Posted on by cheryloreglia · 37 Comments

The Audacity To Write

When a ship is in harbor and moored, it is safe, there can be no doubt. But that is not what ships are built for.

Clarissa Pinkola Estés

The afternoon light spreads across the raw plank of wood that spans the arms of my easy chair. This makeshift desk is fitted with a pen, books, and a tired-looking emery board, along with an empty coffee mug stained with grinds and my beloved computer practically begging to be touched after months of neglect.

I’m hunched over my MacBook, brows in a concerted scowl, as I force myself to leave this world behind, not unlike falling asleep, and once again confront the reality of my thoughts, fears, doubts, and ignorance, aka, a writer’s world. 

I know, scary.

The room feels heavy with the weight of the sun pushing through the French doors behind me. I absently wipe a bead of sweat trailing down the back of my neck, yet the words refuse to flow.

It’s time. I recognize this truth like the birthmark on my right thigh, the glasses resting on the bridge of my nose, and the proximity of my guilt encircling my spine as if a ribbon. My son sent me a book for my birthday called On Writing by Stephen King, not knowing it would be the inspiration I desperately needed to start writing again.

Why is one compelled to write? 

I wondered if it is an illness, or a genetic disorder passed down from that crazy aunt on my father’s side, or did I catch it while I was distracted by life, like a mild cold? 

There are unique opportunities in this life that allow us to dispel our delusions, expand our hearts, and build our resilience, or not. And I only understand this when I write. 

Recently, a virulent bacterium wiggled its way into one of my more ravaged psoriasis wounds and took up residence. It was as if I were hosting an aggressive squatter under my skin, and it refused to leave. You don’t need the gory details. 

Just the facts, ma’am. 

It hurt to sit perfectly still in bed with only a sheet covering my legs and my eyes scanning the pages of a book. Ironically, the topic of the book I was reading was about the significance of suffering. 

Let’s not grade each other’s suffering. It is what it is. 

Viktor E. Frankl says the way in which a person accepts their fate and all the suffering it entails, the way in which we take up our cross, gives us ample opportunity–even in the most difficult circumstances–to add a deeper meaning to our meager lives. 

I want to argue with him, but he no longer lives in the same dimension as me, and although he might be accessible to the more sensitive types, he’s mysteriously silent when my mind is battling the deeper meaning of suffering.

Life hurts. Full stop. 

Viktor should know. He spent four years in the worst concentration camps in all of Europe during World War II, and despite incredible odds, he survived. His rendering of this experience is entitled Man’s Search For Meaning, and it’s a life-changing read. 

This short account of his time in the camps is considered one of the 10 most influential stories ever written. IN THE WORLD! 

It’s hard to shake the images he describes of the death camps. 

He claims that our desire to do good, to be kind and compassionate while we are suffering, is what makes our trauma meaningful, and this is how we survive the most inhumane treatment with our integrity intact. 

The thing is, no one can relieve our suffering, or, and this is important, no one can suffer in our place. Our unique opportunity lies in how we bear our burdens. 

My recent bout with a painful infection coincided with the reading of this story, which made me empathize with pain in and through my own. Of course, there’s no comparing wounds—mine just made me freshly sensitive to the ache of others. Try to resist the urge to compare Viktor’s pain to mine and then roll your eyes at me. 

As I convalesced in bed, holding his story in my hand like a precious jewel, I let the words slip into my heart and mold my empathy.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to lie upon a wooden board (much like my desk) covered in vermin, bunked three high across a small and stale room, spooned with five other people who haven’t showered in years, feet burning with frostbite, hearts beating with hopelessness. 

These men will awake in the dark and walk for miles in the snow to repair the train tracks, which ironically brought them to the camps in the first place, while being beaten by merciless guards for stumbling, fainting, or attempting to catch their breath. They only receive a small piece of bread and a cup of weak broth each day. The general idea is to work these men to death, men who are no longer considered human, but referred to as a number. 

Viktor said, “There is no need to be ashamed of tears, for tears bear witness that a person had the greatest of courage, the courage to suffer.”

Years into his encampment, someone gave him a small, stale, dried-up piece of bread. He cried. It wasn’t the bread or the unexpected gift; it was the way the person looked at him, as if he were of immense value and worthy of kindness.  

It’s what we all want: to be known, valued, and loved. Oh, my goodness, it’s so simple.

He expanded my understanding of the importance of hope. He says, “Hope hides in the possibilities of the future. If you have something to look forward to, it offers you a reason to live, and with the tiniest amount of hope, you can bear just about anything.”

Hope is the opposite of despair. It’s a potent cocktail of desire, trust, and expectation. 

When life feels hopeless, as if there is no solution to a problem, no possible way to influence, impact, or change your situation, it can feel overwhelming, dire, incurable, and meaningless. 

When I mentioned this to my sister, I said, “How could regular men treat human beings like that and go back to their families at night?”

She said, “How could their neighbors allow that to happen and do nothing?”

“It forces me to look at myself. What would I have done in the same situation?”

“Heroes are rare.”

It’s quite possible that we are all living in the gap between who we are and who we are becoming. 

