Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

I’m Gambling Again

Hedging A Bet Against 

The End Of 2026

“Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who made the morning and spread it over the fields…watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.” Mary Oliver

It’s pitch dark.

And bitterly cold.

I’m still lost in the embrace of my dreams as I wiggle out of bed, who am I kidding, as I lumber out of bed groaning, and waddle to the bathroom.

The fact that my ass found the toilet is currently the focus of my happiness. Well, that, and the toilet paper is not empty.  

Not that I’m a total whiner, but it is freezing, I’m talking sub forty-five degrees, and that layer of insulation I painstakingly added to my anatomy is woefully insufficient. 

Okay, all you Northerners, go easy. 

This is California; the temperature rarely dips below 50, and, sadly, over the years, my blood has thinned, along with my hair, elasticity, and patience in general. 

Sue picks me up at 5:55 am, and I briefly consider hiding under the counter until she goes away, but I know this woman. She’s more persistent than my inner voice, and unlike me, she’s feisty in the morning. 

I trot out to the car idling in my driveway. 

I thought I was familiar with the concept of exercising, but I was dead wrong. Admittedly, I felt a little smug about my fitness routine until recently, when I stumbled on a whole new type of physical exertion. 

It’s called strength training, something I was saving for my elder years (consciously undefined, by the way), but that’s where it stayed, in the back of my mind, not fully realized, like all resolutions. 

It all started, like most things do, with my big mouth. 

I mentioned to Sue that I was intrigued by these barre classes offered just around the corner from our houses at a small studio across from a coffee shop with a fireplace. I know. We do a few situps and drink coffee by the fire all morning. I asked if she might be interested. This is Sue’s “yes” year. I know this, she’s up for anything. What was I thinking? 

We signed up for one class and went together because there’s safety in numbers. At least it pulls me out of my chair, away from my computer, and out of the house. Which is good, because the more I stay in the house, the more I don’t want to leave. 

I could so easily become agoraphobic. #goalsaf

Well, we didn’t love it, but like salmon, we kept coming back to fight the stream of muscle deterioration that comes with age. We ended up buying a block of classes, which is really just a bribe (I mean incentive) to keep going, and we’ve been participating in this barbaric practice ever since. 

Today, for the first time ever, our class is scheduled for sixty minutes (big news, in case you missed it) instead of the usual forty-five, and I’ve been worrying about it all week. 

Can I survive fifteen more minutes of tiny, grueling movements?

It’s early. I might be overthinking this.

Okay, these classes are designed to exacerbate every muscle in your entire body (including the ones you never knew existed) all under the guise of strength training. I’m not kidding. You are supposed to do the exercises until your legs shake uncontrollably, and even then, you are expected to keep going while they blast the Rocky theme song. 

It’s mildly inhuman, yet the instructors act as if this is normal, smiling and encouraging us, “You’ve got this, last set, keep going.” At least the music is good. So there’s that. 

You enter the studio, grab a couple sets of three to six-pound weights, and claim your spot on the carpet. It’s a thirty-by-forty-square-foot subculture with unwritten rules, a strict protocol, and, oddly enough, there is always one disruptive individual who annoys the shit out of all of us.

But it’s early. She might be tolerable after coffee.

Here’s the deal. Sue and I are at least twenty years older than everyone else in the room. So I’m not going to worry about my boob falling out of my sports bra, or my lower arms flapping around as if laundry hanging on the line, or if God-forbid, I have to use both hands to hoist my leg onto the bar and possibly grunt in the process. 

It’s physics. 

Let’s not get caught up in the details, but there are a lot of benefits that come with pelvic floor strength at our age. Think depends. Yeah, that.

This is how I think of it. We are graciously modeling how to age with dignity for all the thirty-somethings in the room. They can thank us later.

When I finally hooked my generous leg over the bar, I noticed in the mirror that my position bore no resemblance to the instructor’s.

To my horror, I see the instructor scamper (literally) over to correct my form. She does this with micro instructions, whispering (so as not to embarrass you in front of the entire class, who are now all staring at me) “lift this a little higher (Is she kidding?), square your hips (They’re round?), and tighten your core (I am),” but when I peek in the mirror, the truth is my core is lapping over my leggings, and to my horor there is a rather large hole in the armpit of my t-shirt. 

Whoever said the truth will set you free was lying. 

As soon as she leaves, I tuck all those loose parts of my anatomy back in place and return to my maladjusted form. She continues to call out perky instructions with deceptive kindness, “Lift that back leg up an inch, down an inch, up an inch, down an inch, hold at your personal highest, now pulse up, keep it tight, you got this, remember your core, last twenty,” and then she sneaks in another ten. 

Ruthless.

While I’m pushing my body beyond sensible boundaries, I start contemplating the maligned narrative embedded in all this nonsense (Am I exercising to improve my strength or to turn back the clock?). Because if we cannot see beyond it, there is no solution. 

If we fear aging, we start fearing everything, not just the wrinkles and lack of estrogen, but the weather, the neighbor, the future, and our feminine instincts. Nothing is sacred. 

There is no mystery. 

Women who love themselves, I mean all of it, the well-worn parts that protect our bodies like a beloved bookcover, the missing hormones, the wobbly parts, and those beautiful laugh lines that frame our eyes and lips. 

And let’s not ignore the good stuff, like our invaluable experience, wisdom, and confidence about our place in the world. This is a dangerous ideology because if we don’t care what others think, and we’re so over all those ridiculous cultural expectations, we won’t sell our souls to fix it. And yes, the market will crash.

It’s still dark when Sue drops me off at home.

As soon as I approach the front door, I realize Larry has locked me out of the house when he left for boot camp, but Sue is long gone. Thank God my daughter lives across the street. I run to her house to borrow her spare key. She hands me her keychain as she spreads jam on several pieces of toast and says, “You and Dad have to get your act together.”

“Hey, we gave birth to you,” and I run home before she can respond. 

Unfortunately, the toe of my shoe caught the edge of a paver twenty feet from my front door, and I tripped. Oh, I tried to recalibrate, maintain my balance, arms flailing in the air, and can I just say gravity is a cruel force, and before I know it, I’m sprawled across the driveway. Keys landed five feet away.

