun set and sipped our wine.

We’d meet for late dinners because the restaurants don’t open until 7:00 or 8:00 in this fairy-tale land. I have to brag a little because our meals were gastronimical extravaganzas every damn night. The thing is you can eat a lot more when you’re doing manual labor all day. One of our first nights we enjoyed dinner at our favorite chicken place by their old house (seriously the best chicken I have ever tasted). 

Larry and I are so serious about securing our chicken.

We hit up several incredible steak houses, enjoyed a few traditional Portuguese meals, and an all-you-can-eat dinner one night that would take an entire blog to adequately describe. 

As the days passed, I would wake up every morning sore, disoriented, and slightly tired from trying to sleep when I’m usually awake. I’d open one eye and wonder where the hell I am and what has become of me? I’d have to claw my way through the layers of sleep, peeling back time until I returned to myself. 

Does that happen to you when you’re traveling or over-tired?

We decided to take a day off to visit the villa Larry and I rented for the family in July, when we’ll return to celebrate Tony and Thalita’s wedding (below are three images of the property). We also made an appointment to tour the venue they chose for their ceremony and reception.

Of course, it was pouring rain on our day off, but we persevered, arriving at the villa at around 11:00 in beautiful Sintra. We were thrilled with the property, the amenities, outdoor spaces, seven rooms, eight bathrooms, a generous pool, elaborate kitchen, and it comes with a recommendation for a chef who will help us with the rehearsal dinner we’re hosting the night before the wedding. 

Then we headed to the wedding venue after a delicious lunch and shopping in town. It was stunning, with incredible views, a charming mansion, small chapel, and this balcony that puts all other balconies to shame. It’s perfect. Reminds me of the quote by Mary McCarthy, the one I started this post with, which claims Portugal is like a bride’s finery – something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue.” 

After our tour, we returned to our car, and discovered we had parked in front of a winery we thought was closed, but a worker was leaning out the door and giving us the stink eye because we parked but didn’t come in. 

See, this is when you put on the brakes. 

We decided to investigate, which turned into a tour, and a delightful tasting of local Portuguese wine. Tony and Thalita bought a special bottle of wine meant to be laid down for a decade and plan to open it on their 10th wedding anniversary. How adorable is that?

If Portugal is anything, it is a tapestry of colors, tastes, and experiences that weave their way into your heart, changing you ever so slightly, and drawing you back again and again. 

We traveled to Cascais one night for dinner and landed at a pub to watch the football game between Benfica and Barcelona. Apparently this was an important game. Our team lost, but it was fun to cheer on The Reds (Encarnados) with the locals, listen to their banter about the players and the referees, and see the intensity with which they love their teams. It’s a thing in Portugal. 

Tony and Thalita recruited some help on the seventh day and an adorable couple, Lucas and Beatriz, joined in the de-wallpapering effort. Oh what a fun day. 

Lucus is lively, where Beatriz is divine, and together they are an enchanting couple. Lucus kept the momentum and energy going with a battery of questions as we worked. 

For example, he’d shout, “Cheryl, what are your top five all-time favorite movies.” 

I listed seven or eight because I couldn’t weed it down to just five. 

“Only your top five.” 

“I refuse to quantify my favorites.” 

So Lucus laughed, “Okay, we’ll make an exception for you.” 

When we exhausted our favorite movies, he moved on to television shows, books, and hobbies. This made time pass quickly, and we got to know each other during the process.

Around midday, we learned that Lucus might be traveling to San Francisco for a work event, so we invited him to stay in our guest room. Now, he should be one hell of an intriguing houseguest. 

By lunch, Lucas discovered Larry and I were working on a book together, but Larry was not keeping up with his part of the writing. Well, it turns out Lucus is a teacher, and for the rest of the day, while he continued to peel old paper off the dining room walls, he set up a program for Larry to follow that will assist with his writing.  

The more I peel away the layers of wallpaper, the more I fall for the soft corners of this home, the untold stories, sacred patterns, and layers of life. 

Larry and I ditched the kids around 5:00 that night, letting the four of them finish the last wall in the dining room together because we had a cocktail calling us at Pastorini’s about 500 feet from our apartment, on the very edge of the ocean.

As new homeowners, Tony and Thalita have discovered all sorts of issues that need solving that they didn’t expect, from upgrading the electrical panel, to fixing a leaky washing machine, and securing enough hot water for two showers. 

Here’s what I’m using to drive (pun intended) this post home. A good set of brakes and knowing when to use them is key in life, but also understanding what to keep, what to let go, what to fix first, and what can wait…it’s a constant conundrum of this ridiculously incredible life.