During my extended hiatus from writing, I have been reflecting a lot on how I spend my time. Or maybe how I want to spend the time I have left in this world. I realize that writing is how I process my life, it anchors me, but I always find the messy parts to be the most intriguing.

I’m currently reenvisioning myself, and what I’ve realized is that the only person benefiting from this pause in writing is Jeff Bezos. Instead of discovering the secrets of life I’m trying out new shades of lipsticks (which I never wear), a new style of clothing (which I could care less about), and my dental care is now top notch (and I’ve never had a cavity), but I have to say my new water pic is the bomb! 

Life has been hectic, and it’s my own fault. I had four children, and I am constantly pestering them to procreate! 

And now I have a new grandchild, just 8 weeks old, and I got to be there for the first month of his life. We bonded, and I taught him how to only sleep in someone’s arms. 

Kelley, you can thank me later.

We recently biked all over Norway and I fell in love with the Norwegians, the Viking history, the fjords, glaciers, waterfalls, and landscape. It’s magical, and all the women were tall, broad, and blond. I felt as if I had found my people.

And my son is getting married in a few weeks in Portugal to the most wonderful woman. I’m over the moon, and now I have a new couple to pester. I must have bought and returned a dozen dresses, fancy pairs of shoes, and all sorts of colorful accessories until finding something that fits and I don’t have to fuss with. 

Much. 

If it was love that gave birth to humanity, I’m going to assume it is what gives birth to our full potential, which is never fully actualized, and I’ve decided that’s why I’m still here. So, I’ve been thinking that when I return in August, I’ll come back to my easy chair by the window with the raw plank of wood I repurposed as a desk, and try to find the right words to describe the beauty and bullshit of this life. If you haven’t forsaken me in my extended absence, I will attempt to describe my irreverent discoveries and trifling observations, next to the coffee grinds and mismatched metaphors, and do what we’re all here to do—turn this mess into meaning. 

I’m Living in The Gap, between who I am, and who I want to be! Join me…

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 21 Comments

A Mini Update From The Writer Who Has Not Written

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” ― Maya Angelou

Greetings all. I apologize for the lack of communication. I’m hiding out in the shadows of an incredibly busy and full life, as the words escape my thoughts, you are never far from them.

I’m still in NYC with my daughter, son-in-law, and adorable new grandson (Dorian Joseph Bontemps). We are all thriving but exhausted. I have no excuse to be so, and yet, I am.

I plan to return home at the end of this week and reclaim the parts of my life I’ve temporarily forsaken.

I’m on an accidental blogging pause while I spend every waking moment holding my grandson, changing diapers, washing dishes, and falling in love. I’m fairly certain he will miss sleeping in my arms, listening to my heartbeat, and the scent of his Grammie, who’s taken to a radically irregular shower schedule.

It happens.

Okay, we’ve also watched every Nora Ephron movie ever made, the entire Twilight series, and all the New York Knicks games. I might need a jersey because I’ve become an ardent fan during my sabbatical.

I’m sure the world is still spinning on its axes, and the sun continues to shine somewhere, just as the words and motivation to write have not disappeared; they’re just temporarily eclipsed by something more basic, yet transcending.

In the meantime, I hope all is well with you and that you have not completely forgotten about me in my unexpected absence. Looking forward to catching up on your lives while my muse is self-absorbed and my words have waned.

Miss you all more than you know.

Much Love and Hugs, Cheryl

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 48 Comments

I Was Wrong

Again

“Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.” – Alan Moore

I take it all back. That whole Must Love Drama phase I recently went through. Total bullshit. Banish that essay from your memory before it becomes endemic. 

“Does not love pain” is my new motto.

Ironically, when my new adversary came knocking, it was the eve of Easter, also known as Holy Saturday, a particularly frantic time for people hosting Easter dinner. And what was I doing?

Sitting in the lobby of the emergency room instead of scanning the aisles of Lunardi’s for specialty cheeses, fresh raviolis, olive oil infused with lemon, and placing bunnies methodically around the house as if there might be some confusion as to which holiday we’re celebrating.

Who knows when the evil bacteria entered a wound in my leg? As usual, I was distracted by the sky, with its intermittent dark clouds, which looked like bruises. That should have been a sign. BUT I WAS DISTRACTED!

After an early morning hike with my friend Sue on Friday, I admittedly failed to take a refreshing shower. I’m a nine on the enneagram, which means I’m always busy, but not necessarily with the things I need to do. Don’t overanalyze that.

I slummed around town in my hiking gear, racing to secure charcuterie supplies, the ingredients I needed to make a batch of spaghetti sauce, flowers, and fresh basil. 

When did Irish butter become so expensive?

While I was driving home, I noticed a nagging ache in my lower leg, similar to a soft bruise, but I didn’t recall bumping into anything. 

Suspicious. Right? 

So I go about my business in dusty leggings, chopping garlic and onions, arranging flowers, planting a few impatiens, peonies, and Virginia bluebells around the yard so it looks effortlessly colorful. It’s Easter, don’t judge me. 

Okay, the bruise is gaining momentum, like a wildfire or Midwestern storm, and I am doing my best to ignore it. That’s my problem in life. I prioritise the wrong things. 