What the hell? 

I lay there a minute, trying to decide if I broke anything, aside from my pride, before pushing myself off the cold cement. I quickly scan for witnesses, and guess what, no one is coming to save me. Which also means no one saw me trip over my own damn feet. 

I think John Holmes wrote there is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up. 

So I slowly pick myself up off the ground. I inspect the landscape for the source of my downfall, but there is nothing there. It was all me. 

I read somewhere (it would be helpful if I cited all these quotes) that we must never give anything else the responsibility for our lives, but I wasn’t sure how this applied to me until I found myself lying flat on my well-rounded belly on the cold pavement.

The metaphors just keep coming. 

Moving a little slower, I let myself into the house, pour myself a cup of hot coffee, and plop down by the fire. The heat warms my back. Total bliss. 

I check myself for injuries, evidence of my big fall, and I find nothing. Not one little scrap or broken nail. Do you hear me? There is no evidence of our past failures worth keeping, absorb the lesson, move on. 

My mother used to tell me that all the time when I was young, slow down, pick up your feet, watch where you’re going. It’s as if I’ve come full circle. I’m sure she’s up there giggling somewhere. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, “You were right about everything, Mom.” (Yes, that was an outrageous attempt to influence my children)

When I started writing today, I lit a candle, because as you know, I’m particular about aesthetics. The thing about beauty is it becomes the guiding principle, empowering your creativity, your sense of well-being, and your joy. I know, I’m a bit much, but it’s true. I watch the flickering flame, and I don’t know why, but I feel happy. 

What is flickering so softly in your life right now that you might miss it if you didn’t slow down, get warm, lead with your eyes? 

The thought that keeps permeating my words today is that, as we age, we have the opportunity to become a light that can lead younger women toward an alternative future. One that isn’t influenced by toxic perfection, disempowerment, and silencing. If we mask our age by sculpting our faces into a younger version of ourselves, how will the young people find us?

This is the winter of my life. According to most experts, it’s irreversible and full of surprising opportunities to bend a little, keep my core solid, and strengthen my pelvic floor so I don’t pee my pants. I know. All sorts of things to be thankful for at my age.

I’m going to pry myself open, like an oyster, and consider the possibility that if I live another year, what would I regret at the end of 2026? If humility and humor are my greatest assets, I shouldn’t just sit on them. I don’t have to be a saint, but I can be kind and a little irreverent when the situation calls for it. I’m going to actually try to understand opposing points of view this year because our stubborn determination that we are always right isnt working. Maybe listen more? I’m going to let this tight little bud I keep myself contained in bloom without anyone’s approval, and obviously, buy more candles.

The words I choose for this year are Grit and Grace. Don’t ask, but if you need to bury a body, I’m your girl. 

Let’s just say I’m trying to be helpful instead of bossy, generous instead of stingy, especially with my spaghetti sauce, attention, and smile, okay, and neighborhood gossip. I will keep reminding myself that relaxing is not a sin. It is good and holy to cozy up to the authors I trust, let my eyes slide over their words, infusing this old brain with inspiring thoughts. That’s how I absorb goodness. Let’s get out there, kick up our heels, trip over our own feet, have some fun. I’m beginning to understand that my future is only limited by my imagination, fearless heart, pelvic strength, and wicked sense of humor. 

PS – My daughter went to the hairdresser, and she said to Julie, “I didn’t know your mom knew Oprah. Bahaha.

PSS – “And the beauty of a woman, with passing years, only grows!”

― Audrey Hepburn

PSS – Larry decided to boil an egg. So he got out the pot, asked whether to boil the water first or boil them together, and I said either way. I got the look. He decided to boil the water first. Then promptly dropped the egg in the water and set the timer. A few minutes later, he noticed the egg was cracked. He said, “The egg cracked,” stating the obvious. I said, “You have to drop it in gently with a spoon.” He said, “That would have been good to know ahead of time.” I quipped, “That’s what experience is for.” I mirrored the look. He didn’t love it.

PSSS – Happy Birthday, Sue! This is your year, my friend. Grab it by the ass. Love you.

Act like Larry, grab your copy of Grow Damn It! today! See that smile? Leave a review if you’re so inspired.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 57 Comments

Aging Without Apology

In A Noisy World

“What you do speaks so loud,” said Emerson, “that I cannot hear what you say.”

When I don’t spend enough time alone with my thoughts, they get feisty, as if a neglected child, and start buying bamboo sheets and shimmery slippers on Amazon without my permission. It’s not that I don’t like the things my thoughts purchase, it’s just annoying, like an itch you can’t quite reach. 

Sometimes, I feel as if silence is the most elusive noun in the world. Our phones are constantly beeping, there’s continual construction in the suburbs, or the television is blaring, and just when you sit down with your cup of coffee, someone knocks at the door with your Blue Apron delivery. 

But the loudest of all and sometimes the most disturbing is the erratic clamoring of my own thoughts.

Noise pollution is a lot like air pollution; it hampers our ability to breathe deeply, think clearly, and sometimes, even move.

Not to add doom upon gloom, but there are so many complicated problems in the world today, which can be paralyzing in and of themselves, and I worry that collectively we have lost hope. I define hope as a survival trait because without it, we are not motivated to change the things that are wrong with ourselves, our relationships, our world. 

And it has to go in that order, put your mask on first, or everyone expires.

Without hope, we give up. We don’t take action. We sit, making an uneasy peace with inevitable disaster. (Which, by the way, should be the subtitle of every HOA meeting ever.)

This is probably not what you were hoping to enjoy with your morning coffee, but this is what happens when I get up early, breathe in the cool morning air, and then snuggle into my makeshift desk in the back of the room, allowing my erratic thoughts to dominate my writing. 

Today, I’ve given myself permission to just write, without direction or intent. I’m going to take long pauses so I can actually hear my thoughts, provide them with enough space to expand or contract, to wander off the page if needed. I’m using it as a therapy session, hoping to tame the frantic wayward side of me and maybe, in doing so, stumble on some universal truths. 

Yes, I’m skeptical too.

