Posted on by cheryloreglia · 53 Comments

A Womb

Expands As Needed
Or Forces Us To Think Bigger (Tasha Oldham)

“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” ― Simone Weil

If I thought dry January was challenging, I was dead wrong, there’s a twisted, cold-hearted, cruel movement rolling into town, and it’s kicking ass and taking names.

My advice―surrender, before it’s too late.

Where do these new trends come from? 

Hades, that’s where and they come with their own heat.

Just like TicTok, this No Buy Feb is all the rage, a social media phenomenon that has the potential to influence people and undermine the stock market. I’m sure Congress is up in arms!

I imagine this is the result of a horrific holiday hangover, our desperate response to overconsumption, and a blatant desire to pay off that debt before taxes come due in April. But, like most things, it’s much more than taxes and debt. 

If we’re living in a world of our own making, then we have the power to reform our lives, but like all transformations, it starts with an idea that we incubate until fully formed. Here’s what I’m thinking, maybe all these acquisitions are good for our ego, but retched when it comes to true happiness. 

There is something inherently wrong with the idea that our value is based on something we own. I am not what I wear, collect, or have become attached to. That’s my ego talking. She’s loud and obnoxious but charming in her own way. 

It is empowering to live within our means, restore our focus, and spend our time doing the things that enhance our lives instead of depleting them. 

The gospel of Matthew [chapter 6] warns us not to worry about what we eat, what we drink, or what we are to wear. Our needs are known, and provisions will be available so we can focus on what really matters. 

Clearly, Matthew didn’t live in the 21st century, with nearly half the US learning to control what they eat with Ozempic, how do we control what we spend? 

The answer is paying attention! Get it? 

According to Simone Weil, whom I love, attention is a form of generosity. 

Manifestations of this theme are sprouting up everywhere, and it’s not even spring. The first to bloom is called “Project Pan,” which challenges people to finish or donate all their skincare products before buying anything new or stocking up on replacements. I will be dead before I manage to use all the creams, lotions, and cosmetics I’ve collected over the years! 

But I like where this is going.

My daughter Julie and I just returned from a quick trip to New York City to help my other daughter, Kelley, reorganize her home to make room for her first child, who is due in May.

Kelley’s apartment is small (by West Coast standards), but she has done an incredible job condensing and eliminating any excess. I have no idea where she came from. 

When we arrived, everything they owned was stacked in the living room, kitchen, and dining room because they had emptied the two bedrooms so they could be repainted. Her husband, Tim, was not doing well with all the chaos, not to mention the arrival of his mother-in-law and sister-in-law amid all this bedlam.

Thank God we came to resurrect the situation. 

She left the windows open in both rooms for an entire day to dispel the paint fumes. It’s January in New York, to say the house was freezing is an understatement. 

We arrived on Thursday afternoon and got straight to work on setting up the guest room/baby’s room and master suite. Once the beds were in place and made up, we put together the baby’s dresser and changing table. 

We were like machines, shifting through her storage cupboards and closets, arguing over every item. I noticed how little excess she had stowed in those cramped spaces when I mentally compared them with all the shit I’ve bought over the years that ended up in the back of a cupboard after they lost their shine.

Her kitchen is the size of a large walk-in closet. There are only five cupboards in the entire space and no drawers.

I know. It gave me nightmares, too.

But it also forced me to re-evaluate all the “treasures” I have collected over the years that claim space in my home but are not necessities. Maybe all this consumption has an alter ego, which is more sinister and deceptive than I imagined. 

Let’s just pray Larry doesn’t read this post. 

So if January is dry, and February is No Buy, what the hell are we going to do with March? Studies show that March is the most unproductive month of the year. Larry suggested we stop eating out, as in No Eat March. I suggested we stop buying luxury cars, as in SteerClear March. 

He was not amused.

So, after organizing Kelley’s place and getting rid of old rugs, shelves, coats, shoes, backpacks, hats, small appliances, belts, umbrellas, and such, we ordered take-out for dinner. Calm down. It’s still January, for goodness sakes.

We did more weeding on Friday after my girls returned from a very long walk around Central Park in the freezing cold. I stayed home, read my new Cher Memoir, and drank all the coffee. 

When satisfied that we had gathered enough gently used items for a healthy donation to Goodwill, we went downtown. Our first stop was the Whitney Museum of American Art for a cultural experience (instead of spending), and we were not disappointed. There were only three floors open, and after examining every minute detail of the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibit, I was content just to browse the rest of the museum. 