I noticed the slight limp as I rushed around the kitchen, sautéing that expensive butter with an onion that made me cry, garlic, and adding a pinch of Italian seasoning. After I added the browned meat, tomato sauce, and enough salt to give us all high blood pressure, I left the whole concoction simmering on the stove. Okay, the yard was colorful, the bathrooms clean, plates washed, silverware carefully selected, napkins folded, but I glanced at the Easter decorations sitting forlornly on the counter, and limped away.

I’m examining my red and swollen appendage, wondering how in the hell leg discomfort and pain took precedence over my Easter decor. I realize that’s oozing with irreverence, but I’m not in the mood.

The pain in my leg continued to intensify, as I no longer even cared where the decorations should go; in fact, I didn’t care about anything but the fire building in my leg. Where is my autopilot?

I went to bed praying for a rather selfish miracle just days before Easter Sunday. I suppose God was attending to more pressing matters, because sleep did not visit me; it was more of a toss, turn, lift the sheet from the burning leg—repeat until I noticed the sun peeking over the horizon.

I sat up. My left leg had doubled in size. Trust me. It was not a good look.

Larry was aghast as if it were his leg. He said, “Get dressed, we’re going to the emergency room right now.” He was not using his inside voice.

I think the infection spread to my head. I’m like, “Calm down. I’ll go to my doctor on Monday.”

“It can’t wait.”

“I have to put out the Easter decorations.” Keep in mind, I had very little sleep.

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes, go shower, I’ll make you a coffee.”

I half-heartedly agreed just for the coffee.

We did the whole emergency room thing, and because I’m literally 10 days shy of being on Medicare, we had to go to the hospital in my network, which is the one the entire valley uses if you don’t happen to have insurance. 

As you can imagine, there were a lot of people with bloody parts, mangled bandages, sleeping on rows of hard plastic chairs, coughing, groaning, as a subtle chaos enveloped the room. 

Calm down. I brought a book, because my mother had warned me never to go anywhere without one, and ironically, it’s about priorities and self-care.

However, they called my name before I finished the first page. 

The friendly doctor looked at my bloated leg with a smirk, if I were forced to describe his expression, as if my wound wasn’t emergency room worthy. He poked the sorest part, REPEATEDLY, and I winced loudly, reminding him, “That Buddha said our wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion.” 

He said, “Buddha was dealing with childhood trauma, not an infection.”

“A wound is a wound.” Was it me, or did he press harder?

I think he went to medical school to please his mother, because this guy should have been a comedian. The entire time he was pushing on, tapping, and evaluating my enormous red leg covered in psoriasis, he was practicing his stand-up routine.

I kid you not.

He said, “You probably thought the psoriasis was bad.”

Me, “It is bad.”

“It’s a rash, infections are irrational, but I think we can save your leg.” Get it? Don’t make me spell it out. 

“I’m hosting Easter, so if you could keep me alive for one more day.”

“That’s what Jesus said.”

Really?

He prescribed an antibiotic and sent me on my way.

Then I have to deal with my spouse, who is completely over Easter preparations. Larry says to me after we picked up the prescription, “Do you want to take the convertible to El Guapos and share some nachos?”

I looked at him as if he were insane, “I’m going home and going to bed. I have an infection.”

“Oh, it hurts that bad?”

“It feels like someone took a hammer to my shin.”

“So, no nachos.”

“No Nachos.” That’s going on my tombstone. 

I went to bed with the idyllic idea that all would be well in the morning, but when I had the urge to use the facilities in the middle of the night, I thought I was going to throw up. It was excruciating, but I suffered in silence because the guy sleeping next to me was blissfully snoring, probably dreaming about nachos. 

I gave birth to four kids without epidurals. I know pain. This. This is inhuman. I limped to and from the toilet.

How am I going to host Easter?

In the morning, I showed enormous constraint and took only the prescribed amount of pills instead of downing the entire bottle. My mantra became Easter or ER; it felt like a choice, and I chose bunnies. 

Then I hobbled around the patio, Dante shadowed, assisting where he could, as I set the table, positioned the flowers in whimsical arrangements, and placed batches of pastel eggs, rabbits, and Michael Aram decor with such neurotic precision around the table that even Martha Stewart would have been impressed. I know. What is right with me?

By the time the guests arrived, I had received my Easter reprieve, the tynenole kicked in, and the pain subsided, allowing me to enjoy the celebrations.  Rumi says, the wound is the place where the light enters you, thank God, because I just got rid of my leg lamp from college.

The evening progressed as usual, with people arriving bearing beautiful side dishes, more flowers, and numerous children. I sent the young ones off on a scavenger hunt, which resulted in tears and an argument until they figured out it was better to work together. Maybe that’s the whole point of those things.

It was twilight, and the sun was filtering through the magnolia tree where the kids were swinging, making it look like they had halos. And I realized that somehow, my defining sense of joy has become entwined with these people.  

How many nights like this do we get? It’s all going so damn fast. I find it odd that a sense of fear is constantly streaming just below my delight. Why is that?