About ten minutes in, my ruminating slows down, the presumptions get softer, and when I finally put my fingers to rest, the ideas I see emerging between the lines are actually quite hopeful. Interesting, because I was in such a snit when I sat down to write. 

I’ve been debating the value of my writing for months, and now I’m wondering if what I’m honestly debating is how I value myself. Not only are my muscles, memory, and neck losing elasticity as I age, but so is my confidence.

What the hell?

It seems as if it was just yesterday when I had too much estrogen, a gaggle of kids, furry pets, a sick mom to care for, and a husband who traversed the globe selling memory (bahaha – in the form of a chip).

I was the calm in the storm back then, resilient, reliable, and endlessly flexible. Please do not fact-check these statements with my children. 

They lie. 

Now that the estrogen is gone, and apparently my progesterone has jumped ship as well, and although I’m adding collagen to my morning coffee, it remains undetectable. It’s like playing hide-and-seek with myself, but I can’t find the old me. 

So I did a little research.

It turns out that there are some upsides to this substance rebellion. Without estrogen, I’m now wired to worry about my own needs instead of everyone else’s. My sex drive has been radically diminished, okay, demolished, and so is my tolerance and patience. Oh my, could it get any better?

Okay, before you all go crying, “poor Larry,” you should realize the same thing is happening to him, but it’s less noticeable because his testosterone has always driven his ship, and unless you’re Captain Ahab, it’s usually not mutinous. Though he has been known to harpoon the thermostat without warning.

A very wise woman I know sent me a quote recently because she knows I’m wrestling with this stage of life. The quote referred to menopause as the phase when a woman is pregnant with herself.

I can not tell you how much I love that. 

As Richard Rohr says in his latest novel, Falling Upward, in the second half of life (or the third), “get ready for some new freedom, some dangerous permission, some hope from nowhere, some unexpected happiness, some stumbling stones, some radical grace, and some new and pressing responsibility for yourself and for our suffering world.” 

Now that’s a fabulously fertile statement.

Johanthan Swift said no wise person ever wanted to be younger. He most likely was not married to Estee Lauder, Elizabeth Arden, or Bobbi Brown, who made millions on this very foundation, pun intended. 

When did the concept of aging become so distorted?

We are designed to age beautifully, but we have been convinced by the dominating culture that aging is a sin. The worst kind of sin if you happen to be a woman. We’ve been indoctrinated to fear our grey hair, every damn wrinkle, our charming belly fat, laden breasts, and mild shift in attitude. Bahaha.

I feel like the Tupperware in the back of the pantry, their color has faded, most of the lids are lost, warped, or cracked, and in general, they might make better bath toys for the grandkids than containers for my leftovers. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, but you already knew that. 

All is not lost, because with fewer responsibilities and fewer regulatory substances, we gain a new sense of clarity, becoming an improved version of our old self, with a deep and profound reverence for life. We are giving birth to a new entity, one who is not only feisty but outrageously warped. We’ve developed flexibility and resilience. We’re creative as hell, relatively calm, wildly empathetic, and ever so eager to share our wisdom with the grandchildren who are glued to their screens. 

This is precisely why we need radically aging people who can mirror life truthfully and foundationally for the next generation. We are a ray of hope in a dark world, and best of all, we have access to a fabulous generator. See what I did there?

Dr. Amanda Hanson beautifully writes in her new book, Midlife Muse, “Envision a reality in which women consider their look and body shape to be the least interesting things about them. In which women spend their money in ways that expand and enhance their souls rather than on products and procedures that disguise their perceived flaws.” 

That’s what I’m talking about. 

So how do we create an environment where we all feel as if we have a place at the coveted table in a world that bombards us with messages that devalue our worth as we age? 

Hope and belief are excellent starting points because the only thing that can possibly hold us back is our own lack of courage, faith in ourselves, and a proper-fitting bra (Interchange with jock strap, if necessary). I think we should gather up the people in our lives who are safe, compassionate, and trustworthy. You know the ones. They don’t flinch when you’re a vulnerable mess. They move closer, grab you by the shoulders, whisper in your ear, “Don’t forget, you’re the plot twist no one expected.” 

People who boldly love themselves attract people who are also self-loving. Booyah!

These are the ones who look for the best in others and refuse to gossip, they celebrate each other’s victories, mourn each other’s pain, and fiercely protect one another. It doesn’t matter if you gather to discuss books, beliefs, or which cruise ships have the best buffets. 

Just show up.

The world needs sassy, strong, and competent elders who have a passion for leading, but a healthy social network also means you need to plan regular “play dates.”

The beginning of this journey starts with knowing and loving ourselves, just as we are, and curating a life spun from our wildest dreams. Richard Rohr says, when we learn to desire deeply, desire ourselves, desire God, and desire everything good, true, and beautiful. God, like nature, abhors all vacuums and rushes to fill them. 

Perhaps this is how we allow the first half of life to give birth to the second right smack in the midst of a noisy world, held by the hands of those who love us without conditions, repercussions, or judgment. It’s in those ever-expanding circles that we stop apologizing for existing, and trust me, no one has ever died wishing they had eaten less cake, spent more time scrubbing floors, or exfoliating.

So, buy the bamboo sheets and shimmery slippers, raise your voice, write your truth, dance when the urge strikes, forgive graciously, and foster the young. In other words, be the plot twist no one saw coming, because in this noisy, impatient, imperfect world, the bravest thing we can do is to age unapologetically, treat every wrinkle like a merit badge, celebrate our vintage as if a fine wine (it’s gotten us through much worse). Go ahead, be a little brazen, and get knocked up with a brand new self.

I’m Living in the Gap, looking for those special people, who want to age without apology! Maybe Dr. Amanda Hansen will join us!

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 · 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.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 46 Comments

I Am A Cage

In Search Of A Bird [Franz Kafka]

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“Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.” -Mother Teresa

A little bird landed on the deck’s railing on the other side of the window through which I watched the sunrise early one morning. I had a hot cup of coffee warming my hand, a fur blanket over my shoulders, and I was snuggled on the soft white sofa in the lanai. It was blissfully quiet, and the silence was as uplifting as the sun rising over the dense morning fog. 