Until we landed on the 5th floor, which hosted the Edges of Ailey exhibit, the first large-scale museum exhibition to celebrate the life, dances, influences, and enduring legacy of visionary artist and choreographer Alvin Ailey. 

I was watching a multi-screen display of Alvin’s American Dance Theater, mesmerized by the music and movement, when Julie tapped me on the shoulder to say, “Mom, you are standing right next to Hillary Clinton.” 

Hilary looked fabulous. She was clearly enjoying the dynamic exhibit, surrounded by security, but smiling and engaging with everyone around her. We did not bother her (the girls forbid me to say hello), although I snapped a quick photo. It was quite surreal to be standing next to such an iconic woman, at an iconic exhibit, celebrating forms of art and people who have been pushed to the fringes of society for far too long. 

After our Hillary sighting, we landed at a hippie joint specializing in rabbit food for dinner. The girls were delighted. I left hungry and decided right then and there to participate in No Tofu April, No Kale May, and No Granola July. 

Who’s with me?

Lounging on the sofa after returning home, I watched my daughters snuggle together, Julie’s hand on Kelley’s belly, hoping to feel the baby move. They whispered amongst themselves, sharing secrets I have never been privy to, using a language only known to siblings, much like my sister and I engage in when we’re together.

That was my dream when my children were young that they would grow into adults who would love and support each other. This is why I think of love as a verb first and a noun as it grows and matures. Observing the girls enjoying the movements of my grandson made me think about the limited amount of space in the womb, how it expands as the baby grows, and how it contains all that is needed to support a new life, much like our homes.

We decided to catch up on movies that won Academy Awards, and the girls picked The Substance with Demi Moore, an exaggerated expose on societal expectations about a woman’s body and our cultural resistance to aging. It started out strong, in my opinion, but molted into a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. Demi gave an extraordinary performance, but it was so over the top, until they mopped it up in the end, and that clenched it for me.

Our real impetus for coming to New York was to attend a “surprise” baby shower for Kelley hosted by her dear friend, Vanessa. But we had to keep the damn secret for weeks and stay focused on our cover story, which was to help Kelley rearrange the house before the baby came. 

Both were necessary, but it made me think about how often we do things for one reason when, in reality, there is a secondary motivation that is driving our schemes. Why do you suppose that is?

That’s a rhetorical question. Try not to answer it, just appreciate the subtleties of such queries. 

Vanessa made the “surprise” gathering all about Kelley. She had a custom-made neon sign that labeled the event Club Kiki. From the elaborate decorations, life-sized cardboard cutouts, oversized balloons, customized napkins, and a cake bearing an image of a painting Kelley did a few years ago of the Madonna and child. 

It was absolute perfection. 

And what a privilege it was to meet Kelley’s New York friends. I don’t know how she did it, but she found the most interesting and engaging women in all of New York. It felt good to this mother’s heart to know she had the support and affection of such kind and generous women. 

I arrived home with warm memories, a tender heart, and a passion for organizing my cupboards and repurposing No-buy February on my own terms. 

Is it incomprehensible for us to imagine a new life? 

Absolutely not. As we initially noted, generosity is about paying attention and focusing on freeing ourselves from the burdens of our own possessions. Freedom from the things that weigh us down, like gluttony, debt, and self-indulgent obsessions with spending, collecting, and consuming. If we allow our ideas to incubate in the womb of our hearts, we can give birth to a new way of living, transformed by our own magnanimity, nourished with kindness, and the ability to donate the things we are fond of but no longer need. This height of generosity.

Speaking of generosity, my dear friend Tasha Oldman has come up with “The Thing” she wants to do to invest in others’ healing and recovery from the wildfires in LA. 

Tasha says, “Like so many people, these fires and aftermath have left me feeling manic, frazzled, hyper-vigilant, like if I stop to take a breath, I’m sure to fall to pieces and won’t get up again. By the grace of God, I got in to see Karin Nassar, my acupuncturist. I don’t know what voodoo magic she wove, but I came out a completely different person two hours later. A full-body nervous system reset. It was the first time I had not been in pain in months!!! As I sat in her steam room after, I realized how many could benefit from a Massage Therapy Center, so affordable and such a lovely facility in West LA on Sawtelle. If cost is an issue, please reach out, and I will find a way to get you to see Karin and have your own magical healing experience. People keep asking how they can help those impacted by the wildfires. If you’re willing to donate, Venmo me @Tasha-Oldham, and I will provide for those in need. Much love to all.”