It was a memorable evening. Julie and Nic invited their friends to join us, so altogether we had twelve plates to fill. Nic took the lead on dinner, presenting us with a perfectly cooked lamb, scalloped potatoes, and a beet salad. We did ravioli and appetizers. Dante provided the music, Tanya the bunny bread and brie, and Larry the wine.

I remember leaning back in my chair at one point, my eyes following the children as they ran around the yard, climbing in the sturdy branches of the magnolia tree, playing cornhole, while the adults lingered around the large iron table maintaining the magic, sipping wine, and creating our own luxurious joy. 

It felt holy, with just ordinary people laughing, breaking bread, and being grateful for this time together. It’s as if the clock slowed down for just a moment, the colors softened, the sounds dimmed, and there it is. Joy. It finds you when you least expect it. 

I’m wondering if pain can actually turn our world upside down, catapulting us out of our autopilot mode and into a space that is sacred. You know what I mean? There are so many layers in life. We experience so few because we’re constantly living on the surface of things, but scratch that a bit, and we’ll find out there’s so much more. Perhaps it’s true that we need those harsh, challenging, and even painful encounters with ourselves to open our eyes to the immaculate possibilities that lie just beneath the ordinary. 

What compels me to write? What the hell am I doing? I answer these questions—and more, sometimes reluctantly—in my first book, Grow Damn It! This collection of essays dives headfirst into the messiness of life, peeling back the layers of grief, growth, and the absurdity of it all with unfiltered honesty and a lot of humor. If you’ve ever wondered how to navigate life’s twists with resilience and laughter, you’re in the right place.

Update: I went to my doctor the day after Easter, and it cost the same as Irish butter, but no one was bleeding in the lobby. He did not like what he saw, but instructed me to finish the round of (inferior) antibiotics, and he would put me on “his preferred pill, “not better,” he said, “just more effective.” Uhm? I see him again in a few days, but can I just say his preferred pill made me feel better hours after taking it? So maybe our emergency room doc should have stuck with comedy. 

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 31 Comments

I Had An Idea

And Like Most Ideas~I Needed A Helper

“When I have an idea, I turn down the flame, as if it were a little alcohol stove, as low as it will go. Then it explodes and that is my idea.” ― Ernest Hemingway

This quote reflects the intensity of the emotional process of having a sudden insight or inspiration, which often happens when our hearts are on fire, and we’re rounding the dangerous part of the discovery curve.

When I try something new, I am always prepared to fail, repeatedly, before any amount of success is realized. It’s a biblical principle, in a way, or maybe it’s just common sense. I mean, think about it, a whale swallowed Jonah before he became a prophet, Peter denied Jesus three times before becoming an apostle, and Moses was sold into slavery before he was able to lead his people to freedom.

Okay, those are extreme examples, but after many attempts at trying new things, I have been forced to accept that my skills are acquired by hard work, trial, and error, praying ceaselessly that I will be regurgitated from the dire situation that swallowed me up in the first place. If I have any God-given talents, they do not come fully realized. I have to acquire them with resilience and faith, knowing the helpers I need will find me.

For example, getting married before my brain was fully developed, buying a house when I could barely balance my checkbook, having a kid when I knew nothing about being a mother, entering grad school while I was entering menopause, or attempting to teach while I was still learning. None of these things were easy at first. I had a lot of assistance, God included, along with a husband, family, friends, teachers, and co-workers. They not only transformed my heart but ignited something within me that I can only describe as an awakening. 

Yes, sometimes I feel as if I’ve been sleepwalking through life when some kind soul hands me a cup of coffee, a donut, and a receipt stamped paid in full. 

This is life, and for most of us, there is no way to avoid that wicked learning curve. Just when I nailed the necessary skill sets, our mortgage was paid off, the kids had grown up, and my work was something I was proud of—I retired. 

The thing is, a lot of us try to avoid that wicked curve. We go off-road, take a shortcut, or simply give up before crossing the finish line. When it feels like we’ll never finish that novel, the dog will never be trained, and I’ll never be able to grow a giant pumpkin, the secret is to stay with it. You never know what’s around the next bend. It could be Netflix’s and they want to turn your book into a series. 

It happens. 

Let’s allow ourselves the time we need to learn at our own pace, knowing we improve by doing the same thing over and over again until we get it right. I believe that is the definition of insanity. 

Bahaha.

Recently, my sister had two days off in a row, which never happens, and I begged her to come up to the lake for a few days. I know. It was for selfish reasons. I sort of thrive in her presence. She makes me a better person when I’m with her, and I had this crazy idea. I figured if I was going to fail at something repeatedly, I would prefer to do it with Nancy because she doesn’t quit on anyone, ever. 

It’s her superpower. 

I saw this ten-second reel on Instagram where this person bought a dusty old candy dish at a thrift store and turned it into an exquisite candle. I decided, right then and there, that Nancy and I would become candle makers.

So Nancy, Mackenzie (my niece), and I hit the local antique shops to discover our respective candy dishes, and we could get on with our destiny. 

Of course, we also had to find candle wax, wicks, a heating pan, essential oils, and food coloring, but we also had to develop a process. We did this by reading an article on how to melt candle wax. 