This little bird was making quite a ruckus, chirping away as if she was talking directly to me, pausing every few seconds to tilt its little head and look me in the eye. I’m not kidding. My feathery friend somehow beguiled my weary ruminations into a smile. I was forced to shift my attention from a painful memory to the present moment. I sat there wondering why this bird chose to stay in the same place when she could fly anywhere, and then I had to ask myself the same question.

Why am I anchoring myself to these pessimistic thoughts when I know I should let them go?

And without warning, my laughter filled the empty lanai. Although I take a lot of liberty with reality, what else could it be? I’m sitting here on my own perch, spinning an old tale around and around in my head when I should be witnessing the birth of a new day. What a waste of my time, focus, and attention. Right? That little bird brought me back to reality, the reality of what was arising before my eyes, and I was willing to miss in preference for useless musings. I would have thanked that little bird, but it flew away as soon as I started laughing.

Clearly, its work here was done.

It’s been drummed into my brain that the present moment is all I have, yet I waste it on useless thoughts, forcing me to see through bars of anger and frustration. If I think wasting precious resources like energy and water is a shame, I should be mortified to squander a single moment of my precious time. The person who uttered those painful words has all but forgotten the nocuous exchange, but I sit here, perched on the fragile edge of time, wallowing in mindless rhetoric.

Abraham Joshua Herschel says, “What starts as a sound ends in a deed.” So, of course, this got me thinking about the power of words uttered without care or consideration.

Words have an energy all their own, with the power to influence people positively or negatively, depending on the speaker’s intent. That’s all. Once we put our words into the world, they are as efficacious as any other energy source. 

What matters is how we use them. 

Words have the ability to change everything—the future, the present, and even the way we remember the past. If we fully understood the power of our words, we would never give voice to a negative thought again.

Words are like stains on the heart that never fade—stubborn, penetrating, eternal.

I don’t always have control over the things that populate my inner world because my mind is as if a cage in search of a bird. I could shut the damn door, but I often tarnish my own plumage with toxicity and remorse.

I am extremely sensitive to the energy around me. I know this about me, and yet I fail to protect myself.

As human beings, we have to learn how to master our tongues, right? Our words are not easy to tame, and when we let the unruly ones out, they wreak havoc on everyone they encounter, and the repercussions are real. 

Words have the ability to help, to heal, to hinder, to hurt, to harm, to humiliate, and to humble, says Yehuda Berg. When it is all said and done, no one wants to be humiliated by life, full of rancor and anger.

So, how do we turn this crazy world around?

I believe we have the power to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the darkness, and to ingratiate ourselves with those wild birds who flutter about. The thing is, words move hearts, and it is our hearts that move us to action.

With thoughtful, kind, encouraging, positive, uplifting, gentle, life-giving, and genuine words. I know what you’re thinking: dishonesty does no one any good, but we can say just about everything with love and kindness. Harsh criticism reveals more about the speaker than the victim. Rachel Wolchin reminds us to be mindful when it comes to our words. A string of words that don’t mean much to you may stick with someone else for a lifetime.

Hannah Arendt says that the greatest harm, evil, and destruction in the world is perpetuated by people who refuse to be persons. I had to read that several times before it sunk in.

I wonder if it is possible to craft our speech to captivate, inspire, and bring about peace instead of manipulating, controlling, and harming each other. I’m beginning to believe that words are our most powerful resource. If used wisely, we can shape the future, bend the arc of justice, and mend the destruction brought on by people caged in their own misery. I don’t want to live a small life when it’s a miracle just to be alive. I want to open the door of the dark lanai and greet that little bird chirping at the rail, wordlessly bringing me back to the cusp of a new day. Let us fan the tiny embers of our hearts, the source of our passion and delight. It starts with one person who is brave enough to live outside their own barriers, to pass the flame of Anor from one person to the next as if we were a human sunrise, lighting up the world one word at a time.

I’m Living in the Gap, listening to the birds, let’s chirp in the comments together.

Grow Damn It, available here, arrives just in time to populate those spring baskets.

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A Winter Romance

“It is not the failure that holds us back but the reluctance to begin over again that causes us to stagnate.” Clarissa Pinkola Estés

I’m sort of obsessed with endings as I watch this year limp towards its final destination, dragging our illusions as if a suitcase with a broken wheel, waiting to pass through the gate of the New Year. 

And I mean limp.

We’ve all dealt with unexpected trials and tribulations, setbacks and delays, but also personal triumphs and victories that left us breathless and elated, hanging on to the edge of our castoff hope, bravely warding off old fears, and with any luck, some tender laughter to give us perspective.

Oh, what a life.

Today is the winter solstice, the day I decided to tackle a new post, and can I say it’s rather bleak outside? It feels as if we’ve been encased in darkness for quite some time, but I realize the waning and waxing of the sun is always happening in our lives as if this celestial source of light is at the mercy of a sacred dimmer switch.

We’ve been lighting a lot of fires lately to ward off the drafty rooms in this elderly house. We live in California. These houses were not built for the cold. The windows came single-paned, the walls without insulation, and roofs that would collapse if it snowed. Larry has been walking through the toasty rooms, moaning about the gas bill for weeks. We’ve been blatantly ignoring him. 

Wait til he sees the visa! Ho, ho, ho…

As the days darken, my morning routines become more and more potent simply because they involve turning on lights, opening the shutters, igniting that glorious fire, and brewing coffee, of course.

What is it about fires that so captures me?

I would typically blame Hallmark movies, but that’s not the truth. My memories of a blazing fire are so intertwined with family gatherings, holidays, cozy evenings, and bouts of introspection that I can’t tease them apart. Instead of a flickering flame, the fire has become an ethereal witness, warming both heart and soul.

This puts the term “Old flame” in a whole new light.

I bought this bright red leather planner for 2025, and it’s been begging me to get out my pens and highlighters to note birthdays and special occasions for the coming year. There’s something magical about a blank calendar. 

You know what I mean? 

It offers us the opportunity, delusional or not, to drive our future in a new direction with pens and markers. I’m leary, but I genuinely believe our intentions are more important than we think. I mean, if everything starts with an idea, then our thoughts are rather efficacious, especially the negative ones who seem to have minds of their own. 