Grow Damn It, available from Amazon.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 42 Comments

It Takes Both The Left And The Right

To Tie A Shoe

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

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

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

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

What the hell?

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

And we get to vote.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I totally get it.”

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

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

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

“Nice, real nice.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Inner child problems. 

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

We’re all scared of not getting it right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh no, that’s just between us.”

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 45 Comments

Building Personal Equity

One Breath At A Time

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

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

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

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

She prompts, “An encore performance?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t I know it?”

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

“And how has that served you?”

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

“Oh, that’s provocative.”

“It is indeed.”

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

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

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

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

Martha and Mary were inconsolable.  

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

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

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

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

I can totally relate. Bahaha

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Life is all about breath. 

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

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

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 · 45 Comments

Under The Disguise

That’s Where I’ll Be

“I wish every day could be Halloween. We could all wear masks all the time. Then we could walk around and get to know each other before we got to see what we looked like under the masks.”

― R. J. Palacio

It’s that time of year…

The nights are longer. We’re about to rewind the hands of time and add a blanket to the bed. We’ll spend an entire evening dressed like ghosts or goblins next week, hanging out with the neighbors and passing out candy to children who parade up and down the streets in elaborate disguises. 

And somehow, our tradition of honoring the dead has become a major coup for the candy industry.

There is a frenzy building in the neighborhood, I can feel it, as the costumes arrive from Amazon, and parents stockpile candy as if they were bars of gold instead of sugar, corn syrup, and butter. I watch the kids running off their excess energy while practicing screams and cackles from their front yards. 

It’s quite unnerving. 

When my granddaughter mentioned that she was dealing with a difficult person (bully) at school, someone who seemed to take pleasure in calling her names during recess, I was not amused. 

Bullies are a thing, and if you’ve been the victim of their abuse, you never forget it. My bully’s name was Robin. She called me out to a fight after school in the second grade. I had no idea why or how to manage the situation. I told the teacher I had to pee five minutes before the final bell. I left the campus without permission and ran all the way home.

All I wanted to know was where the hell was my sister?

I used to think these people were formed from a bad seed or grew up in an abusive home, and that might be true, but they’re also lost and beleaguered cowards who want to drag you into their pain.

I could be overreacting, but more importantly, I’m jumping ahead, and as you know, I like to ease into a story. No detail is unimportant.

Indulge me for a few paragraphs as I set the scene. 

Yesterday morning, I was innocently sipping my coffee, utterly unaware of the problems at the elementary school. I paused to stare out the kitchen window, observing a murder of crows shooting the shit on the front lawn. 

There were three of them, without a care in the world, which seemed right and good in my mind, or maybe I’m just obsessed with all things October.

Only a few moments ago, tucked in my warm bed, I felt isolated from all the chaos, surrounded by darkness except for the tiny flicker of flames glowing from the fireplace. 

It was cozy, and everything was right with my world. A sense of peace swaddled me like a blanket. We all recognize that wildly temporary feeling—a fickle sensation if there ever was one—but nonetheless, it is lovely when she climbs in bed with you. 

There’s a distinctive chill in the air that makes me ridiculously happy because it not only gives me a reason to stay in bed but also seems to excuse that second and third cup of coffee.

This was the impetus that dragged me to the kitchen in the first place, warm coffee, and put me in touch with that darling murder of crows who were having a little teat-a-tete on my front lawn. 

I don’t know why, but watching the birds reminded me of that classic poem by Robert Frost. In it, Robert describes how the dust of freshly fallen snow sprinkles upon him when a crow flies over his head. He claims the crow has given his heart a change of mood.

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

Robert Frost

I felt the same shift in me as I watched the crows squawking at one another, moving their entire bodies as they discussed the prospects for a prolific Saturday morning. It’s as if they put a spell on me.

I couldn’t help but smile, which somehow elevated my entire mood, but literally nothing had changed except the shape of my lips.

The other thing I’m smiling about is that I get to babysit my three granddaughters tonight while my daughter Julie enjoys a much-needed Girl’s Night Out. Her husband Nic and my son Dante are attending a Utes game at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City, so she’s been single-parenting for a few days.