I’m acutely aware how my time in Portugal is dwindling, the sand in my hourglass has gathered at the base, and I will be dragged away before I’m ready. I left 5 tubs of homemade spaghetti sause in the frezzer, pasta in cupboard, and hopefully my fingerprints everywhere else.

By 6:15 am, Tony has brought around the car and is waiting under a street light for us to wrestle our oversized bags into the trunk. It’s raining lightly as he chauffeurs us to the airport. We are mostly quiet as he pulls alongside the curb to let us out, the tears immediately form in my eyes, and the knot that has been throbbing in my throat all morning has gone into overdrive. I’ll admit, my hug is slightly desperate, and I struggle to say good-bye to my sweet boy. 

It never gets easier.

I ease into the seat that I will be belted into for the next eleven hours and allow the memories of our time in Portugal to flow past that part of my brain that observes all things from an elevation I’ve yet to achieve. Just when I think I’m beginning to understand this beautiful life, I learn something new and it’s like someone lifted the shade on the window behind me and light suddenly infuses the darkness. A sense of clarity passes through me, and I realize what an incredible gift it is to be alive, to see the world, and have these rich and fulfilling experiences with the people I love. I find this life to be ever so holy, especially when you’re scraping through the layers, when your fingers are cramping, the unexpected is happening, and all you want to do is slam on the brakes because it’s all happening too fast. Time is forever dwindling, it’s our most important resource, but I realize what a miracle it is just to be alive and the joy of being needed is enough for now. 

James Clear (love that last name) asks, “What single habit, if implemented consistently for the rest of this year, would transform your life the most?” It’s Lent, I realize the quality of my life is determined by the quality of my experiences, what I read, who I love and especially when I’m brave enough to apply the brakes. How are you renewing your life this year? 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 28 Comments

Running With The Wolves*

Janel, Blair, Cheryl, Nancy – The Wolf Pack

“In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, and bridge to our future.” – Alex Haley

“How are you doing?”

Someone asked me this the other day. 

I should have said, “I’m feeling overwhelmed, my fingers are cracking and peeling at will, but at least they take turns. Oh yeah, my heart is breaking for an unimaginable circumstance, my asthma has resurfaced, and I’m starting to panic about Christmas. I also need to polish my nails, tackle the laundry, and fix the dishwasher before we leave for Portugal in a few days.

Of course my response was automatic, “I’m fine, thanks, and you?” I managed a smile while my current reality overwhelmed my thoughts.

Is it just me, or do we live in a world that asks too much of us?

That was before my weekend retreat with my sweet sister, niece, and two beloved cousins, who gathered at the lake house for a mini-reunion. We needed this time together. My Uncle Byron (their Dad) passed away recently, and we’re all reeling from the reality of losing someone we love. I imagine everyone reading this blog has something significant in their lives that has thrown them for a loop (American phrase, cause great surprise, confusion, or shock).

My son Dante was off work this week and offered to chauffeur us around so we could enjoy a glass of wine at the wineries, eat and drink at the fun restaurants, and be a little irresponsible. A brilliant plan if there ever was one. 

I’m sure Dante would agree. 

That first night, we sat around the fire pit (Dante spent an hour retrieving from winter storage), and as the sun was slowly setting in the eastern sky, my sister Nancy lifted her glass and said, “Here’s to Uncle Byron.”

And that was all it took. Our pent-up emotions began to flow, and so did the tears. We sat by that crackling fire, sipping margaritas by Blair, rekindling our love with the warmth of our stories and silly memories of days gone by. This might be the secret to life, a dark night, a warm fire, surrounded by people you love, and the courage to heal. Lord Byron himself said, “Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.” 

Most of us have had our hearts broken at some point in life, whether through the loss of a loved one or the ending of a romantic relationship. The emotional fallout can be debilitating. Brene Brown says the brokenhearted are the bravest among us—they dared to love.

I could not agree more. So, I googled how to overcome heartache. According to various experts in the field of grief, there are a zillion ways to heal, but I summarized the most prominent. You’re welcome. 

Honoring our pain is the most important. They all said to lean into it, feel it, let it flow right through you. I know. It sucks. This is not the time to be stoic. This is a time to revel in our pain and tears, no numbing, no judgement, unnecessary distractions, doom scrolling, shopping Amazon, or excessive exercising. Beware of idealizing. This happens when we lose someone important, especially if there are unresolved issues at death or separation. Regardless, we tend to romanticize the relationship—remembering the good and overlooking the more difficult times. Get the number of a good therapist, write, talk, confer—get it all out. The object is to find resolution, not bury our delusions. Be mindful of self-blame, self-doubts, and self-criticism. This is the worst one. We start over-thinking our part in the process. We blame ourselves for not doing enough, giving enough, or being enough. The outcome will not change if…fill in the blank. This can completely derail us. Do not go down the rabbit hole of despair. We are enough, always have been, always will be. Keep a journal. Recording our thoughts, complicated feelings, progress, fears, memories, etc. is a fabulous way of processing difficult emotions and you can cuss all you want.  