Opening that calendar and designing the next 12 months of my life is beyond exciting. Yet, I’m fully aware that God gets a kick out of disrupting my mortal plans, slipping something out of the blue into my life that looks and acts like a catastrophe but often turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Hence, the saying you just “dodged a bullet” rings true to most of us.

And guess what? 

We’re aging, all the time, and no one is exempt except Jane Fonda. She lives on a Golden Pond, for goodness sake. This might look like a major design flaw at first glance, but maybe we should be thanking our prolific designer.

Sometimes, I look across the room at Larry, the boy I’ve known since he was 14 and now 64. We’ve changed a bit. Okay, drastically. Our hair has turned gray, our frames are shrinking, and the skin that has encased our bodies since birth has taken up a new occupation. 

Our skin is now a comedian. That’s all I’m going to say. 

But this time of life also ushers in fabulous opportunities if you’re not afraid of new beginnings. It’s an extraordinary time for Larry and me because with advanced age comes retirement, but no one talks about this stage of life. It’s as if a healthy discussion about retirement has become as socially unacceptable as religion, politics, and sex. 

Aside from the obvious, like a closet full of Tommy Bahama shirts, wrinkle-free khaki pants, and Ecco loafers, retirement has unexpected side effects for couples, and we walked blindly into its trap, sideswiped by mismatched expectations and unspoken visions for our future. 

Without kids, jobs, academics, and sporting events to define our lives, we were forced to rediscover each other, and guess what? The person sitting across from me is not the person I married. 

Who is this balding guy hanging around the house all day, leaving empty coffee cups all over the place, stocking the pantry with tuna and vitamin D? We had to court each other all over again, but there’s a slight kink, okay, a colossal kink, because we are no longer under the influence of an overzealous pituitary gland and raging hormones. We’re forced to seduce each other with wit, charm, and elegant table manners. Bahaha

We had to come up with a new set of priorities as a couple, merge our bucket lists, and believe me when I say we had to take it to the mats a few times without a referee.

For me, retirement looked like hours of uninterrupted writing, making reservations for dinner instead of spaghetti, spending quality time with my kids and grandkids, a little traveling, something that involved beaches and cocktails with umbrellas, long weekends at the lake, learning how to play pickle ball, and maybe a new sofa for the family room. 

Larry’s retirement was all about biking with friends, with me, and even the grandkids. He wanted to travel extensively with our tandem and, like Captain Kirk, “go where no man had gone before.” He was looking for active, provocative vacations that would physically and mentally challenge us, projects at the lake, visiting the kids, and a convertible 911 to fill the empty space in the garage.

Retirement is complicated, but merging the expectations of two old wrestlers is a righteous challenge. If I were being honest, this life-changing arrangement is disorienting, and then you have to figure out the finances. Don’t get me started on our opposing views regarding money. It would be hilarious if money weren’t so important, but it is, and it forms an immobile boundary around what you can and can’t do in retirement. 

In my opinion, the most important things we’ve learned are how to grant each other the space to be who we are, to stifle the urge to control each other and everything around us, to reserve judgment for our own issues, and learn how not to take everything so personally (that’s more of a Cheryl issue but it applies to both of us in some ways). 

Here’s the good news--every year has a beginning, a middle, and an end. So when we’re dragging that broken suitcase to the gate of the New Year, it is my sincere hope that together, we can make the most of the time we have left. 

How do we do that?

We get out the pens and highlighters and write our own endings. What do we want these last few decades of our lives to contain? Raymond Lindquist says courage is the power to let go of the familiar and allow the obstacles of our past to become gateways to a new future. 

Right?

Nothing is predestined. 

As new light is entering the world on this glorious day, I am sitting by the fire, considering the many convolutions of my own story. Getting life right is hard. Larry and I had to redefine ourselves in retirement. If we’re not procreating, holding down a job, and raising kids, then what the hell is our purpose? 

I’m so glad you asked. 

I consider marriage an act of salvation because we’re continually rescuing each other from the atrocities of the ego, and you’ll understand this if you have been married for 4 months or 40 years. What the hell is salvation anyway if it is not a solution to being lost, alone, and afraid?

John, one of the most prolific biblical writers, says, “There is no fear in love. Perfect love drives out fear because fear involves punishment.” We are not in trouble. We never were. We are deeply loved, and our purpose in this world seems to be to provide compassionate service to each other. Love requires action. It can be seen because it touches, listens, rescues, receives, serves, and sacrifices for the people we love.

Knowing this allows me to shift my expectations when necessary and turn those dreams that have not yet come true into aspirations not fully realized. I’m on the plane, but it’s been slightly delayed, and I’m not going to surrender to useless frustrations just because a storm is brewing on the horizon. 

We deserve love and happiness, but that is an inside job. It doesn’t come to us. We have to reach for it with both hands as if a prayer.  The world we desire exists. It is real. It is possible. From the first breath to the last, we’ve been creating our lives one idea at a time. Let’s dazzle ourselves on this last leg of the journey and upgrade those tickets to first-class because our final destination will surpass all expectations. I’m going to trust I’m right where I need to be, perfectly designed, immensely capable, deeply loved, graciously redeemed, always and forever. 

We have some exciting new beginnings happening in 2025. Our daughter Kelley and husband Tim are expecting their first child in early May. We’re over the moon about welcoming our 4th grandchild into the world. In July, the entire family flies to Portugal to celebrate Tony and Thalita’s wedding on the outskirts of Lisbon, and we’re thrilled to have Thalita as our new daughter-in-love. 

I’m Living in the Gap, enjoying the home fires, looking forward to joining you in the comments.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 39 Comments

Let It Shatter You

“The world looked like a storm. I was going to be its center.” ― Kiera Cass

Holy Shit!

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the stand-up heater on the patio swaying like a metronome in the raging storm.

I leap out of bed in a single move, which at my age is more like watching someone wiggle out of the beach chair in slow motion, but whatever, my Christmas present from last year is about to land face down on the rigid brick patio. Apparently, I am the only savior currently available.