She drops the girls off in the late afternoon, a spectacular time of day, in my opinion. The sun is waning, the air is crisp, and a soft light frames our conversations, dispositions, and landscape, which emanates a seductive energy all it’s own. 

I’m enchanted.  

Audrey and I are chatting out back while the twins play dress-up in the Paris room. She immediately launches into a discussion about a girl who is bullying her during recess. Her words, not mine, so I ask a few discerning questions.

She tells me about this gaggle of fourth graders who hang out together during recess, and one of them is very critical of Audrey, or at least that’s how Audrey sees it. 

I told her that sometimes kids are mean because they have been hurt or feel insecure, and they use words as armor to protect themselves.

“Her words are more like weapons.”

I ask, “What’s this girl’s story?”

Audrey says, “Well, Robin (not her real name) has a new half-brother, and she says he gets all the attention.” The wheels start turning in my head. This kid is probably trying to process a divorce, a new stepparent, and now a new half-brother. Anyone would struggle with so many complicated adjustments.

No wonder this kid is hurting. 

I told her what my parents always told me when someone was mean to me, “Hurt people, hurt others. It has nothing to do with you.”

“It’s like one day she likes me, and the next day, she hates me.”

“She’s baiting you.” 

“It’s confusing.”

“I have an idea,” and now she’s intrigued.

“Grammie, do not show up at recess. That’s so uncool.”

I laughed, “I only did that with my kids.”

“I’ve heard the stories.”

“They’ve been exaggerated.”

“I’ve also heard the Uncle Tony story.”

“That’ll get you suspended.”

Audrey giggled.

“Okay, when Robin says something mean, rude…whatever, you pause for five seconds, ignore the awkwardness of the silence, and wait the full five seconds. You’re shifting the focus, and this is what you want. Then you turn to Robin, make full eye contact, and ask her to repeat what she said with a very clear but gentle voice.” 

“Like…What did you say?”

“Exactly. This takes the focus off you, puts the onus back on her, and then she has to repeat the unkind accusation or change it up to save face.”

Audrey says, “What if she just repeats herself?”

“Then you laugh, smile sweetly, and walk away as if you just won an Academy Award.” 

We practiced the technique several times while I tried to figure out how and when I might utilize it when I’m dealing with difficult people—the possibilities seem endless.

After a successful dinner, which meant everyone had at least three helpings of French toast, we settled in for a spooky showing of Hocus Pocus. Interestingly, there are bullies in this movie, which didn’t get by Audrey. 

She whispers to me after the bullies stole the main character’s tennis shoes right off his feet. She says, “I don’t think the pause and repeat would work here.”

I said, “You are right, but this situation is different. He’s outnumbered, and they are physically bullying him. That’s when you get away as quickly as possible, enlist the help of a trusted adult, and let Karma do its thing because what goes around comes around.”

“That’s not what you told Uncle Tony.”

“Never mind all that.”

Near the movie’s end, those crazy witches capture the bullies, and when they beg for help, the main character simply takes back his shoes and walks away.

That didn’t get by Audrey as she pointed to the screen.

I laughed and said, “That’s what you call poetic justice.”

Audrey says, “It’s hard to be nice to mean people.”

“I know, it’s a challenge, but the best way to resolve a conflict is with kindness and empathy. What if you find something good about Robin that is simple but genuine? Maybe she runs fast, has nice hair, or knows their times tables by heart. It doesn’t matter what it is; just find something admirable about her and tell her, preferably in front of witnesses. When you make someone feel special, it can’t be undone, and it shifts the way they see you.” 

Audrey says, “I like that idea. It’s less awkward than pausing and repeating.”

“Let me know how it goes.”

Throughout my life, I’ve noticed that bruises heal more quickly than emotional scars. Those run deep, and if they are repeatedly aggravated, they only continue to fester. Before you know it, the infection spreads throughout your soul. It’s septic, contaminating everything you do and all your relationships. 

As painful as it is to be the recipient of hurtful remarks, it is way worse to be filled with hatred or jealousy for another person because you refuse to deal with your own unresolved trauma. I’m learning this from Gabor Mate as I work my way through his enormous book, The Myth of Normal. 

When we devalue another person, regardless of age, with criticism, lies, or unjust comments, we deprive ourselves because we’re acting from a place of pain, not wholeness. 