It’s a lot like melting hearts. It takes two containers, a little heat, and a lot of patience. No, I will not explain myself, I believe you’ve already figured out that the containers are symbolic, and so is the process.

The first thing we discovered is you have to use a double boiler, or the wax won’t melt right (and you’ll go to purgatory for doing it wrong), so we rigged one up by using a big pot of boiling water and placed our trashy little pan in the middle of all that generated heat. Genius. 

And that was the only thing that went right.

The wicks (we used kitchen twine) refused to stick to the bottom of our glass vessels and then they totally caved in the hot wax. We had to resurrect them with skewers. The essential oils did not mix with the melted wax, nor did the food coloring or vanilla extract. So we ended up with three white, scentless candles and crooked wicks that smoke when you light them, but by some miracle, they all lit, and I have to say, they have a “unique” beauty of their own. 

So there’s that. 

We stood there watching our candles illuminate the kitchen in the early morning, and it was then and there that we fell in love with candlemaking in the rawest definition of the vocation. Our next attempt will be better. We will continue to improve our technique, which will eventually be reflected in our product as it is in our work, relationships, and lives. 

It’s how the master craftsman designed us. If you remember, God made man first, and after God perfected the technique, God made a woman. And like cars, that second model has become a classic. Hey, “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again,” claims King Robert the Bruce. He was probably NOT making candles or people, but still.

Edith Wharton says there are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it. I’m the candle, and I’ll let you guess who the mirror is. She’s the one who knows how to throw back heat without absorbing it. 

It’s also interesting that the word reflect also means to think deeply or carefully about something. It’s how I eventually resolve the many things that confound me.

I brought my candle home and placed it on my mother’s marble table in the sitting room. It’s not really a sitting room, just a place where I sit, sometimes alone, but often with family and friends. This is where we relax, reflect on life, sip coffee and sometimes wine, creating memories and laughter in the light of each other.

Right now, I’m sitting in this room with my rose-colored computer on my lap, allowing my eyes to scan the room. I’m noticing there are memories associated with just about every object that catches my eye, so I can sit in one spot and essentially travel the world. 

As I write these words, I am aware of the potency of fire and ever so cognizant that thousands of people in my state, who feel much the same about their precious mementos, have lost the objects in which their memories are stored, their homes, their livelihoods and some of them, their lives in the horrendous fires that have consumed a large portion of southern California. 

It’s been a tragic week for many people who are now forced to dig through the ashes of their lives in search of anything that may have survived the raging fires. My eyes skim the row of Illadro figurines I received with the birth of each child, my mother’s wedding china displayed in the old hutch, a framed family picture when the kids were young, a vase Larry and I bought on our honeymoon, the pewter pot I found in Italy now filled with potpourri, or the antique candle sticks my sister bought me for Christmas, and especially the brick fireplace that I have cozied up to for most of my adult life. 

Imagine if all of that were suddenly gone. 

I realize that nothing lasts forever, but some things do, like a favorite song, an extraordinary book, and, of course, our dearest memories, which we can kindle, invoke, and resurrect even in the darkest of times, unveiling the layers of life that shroud our past but can never be taken from us.

I’m just a dusty old container, trying to figure out life as I go, and as my friend Jeandre Gericke claims, it is impossible to hold all of our emotions at once. They would never all fit in a single moment. So we illuminate them one at a time, watching the flame of our grief, sorrow, and disillusionment continue to glow, knowing tomorrow, our joy, happiness, and a new vision will light the way. I’m considering the comforting words of Fred Rogers, “Look for the helpers.” 

I have a friend who is generous, brave, and one of the most ethical people I know. Her name is Tasha Oldman, and she lives in Los Angeles. Her heart has been broken, and she is not making candles. She is responding to the friends and neighbors who have lost their homes. She has created a Venmo account where people can donate funds that she will use to buy supplies as needed. If you want to donate to Tasha’s fund, I’ve listed the information below. 

Every little bit helps. 

I set a dusty old candy dish filled with wax and a piece of kitchen twine on fire, and in the process, I discovered a truth reflected in the flame. It is truly in the service of each other that we humans produce the most extraordinary light. 

In honor of Wyne Osmond who recently passed away. 

If you want to donate to Tasha’s fund, go to your Venmo account, find @tasha-oldham, and put FAMILIES in the memo. She will use your donation to help the people who need it.

Just a note: I’ve been noticeably absent from your blogs lately. I have three writing projects I’m working on concurrently, and I’m still trying to keep up with my life. I will eventually get all this work under control, don’t give up on me, I’m just rounding the wicked part of the curve. I’ll be calling on beta readers when the time comes. Much love and hugs, C

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

Hold On, I’m Coming

The Entanglement of Joy

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

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

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

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

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

What do you think about this tile? 

How long should the new vanity be?

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

What are your thoughts on lighting? 

Should we put a half wall here?

I’ve taped everything off. Come look.

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

It was a full morning.

In fact, it was a full weekend. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not easy this whole aging thing. 