As Charlotte Bronte says, “I was roughly roused and obliged to live.”

I stub my toe on the door jam as I race to the garage barefoot, in my winter pajamas, thank God, in search of something to secure the heater on Larry’s ridiculously chaotic workbench.

I’m literally yelling at myself, “Rope, Bungie, string, anything. What can I use to tie this thing down? A little help here, God. My toe is bleeding.”

Total silence. Isn’t that always the way?

Then, I see the solution hanging on a hook on the other side of the garage. Shaggy’s old leash is beckoning me. I never had the heart to get rid of it, and now I know why. I race with it in my tight grip towards the backyard.

As if a miracle, I use all my might to move last year’s Christmas present closer to the anchoring post, and with herculean effort, I secure it to the arbor with the dead dog’s leash in the pouring rain.  

Now I’m soggy, bleeding, broken open in a way, sort of proud of myself with fresh loam stuck to the bottom of my feet.

You might ask, where are all the men in your world?

Well, Larry’s eating donuts with his biking friends who are not riding in the rain but could not give up their donuts! 

Dante could be anywhere. I never heard him come in last night, but I assume he’s fast asleep somewhere in the world.

When Larry comes home, I tell him in detail about my heroic deed. 

He immediately heads out back to check on my professional securing of Christmas past. After shaking it a few times, he walks around it twice and returns to our room, “Good idea, we should have secured it all along.”

He doesn’t remember that I recommended securing it with a bungie a month ago. It’s like I’m a savant. 

About last year’s Christmas gift…

I’ll admit I wanted a new heater for our patio. We practically live out there most of the year, but the temperature drops significantly in the evening. I had been hinting for months that we needed to replace our old rusted heater with a new one, something that we could hang from the arbor and turn on with a switch.

I’m talking modern technology people.

As you can imagine, my brilliant suggestion was meant with total disdain. 

He claims, “The old heater is perfectly fine.” 

“It practically lit my hair on fire the last time I tried to use it?”

“Duck.”

“Duck?”

“Goose.”

“Someone better start running.”

I was adamant that I didn’t want the stand-up style and was willing to shell out the dough for a user-friendly model we could hook up to our gas line. 

Just to be clear, I never asked Santa for a heater. I’m more into shiny, tiny, and new. 

I suggested we put this project in the home improvement file because we would both benefit from a new heater, but it was not something he should use to check off both renovation and Christmas at the same time.

This suggestion was ignored entirely.

My first Christmas gift last year were these chandelier types of heaters with these hideous shades. I can’t even describe them to you because the memory is so brutal. He took them back to the store and came home with these gigantic eclectic things that you mount on the arbor, but the minute we turned them on, they blew out our entire electrical system. He returned those too and finally decided on this tall, black, gas-powered monstrosity that is not only an eye sore but cumbersome in my opinion. We’ve moved it all over the yard in an attempt to hide it from our view. 

To no avail.

So there it sits, last year’s Christmas present, swaying like a metronome in the storm. I think it interesting how the weather naturally disrupts our plans. We can depend on this, but what about our human nature? 

It is also disruptive, uncontrollable, and unusually bent on its own selfish desires. 

The truth is what we really need can never be bought, wrapped, and put under a lighted tree. In fact, we need more than we can ever give, but I certainly lose sight of that when I’m assaulted by my own to-do list every morning in December. 

What I need to add to the list is time to be seduced by the rain, to walk outside without my umbrella, allowing it to drench my weary soul. I’ll say this, after you climb in bed with the thunder, let it shake you to the core, it’ll shock your damn heart into beating again. 

And that’s what we all need.

I have no idea what he has up his sleeve for this year. Let’s hope it’s not something I have to secure during a storm and try to hide from view. 

All I know is that the storms are out there and will hit all our lives eventually. What do we do with that? This is what I think. 

Let it knock you over, dent your rims, bust up your toe, and soak you to the bone. This is our chance to be broken wide open. It’s when we are our most vulnerable when the distractions of this life fade away, and the only thing we can attend to is the pain. It’s a rare glimpse into the true nature of ourselves, our beauty, our strength, our purpose, and it all accumulates on the horizon of a swollen sky. 

So run towards these wild tempests in life, the chaos, the things that make you bleed, throw a tantrum, put a little fire in your heart. Don’t sit in the warm house, sipping coffee, playing it safe. This is our chance to run towards something bigger, better, that will secure us on those dark nights of the soul.

We want wild, wet, unpredictable lives. We want the thunder, with its loud, unguarded nature, because that heart we’re always trying to lull to sleep is now craving something only a storm can satisfy. You will never regret a life that fiercely engages all your emotions. Go on, let the storm shatter you. 

My kids are piling into town; the house is full, and the refrigerator is empty. I’m ridiculously happy, of course, I have a cold, and I’m permitting myself to rest this week. I apologize for my absence on your blogs, in your comments, and to your responses. Merry Christmas to all, and happy holidays, Chag Sameach and Eid Mubarak! 

“Cheryl is one of my favorite authors/writers. Her life experiences, coupled with her brilliant gift of words, will leave you in tears (and stitches from laughing). She is unique in her delivery and word choices. When I began following her years ago, immediately, I immediately felt a connection. She “grabs” you and pulls you in. You’ll laugh out loud and cry with her. And when you read her heartwarming stories, it’s as if she is hugging you along with her words. Her stories will help you learn more about yourself! Buy it, d#@$ it!” K.L. Hale (Thank you Karla (Flannel With Faith) for the lovely review!)

Gift it, share it, donate it, offer it, contribute, bestow, award. Grow Damn It!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 69 Comments

It’s Bold

It’s Daring

It’s A Risk

There are things in that paper that nobody knows but me, or ever will.” ― Charlotte Perkins Gilman

On the cusp of the new year, just before the glorious birth of our eternal hope, we decided to remodel the tiny front bath, ironically known as the fish bathroom. 

We’re swapping out the old clawfoot tub, where I bathed all my children, the adorable fish nobs, fish towels, and pedestal sinks for a swanky new shower, modern vanity, and new flooring. 

I’ll admit, it’s a bold choice, but it makes me happy and is utterly rejuvenating.