Life is complicated, and I don’t know about you, but I’m not a fan of heartache. I’d rather deal with achy muscles, scaly skin, and receding gums. When I’m hurting, I want to hole up in a cave and remain blissfully unaware of the world while I watch Dan In Real Life repeatedly and eat buckets of burnt popcorn. 

So we gathered with our wolf pack and ran with it*, embracing the death of all our parents, confronting difficult and beloved memories, wondering how our experiences have influenced the vibrancy of our lives. We talked about our beloved pets, insisting their instincts are not all that different from our own. We rallied against societal constraints, especially women and aging, and we listened to each other, embracing our wild side and connecting to our inner strength. It’s as if we emerged from a long hibernation, ready to run wild, and start howling at the moon. 

I remember looking around the room at the four of us one afternoon. Although we have the same blood and similar genetics, we are all extremely different. I kept noticing how our mannerisms were alike when we talked with our hands or laughed out loud. We are all introverts in one way or another and extroverts when necessary. Our mothers were sisters, and it makes sense that their idiosyncrasies would be passed down to their daughters. 

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that we all need more of this. 

More time with family or friends, no agendas, watching classic movies, playing endless hours of Mexican Train, and enjoying the services of a chauffeur while sharing our humiliations, hopes, fears, and dreams. They say family is an anchor to the past and a bridge to tomorrow. Amen.

I learned things about myself that I probably could have lived without. Like how curious I am about how everyone else is doing life because I’m so damn afraid I’m doing it all wrong. How they all manage to overcome challenges, maintain balance, maneuver through complicated family dynamics, and not piss everyone off. Or how they rise above the petty things in life because I prefer to roll in it, like a dog with a dead fish, until I’m covered in the fumes of resentment, but that’s just me.

The thing is, none of us get it right. We all screw up. We’re not perfect, we have trauma to work out, and grievances to air whether we admit it or not. We depend on a technology we don’t understand and are obligated to people who confound us, and we have no sense of humor about any of it. The truth is we’re uptight, lonely, and frustrated, but we get up each day and fight the good fight with compassion, hope, and love.

How do we do it?

I think it’s interesting that we spend the first part of life trying to make a living and prove our value. Some of us marry and raise kids, others climb the corporate ladder, or live off the grid, as we struggle to claim 8,000 square feet of land as our own. And just when we’re planting our damn flag, we wake up one day, and it’s almost over. Yes, I’m being dramatic, but that hill is way behind me. I’m desperate to be relevant in a world that does not find me so. This is why we run with the wolves, embracing our wild side, connecting with our strength, and cornering our enemies together.

Who are our enemies, you might ask?

Such a good question. I found out the hard way, it’s always me, oh but I am ever so sly, and quite clever when it comes to eluding myself. That’s why I need my pact, my rout, my family, because they know how to track me. 

This weekend made me realize how difficult it is to allow ourselves the freedom and latitude to retreat with our people. We have a million excuses why we don’t have time to sleep in, spend half the day in our pajamas, breathe deeply, and accomplish nothing except the opportunity to slowly spread some pesto on a slab of salmon before grilling, or just slip into the backseat of our car and let someone else drive.

This is what I know. I need a strong support system, people I can count on when my heart is broken, especially the honest ones, who will tell me the truth even when I don’t want to hear it. They’ll remind me that a wolf doesn’t concern herself with the opinion of sheep and as Saul Bellow notes, they keep the wolf of insignificance from the door. Cousins are like that. 

So here’s the question: Are you running with the wolves or still hibernating? That is what I want to know.  

*The meaning of the adage “running with the wolves” explores themes of animal instinct, freedom, and the struggle against societal expectations, encouraging listeners to embrace their wild side and connect with their inner strength. Booyah!

Short update: Larry and I are in Portugal helping Tony (our son) and Thalita (our daughter-in-love) move into their first home! Of course, we moved during a monsoon rainstorm. By the way, they live in a fourth-floor apartment and bought a fourth-floor apartment. (I know, pray for me.) We are stripping wallpaper, painting, organizing, repurposing, imagining, and eating extraordinary dinners! A blog will follow eventually. Love to all.