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

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

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

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

It was heroic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grow Damn It! is the kind of book you hold on to! Available on Amazon!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 59 Comments

The Secret To A Phenomenal Life

“Most of your unhappiness in life comes from the fact that you are listening to yourself instead of talking to yourself.” John Piper

Shuffling to the refrigerator in the middle of the night, I open the French doors wide and stand in the bubble of soft light. Staring at the contents of this cool space organized by bottle height and container size makes me smile. My eyes scan the sloppy jars of condiments, sliced pickles from last summer, and at least two plates of butter at various stages of use. I grab the bowl of tuna, pinch a small amount, and shove it in my mouth. 

The burst of flavor is so satisfying, and for no particular reason, I whisper to myself, “I’m so happy. I’m so incredibly happy,” which has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with gratitude.

Please tell me I’m not the only one who talks to myself.

So this is what I’m thinking about this week…If our inner world is shaped by the things we tell ourselves, then our thoughts of woe or wow truly matter. 

You know what I mean? 

Okay, you’re not convinced, and you want an example? Seems reasonable.

I’ll give you two. 

The first was when I went to the San Francisco Writer’s Conference and failed my first attempt at socializing. I could have stayed in my room the next night and the next, licking my wounds and telling myself I was a total loser. 

But I didn’t do that. 

I gave myself a hearty pep talk, telling myself I was a dazzling (okay, I used the word good) conversationalist and just as funny as the next clown sitting on a bar stool. So I got dressed, returned to the scene of the crime, and ended up meeting a wonderful person who changed the trajectory of the entire conference. 

Self-talk. It matters.

Another example happened this weekend when Larry and I headed to the lake to deal with the damage from a recent storm. While sharing an omelet at Renee’s in Lakeport early one morning, we start discussing the Ragbrai cycling event we plan to attend in July with our cousins, Gail and Mike, their daughter Ellie, and a few friends. The debate is about whether Larry should ride solo or if I should ride with him on our tandem. 

This is how the conversation went down. Okay, this is my version of how the conversation ensued, but it’s the only reliable account and, therefore, considered gospel on this blog.

Larry says, “I think we should ride Ragbrai together.”

I say, “I would absolutely ride with you, but we’ve never ridden more than 65 miles in one day, and we’ve never ridden that far seven days in a row. We’ll be riding across Iowa in the heat of July, there are three 80-mile days on the schedule, not to mention all the hills we’ll have to conquer.”

“No doubt, It’s going to be a challenge.”

“A challenge? I don’t have a death wish, so I would only agree to do this ride if you are willing to adjust the miles when necessary.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means if I decide I need to use the sag wagon after 70 miles on the fifth day of riding in 100-degree temperatures, you’re okay with that.” 

“That’s failure, in my opinion.”

“I think it’s being cognizant of our age and abilities.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“I’ll be 64 years old when we do this ride. I’m not a wimp. I know how to push myself, but I also know my limits.”

“You have to train hard, and you have to ride with the mindset that you’re going to finish every mile before you even begin. Failure is not an option.”

“Who the hell are you? Gene Kranz? That depends on how you define failure. I think if we train, plan, and then go with the mindset that we’re here for the experience, and if that experience includes using the sag wagon because I’ve exhausted all my reserves, then I consider that a win, not a failure.”

“Using a sag wagon is a failure.”

“Then I can’t commit to this ride.”

When our voices start attracting the interest of the surrounding tables, we decide to finish our omelet in silence. On the way home, he is quiet for the first fifteen miles. I would love to know the exact words rattling around in his brain during that drive. 

He finally says, “I think we should do the ride together, even though I might have to rethink how we adjust the mileage.”

“Adjust the mileage? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means we decide how many miles we want to do each day, and we use the support team to make that happen.”

“So you’ve redefined failure.”

“I’ve redefined success.”

“I can do that.”

In my opinion, thoughts are like naughty children. When you leave them alone for too long, they get into trouble. Then, the minute you check on them, they go silent but still hold the remnants of their mischief.

In this case, the mischief was Larry’s unchecked thoughts about failure, which held us hostage to an ideal that didn’t allow for compromise or the abilities and limitations of both riders. How we frame things in our minds matters. It’s never easy to reevaluate our personal beliefs, especially when our understanding of success is at risk. Bravo to Larry.

Yes, I talk to myself all the time, and if I were being honest, I would admit that my shadow side is not very nice. I ruminate about my perceived failings as if a broken record, but the truth is those thoughts have nothing to do with my current reality but everything to do with my potential and, by proximity, my future.  

When I’m not running interference, my thoughts are merciless. They enjoy obliterating my confidence, saying things like, “You’re too old.” “No one likes you.” “You talk too much.” “You’re not smart enough.” “You give up too easily.” “And you’re teeth are crooked.”

Or my favorite, “You can’t do that because you’re…, fill in the blank…a girl, retired, stubborn, afraid, weak, unsophisticated, annoying, or worse…boring.” 

Right? 

Screw that. 

When I notice my thoughts are misbehaving, meaning I’m repeating old patterns of self-sabotage, I’ll talk to myself (showers work best for this, or the car, but also insulated refrigerators in the middle of the night). I tell myself, “You are brave, ageless, confident, kind, and smart enough.” Repeat, but use adverbs when necessary, “You are wildly brave, incredibly ageless, overly confident, absurdly kind, and ridiculously smart. 