I decided to break the vow I made to myself twenty years ago never, ever to do this in my home again, but alas, vows are made to be broken, and here I am with paste on my face.

It’s called wallpapering. 

A popular form of decorating a few decades ago, it fell from grace, and as all things do, but it is making a comeback like bellbottoms and platform shoes. 

After scouring online sources for wallpaper, I selected an outrageous print with butterflies and birds, it’s dark and risky, but one that I considered stylish and sophisticated. I’m sort of obsessed with it. Then, I went to the tile shop and found the perfect tile to complement the wallpaper—white with black grout.

It’s all about the wallpaper, people. 

The paper is wild enough to confuse the eye when it tries to follow the pattern, pronounced enough to constantly intrigue and provoke study, but when you follow the birds around a corner, let’s say, they suddenly take on new forms—plunging off at outrageous angles, they take flight. I’ll admit, my heart skips a beat every time I walk down the hall.

My mother-in-law used to wallpaper for friends and neighbors as a side job while she raised four boys and kept the home fires burning. 

So, I recruited her to help me with this project. Now, mind you, she is 86, and I am 64. I was not sure I would survive the day, and Sheila (my mother-in-law) walloped me in terms of stamina, grit, and endurance! 

I’m not kidding.

She was up and down that damn ladder more times than I can count, crouched on her knees for hours, measuring, cutting, and pasting all day. She would not let a single misplaced seam go without redoing it several times if needed, and not a bubble would go unsmoothed. 

I’m like, “It’s good enough.”

She says, “If you’re going to do something, then you should do it right. Let’s try this again.”

“Just the fact that the butterflies are not floating is good enough for me.” Little known fact: when you have a print, the same image has to be at the ceiling in the exact place around the entire room because if it floats, then you’ll see it, and it’s like a sin. You have to go to confession to get it off your conscience. 

“It’s also important to match the print perfectly, or you notice the flaw.”

“Or the people using the facility will get constipated.”

This went on until the last piece was cut, pasted, and placed, and every blister was meticulously eradicated from the entire room. I’ll add that the corners were a nightmare, along with cutting out pieces for light switches and vents and making a perfectly straight cut next to the tile!

As soon as Larry posted a few pictures of the project in progress in the family chat, I received the attached correspondence from my adult children, who no longer live in this house and have deplorable taste, in my opinion. It’s as if I am being schooled by my own progeny. 

I think it was Oscar Wilde who said “This wallpaper is dreadful, one of us will have to go.” Hello, the kiddiewinks are all long gone.

I read somewhere that we are the creators of our own destinies. Damn straight. And we are also the creators of the environment in which we live, sleep, and pee! I mean that, both literally and metaphorically. P. J. O’Rourke said family love is messy, clinging, and of an annoying and repetitive pattern, like bad wallpaper. 

Bahaha

I was appropriately exhausted after a entire day of wallpapering and in need of wine for sheer rejuvenation, while my mother-in-law, was overjoyed to have a project to work on, to have moved all day, and worked her muscles. 

I know, I should eat more spinach.

She joined me for a glass of wine, all smiles and glee, along with my sister, who is as enamored as me—or so she says. I could barely lift my glass to my lips, but I somehow managed, using both hands and pure determination.

We do what we have to.

Hillary Farr says that in a small powder room, the inclination is to go with a light wall color or small print to give the illusion of a macroscale. See, that’s not my gig for bathrooms or life. I like to do the opposite. Big patterns, bold colors, and mismatched seams make both our homes and lives more interesting. It’s all about hope, courage, and the most daring choices you can make. Long lay the world in sin and error, pining till something new comes along, and the soul knows its worth. A thrill of hope when the weary world rejoices because tomorrow is a new and glorious morn―the rest is just wallpaper. 

Happy Holidays, my friends. Thanks for reading my sticky post and traveling this life with me. Try to remember when you’re posting a comment: If you can’t say anything nice…say it anyway! 

I apologize for my delayed responses and missed posts, it’s December, and I’m hobbling Christmas together and laying plans for the family to gather. My multitasking days are long gone and I’m spending more time staring at the sky, listening to the wind, smiling at all the twinkle lights illuminating our lives.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 48 Comments

Where Are The Cliff Notes On Life?

It’s Not Where You Think

From left to right: Nancy and I wine-tasting, failing to get a table at Eastwood’s place, and enjoying Martinis at La Playa!

“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.”

— Brené Brown

If I’m upset and my sister says, “How are you doing?” I feel the tension leave my body almost instantly. It’s crazy how wired we are for physical and mental connection.

Our most critical biological need is to belong.

That’s why my sister and I took a twenty-four-hour mini vacation a few days ago. Nancy is like Prozac in human form. It’s not that she’s a pill or anything. It’s just that when we’re in close proximity, she balances my nervous system, increases my serotonin (think mood, memory), and improves my overall mental health. 

I’m sure she feels the same about me. Bahaha

All I know is that if we were woven together in the same womb (different years), then we’re designed to shop together, encourage each other to buy crap that will exasperate our kids when we die, and, obviously, go on mini-vacations. 

It’s how we survive life on a planet with spiders, pythons, cockroaches—and people who can be even worse. Some people get it, some people don’t. Think Hitler and Jesus—two totally different dudes. One destroyed life, and one preserved it. But that’s another story…

I arrived at her house around 8:00 a.m. After picking up coffee and egg bites, we hit the road, landing in Pacific Grove just as the antique mall opened. I know—talk about serendipity. We spent the first half of the day admiring old, dusty trinkets that were once prized possessions of people we will never know. We are antique addicts—nothing to do with age. I came home with a bag full of glass fruit from Italy. 

What can I say? Unlike regular fruit, these do not rot, spoil, or bruise but make lousy smoothies.

Nancy is my most faithful accomplice, and I am hers. We have our unique obsessions, and for reasons unknown, they all involve glass, a hard, brittle substance made by fusing sand with soda and then rapidly cooling. There is clearly something embedded in all that, but for the life of me, I am at a complete loss.   

I don’t know if this is about like-mindedness, co-dependence, empathy, or a delightful mixture of all three. 