I have no illusions that I will ever be able to stop all my wayward thoughts. They’re like evil, rising at will, but they do not have to win. This means I have to be the hero in my own life and push away those thoughts as if someone just offered me a cigarette or Thai massage. We can do things differently. We can invite new thoughts into our narrative. 

Here’s the linchpin: I can change the narrative whenever I want. 

And how do we create a new reality?

One thought at a time. 

Donna Ashworth says, “Get to know the voices in your head, only one of them is on your side, the rest slithered in many years ago when you were vulnerable and found a place to stay.”

When my inner life is rich and fulfilling, my outer life will surely follow. I’m not saying I can increase my wealth or well-being just by just thinking it. That’s too new agey for me, but my thoughts merge with my feelings, which drive my behavior, and form my habits. This is how I ride through life. 

Gratitude is key when it comes to repurposing my reality for my own damn good. 

When I’m unhappy with myself, I judge others by the unfair standards holding me hostage, and it becomes a gruesome circle of snarl and snare. 

Even if the circumstances in which I live are currently chaotic, stressful, or emotionally deprived, I can still refocus my thoughts to bolster my hope, optimism, and sense of calm. 

No one ever tells us our inner voice has lasting consequences. What we tell ourselves day after day, year after year, is efficacious. So, for goodness sake, sweet talk yourself whenever possible. 

If there is an ounce of hope to be found in the cavernous reaches of life, then I will find it, pinch it, and enjoy all the flavors. I can create joy by simply recognizing its gratuitous presence and telling myself when this is so.

I think it’s comforting to entertain hope, gratitude, and positivity even if we don’t need them at the moment. It matters. Our imagination is running the show, and that gives us an amazing amount of leverage. Play it up. Go big. Think outside the box. The secret to a phenomenal life is what we tell ourselves. It’s simply a matter of finding our own little refrigerator in our own little world and reminding ourselves, “I’m so happy. I’m so incredibly happy.”

I’m Living in the Gap, blatantly talking to myself, what are you thinking about this week?

Let’s Grow Damn It together. Here’s an idea. Buy a minimum of six books, plan a book club and I’ll join you via Zoom or physically if at all possible. Just let me know when and where! My email is cheryloreglia@aol.com, and I look forward to hearing from you! 

Gene Kranz* one of NASA’s most decorated flight directors for whom failure was not an option. Gene Kranz, the legend behind Failure is Not an Option.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 75 Comments

We Are The Authors

Of Our Lives

“Vulnerability is not winning or losing; it’s having the courage to show up and be seen when we have no control over the outcome. Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s our greatest measure of courage.” Brené Brown

The alarm goes off at exactly 6:30 am. Mercy me. It takes a minute to figure out where I am and how the hell to turn off that appalling noise. 

After pushing every square inch of my phone with my index finger, I’m plunged into blissful silence and blindly search the nightstand for my glasses.

Then I let the soft pillows encapsulate me and relish the fact I have 45 minutes to enjoy a cup of coffee before showering and preparing for the conference. 

I’ll admit to sending up a little prayer that I don’t run into the popular science lady as I scan the conference schedule, which is as complicated as the San Francisco Airport at Christmas, and try to map out my day.

I have the brochure identifying all the participants before me, which I am memorizing so I don’t recreate the same snafu and unwittingly try and mingle with the royalty. I slip a few copies of Grow Damn It into a protective plastic bag (you never know) and organize my briefcase with paper, pens, business cards, and my computer. I also tuck the book I’m currently reading in the side panel in case I run into a Patchett radical who refuses to entertain me.

Opening the blackout drapes, I admire the gorgeous view of the San Francisco Bay as the rising sun infuses the scattered clouds into a montage of brilliant colors. It’s spectacular. 

I pinch myself because I can’t believe I’m at a Writer’s Conference, and for a minute, I allow some unlikely possibilities to waft through my mind. 

I’m hopeful and excited, or maybe the coffee is finally kicking in.

Breakfast is provided this morning, and after slipping into a sporty outfit, I make my way to the banquet room. 

Okay, I’ll only admit this to you because it’s odd. After racing to the elevator hub, all the small hairs on the back of my arms rise simultaneously, and I sense a presence behind me. I’m not kidding. I spin around to confront what I think should be a human, but it’s not. It’s a gorgeous purple orchid potted in a large white container. 

This makes me laugh, and after making sure no one is watching (I have no idea why I’m telling you this), I walk over and touch her soft petals. Sort of like shaking someone’s hand or petting a dog because I feel the need to acknowledge her presence, which I sense she appreciates.  

Who says I couldn’t be a popular science writer? 

Anyhoo…I enter the main ballroom, it’s packed with mostly middle-aged females. Almost everyone has a briefcase, most are wearing glasses, and all are carrying coffee or tea. 

It’s Interesting that fifty percent of the writers worldwide are men, but only about a sixth of the participants are male. Why is that? Maybe this conference isn’t organized in a way that appeals to men? Hum? That might be for another blog. 

After making a plate, I joined a table near the podium, knowing the best students always sit in the front of the class. It’s a lively group. Our icebreaker this morning was a trivial pursuit game, which we almost won because someone at our table knew who played the Chiefs in the Super Bowl last year. 

It was the Eagles, if you must know, I don’t want you all stopping to google it. 

After the welcome breakfast, it’s a full day of workshops. I stay in the Non-Fiction track, learning how to write a proposal and package my imagined content for the market. Then, there is an interesting talk on why I am the only person who can write my own story. 

Obviously! 

I slip in an eight-minute session with Andy Ross on what a pitch is all about. I’m still confused, but I now know he’s not interested in a book about cycling in tandem around the world to escape our own neurosis or how to manage the woes of retirement. 

He’ll kick himself later. 

For lunch, I grab a chicken wrap and eat it in my room after kicking off my shoes and leaning into the quiet. I appreciate every second of all this abject silence. It’s total bliss with a twist because I have to leave it to appreciate it. 

Too much coffee?

After lunch, there’s another round of workshops on writing resources, publicity, and screenwriting. I met several agents, editors, publishers, and the like, but it’s all sort of a blur. 

Keep reading, I’m getting to the good stuff. 

What I noticed was the unusual dynamic between the writers and the presenters, those sharing their time, knowledge, and expertise to give us a fighting chance to reach a wider audience. I felt as if I was at their mercy, beholden to their credentials, expertise, and reputation because they could reject my work on the spot or in general. But trust me, without authors, this is no industry. Understanding the symbiotic relationship between the writers and these gatekeepers is not what you think, it’s our unique content, the stuff only we can write. That is our commonality. And that might put us in a vulnerable position but never forget, you might be the next pickleball novel (lingo in the writing world for unexpected best sellers). 

Granted, a few agents thought highly of themselves, and in the name of “honesty,” they let us know very few authors make it in this industry. That’s a troubling message, and I bought it hook, line, and sinker until I really listened to the publishers, editors, and marketing specialists in my genre, and their message was louder and clearer: NEVER GIVE UP, DON’T GET DISTRACTED, OR DISCOURAGED, JUST KEEP WRITING!

So pull out those old manuscripts you have stuffed in a drawer and work on them. Change one sentence at a time, make it your own, channel your unique voice, and bring those stories only you can tell to life. 

We are all looking for this because, as Dr. Albert Schweitzer has said so perfectly, “At that point in life where your talent meets the needs of the world, that’s where God wants you to be.” Replace the word God with the universe, life force, or all that is Good and Holy if that makes more sense. It doesn’t matter. 

It’s about changing the world one story at a time with that seed of hope hidden in you from birth and just waiting to bloom. 

Keep writing, keep sending your work out into the world. It matters! 

I was exhausted after the last workshop and looked forward to putting my feet up and enjoying a cup of coffee. I’ll admit, I sat there for a long time debating with myself as to whether or not I wanted to go down to the bar and risk courting humiliation and outright rejection ~ again.  

Guess who won? 

The optimist in me who refuses to give up on humanity. After tidying up and applying liberal amounts of lipstick and deodorant, I slip on my shoes and head to the lobby bar. I spot a luna wolf and tentatively ask if the seat next to her is taken.

“No, sit down, welcome.”

Her smile is luminous, so I extend my hand and say, “Hi, I’m Cheryl. How’s the conference going for you?”

She says, “I’m Sara. The conference is going well. It’s so nice to meet you.” 

And with that, we ordered some wine and got down to the business of getting to know each other.

Halfway through our first glass of wine, Sara says, “I’d like to buy a copy of your book.”

Shocked, I say, “Really?” No wonder I sell so many books. Right?

She laughs, and says, “Yes, I’d love to read your book.”

I was deeply humbled by her generosity, kindness, and support. 

It was as if no time had passed, and suddenly, it was time to attend a talk by the keynote speaker, Alka Joshi, who wrote The Henna Artist. Her talk was about how her overnight success took ten years. Then Netflix picked up her book and turned it into a series. 

I know, what the hell?

Sara, my new best friend, and I spent the rest of our time at the conference, not necessarily together, but certainly connected. We had someone to sit with at meals, bounce ideas around, and champion each other when we were about to give a pitch. It’s truly amazing how one person can completely change the experience for the better just by her unmerited presence. 

What a dynamo. She was the best part of the conference by far, but I took away a lot more. A sense of hope and a powerful affirmation that I can do this. There is much more to write, publish, and share with those who are still willing to read my work. I gave a copy of my book to a brilliant publisher who ate breakfast with us one morning. I connected with an interesting publicist, a zany producer, and an editor who knew how to cut through the crap. 

I felt seen, heard, and, most importantly, validated as a writer. Isn’t that what we all want? I realize I’ve chosen a difficult craft that requires intense honesty and copious amounts of time. Our narrative has to be a discerning, divergent, dogmatic page-turner because we are the authors of our lives. 

I nailed my elevator pitch, by the way, which included words like deep thinking, moral imagination, and raw honesty. Yes, it sounds like a salad, but when dressed in humor, it makes it all the more spicy and delicious. Oh, and obviously, we must be hungry for it! 

I’m Living in the Gap, the embers are still smoldering, and I’m dying to hear your conference stories.