And by the way, empathy is not something that just happens. It’s intentional. You deliberately imagine what it would be like to be someone else, to feel what they feel, their pain, their hurt, their obsessions, all of it, and then you help each other carry the produce, if you will, for the rest of your life. 

I really love this particular design feature. It’s so human. 

Yes, I scooted off-topic. It happens. It’s as if my thoughts take over, and I have no idea where they are going, if they’re connected, or just being unruly. 

Anyhoo, after appeasing our addictions, we hit the shoe store because I needed a new pair of black loafers for the winter. I wore my last pair to death—I’m not kidding. The clerk asked if she should throw them in the trash after demanding I try on these olive green flats. 

I looked at the green shoes suspiciously, and as politely as possible, I said, “I’m not a fan of the color.”

Nancy says, “They have your size—just try them on.” (as if my feet are gigantic, they are, but that’s not the point)

The clerk says, “Adorable, check out your feet in the mirror.”

I ended up with the olive-green flats. Don’t ask. I wore them out of the store. My mother warned me about this. She said, “Never wear new shoes out of the store because they won’t take them back if you get home and they pinch your feet.” I could feel her bristling from heaven.

We had an incredible lunch at Reds. By incredible, I mean we could not stop moaning over the tomato bisque soup and half a grilled cheese sandwich with artichokes and peppers sauteed into the cheese. There are no words…

After checking into our hotel, we dumped the fruit and headed to Galante Vineyards for wine tasting. It’s free because Larry and I are members. Nancy and I planted ourselves in the garden, had the hostess turn on the little firepit, and lingered until the sun was lunging toward the horizon. The wines were delicious, but the best part was this random guy complimented my olive green shoes! I know. 

It’s crazy how one little compliment about the leather you’re wearing on your feet can go right to your head, or maybe it was the wine.

We shopped along Ocean Street for a spell and then headed to Clint Eastwood’s Mission Ranch Restaurant for dinner—bad planning. There was a two-hour wait because it was karaoke night, and we weren’t in the mood to sing, so we recalibrated and ended up at La Playa Hotel for some appetizers and espresso martinis. We found seats by the windows overlooking the ocean and practically cried over the extraordinary sunset while sipping our posh martinis.  

We sat there for at least two hours talking about our lives, the people we’ve loved, lost, and continue to miss (yes, we actually did the ugly cry in public), those who have come and gone, those who stayed, and those we’ve yet to meet. It’s hard to imagine there are people we will love with all our hearts and souls that we don’t know—yet.

How cool is that?

We talked about our childhood, playing bomb shelter in the closet with our dolls, all the delicious bickering we did, dancing in front of the hallway mirror to Herb Alperts Tijuana Brass, or how I slipped into her twin bed just about every night because I had a ludicrous fear of the dark.

The funny thing is I grew up believing I was from the planet Venus, sent down to Earth for unknown reasons because I was so different from everyone else in my immediate family. How else do you explain where this tall, lanky, loud person came from in a house full of quiet, tiny introverts? And Nancy was no help. She fed my fantasy, telling me I could fly, and sadly, part of me still believes it. I have moments when I think, ‘That would be so cool,’ but when I ask her about it, she just flaps her arms, which only confuses the matter. 

We giggled about the worst parenting advice I was ever given, and to this day, I am amazed that people still follow this guy’s counsel. When my firstborn was eight months old, we were transferred to Overland Park, Kansas. It was a Wizard of Oz-like situation because I was transported away from the support system I had grown up with, and I was a clueless first-time mom. 

Julie was an energetic, adorable, imaginative child who did not enjoy sleeping alone (hello – just like her mother). 

I attended a lecture by John Rosemond, an expert on child development and parenting. He said that to get a child to sleep through the night, you just had to let them cry it out. And I quote, “Do not open the door unless you see blood seeping into the hallway.” 

I can’t believe I ignored my gut and followed his recommendation for a few miserable nights before I came to my senses. The thing is, the only way a child knows how to communicate their needs is to cry. It could mean hunger, discomfort, a dirty diaper, or they simply need to be connected with you because they have no other way of calming their nervous system. 

It’s precisely what happens when Nancy and I are together. We soothe each other. It’s a proximity thing, and no one should have to cry it out alone.

When you know better, you do better.

We ended up splitting a sandwich from the cafe in our hotel and crawling into bed early to enjoy a Hallmark movie after applying these toxin removers to our feet. I found them online, and I can feel you judging me.

Here’s the link.

We slept in, enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee, and then breakfast at Katy’s Place before hitting Ocean Street for a little more shopping. I found a scarf that matched my olive green shoes!

Well, truthfully, Nancy found it, draped it over my shoulder, and said, “If you don’t buy it now, you’ll be dragging me back here in an hour, and I think the lady by the purses has her eye on it.”

Doesn’t everyone need a Nancy?

Our secondary objective for this mini vacation was to get a jump start on our Christmas shopping. You know what I’m talking about? Gifts for other people. Bahaha. 

The thing is I never pictured Nancy and me as old ladies with white hair, jetting down the coast to spend a few days linking our hearts and detoxing our soles (pun intended). We never imagined this life without our parents or Nancy’s beloved spouse, or that our kids would grow up, get married, and have kids of their own. We thought it would always be in the future, not a present reality.

Do you know where the cliff notes on life are stored?

They’re right here, embedded in the present, which somehow encompasses all that has been and ever will be. The past is irrelevant. The future is not yet. All we have is this brief moment in time, which always begs the infamous question. What do you want to do with this one precious life? I say listen to your gut, don’t let anyone cry it out alone, be empathic, link your heart with good people, lead with compassion, and invest in all things that bring you joy, especially glass fruit from Italy, olive green shoes, and a matching scarf. 

It is an enormous privilege to have one person in this world who shares my memories, knows my struggles, and celebrates my joy as if her own. She might know me better than I know myself, which is a huge relief, especially when I forget who I am. 

The one who can fly.

I’m Living in the Gap, dusting my new trinkets, how’s your week going? 

If you want to read more about Nancy,

grab a copy of Grow Damn It!

She is woven into every chapter of my life.

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!