Of course, I asked Audrey a few days later how things were going.

Audrey said, “Robin didn’t say anything mean to me this week. She acted like we were friends, and there were no hard feelings between us.”

“Well, maybe she’s having a good week. You were smart not to dwell on her behavior from last week. We all have our bad days. We say things we don’t mean and unintentionally hurt people because we’re hurting. I think everyone can use a little grace. Right?”

Audrey smiled, “But I have a plan if I need it, and that feels good.”

So I guess the masks we wear are not important. It’s the person under the disguise who matters. I feel as if I’ve lost sight of myself many times in the malaise of living. Trying to rediscover my authentic self is an ongoing journey for me, one that I have never fully realized and is always at risk, no matter the path I take. At least we’re all navigating the same damn maze.

The movie Hocus Pocus might be a popular Halloween classic, but I think it speaks to the value of our most important relationships. It touches on the virtue of love across time and reminds us that we are not stagnant—change in ourselves invites change in others. As Mother Teresa says, “Peace begins with a smile.” If you want to change someone’s day, change the shape of your lips—that’s the secret. 

I’m Living in the Gap, thinking about all the masks I wear, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 52 Comments

After The Laundry Is Done

And The Dust Has Settled

“In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.” – Khalil Gibran

As I sit here, missing those daily rides across Iowa, folding the fifth load of laundry for the day, I hold up my RAGBRAI jersey and drink in the sweet memories of laughter, friendship, and overcoming our fears. 

The older I get, the ethos of time becomes more and more pronounced, and I realize I only really want one thing.

It might not be what you’re thinking, or maybe it is. What I want is fabulous relationships—not just fabulous, but extraordinary, rare, unconditional—because I don’t have time to mess around at this stage of life. 

Okay, if I’m being honest, I really should admit to both of my desires: fabulous relationships and thick pork chops sauteed in Irish butter and then grilled to perfection, but that’s not really a thing. It’s more of a necessity.

I want people in my life who bring me peace, joy, and lots of love. If not, go away.

Fair-weather friends were the relationships you thought would last forever, but the minute you were no longer useful or too difficult, they dropped you like a hot potato, and now you have no idea if they’ve gone vegan or know how to play pickleball.

I want to attract good people into my life—safe, calm, and considerate types. I don’t want to worry about the stability of our connection or how I present myself when I’m having a bad hair day. I realize I’m a recovering people-pleaser, but I am no longer willing to pretend to be someone I’m not because I want your validation and acceptance.

Guess what? I’m not for everyone.

I have met enough people to know the difference between the good, the bad, and the downright ugly. This is not chess; I don’t need to capture a bunch of players to win. 

When life throws me a curveball, I don’t want to look back on my darkest days and wonder where you were and why you didn’t stand with me or come to my defense. I don’t understand people who speak with a forked tongue because it’s more important to be liked by everyone than truly loyal to anyone.

I prefer peace, maybe because I’m a nine on the Enneagram, and you can’t beat that out of me. 

Oh, and I cry a lot these days because life is so damn sweet. It just makes me weep, good tears, plentiful and warm. And I’m not apologizing for that, either. It’s more like bragging, or maybe I’m overhydrated and still high on electrolytes.

Who knows?

But I’ll tell you what—I’m tired of all the games—not games like Mexican Train, but all those things I feel like I have to say and do to fit in. I want you to trust me like I trust you. I don’t want to fret over why you’re not talking to me, why we remember everything differently, and whose fault it is. 

I’m retired from all that.

When I’m with a friend, I want to feel like I do in my Lululemon leggings and a cashmere sweatshirt on a cool evening, with a roaring fire and a glass of fine red wine–comfy, warm, and peaceful.

It’s not too much. Right?

There is no room in my life for bitterness, anger, or regret. That’s boring, and quite frankly, it’s ridiculous to let the past dictate my future. Isn’t it enough that I survived my 20s, 30s, 40s, and 50s without doing any jail time?

I have all the grit I need. I know how to pick myself off the floor, and like Gumby, I’ve learned how to be flexible and resilient. Just look at all my grey hair. Hopefully, I’ve learned from my mistakes and figured out how to forgive both you and me with equal amounts of immunity.

Drama is not my thing; it never has been. If I were to imagine a perfect tomorrow, it would be without all the senseless theatrics, social climbing, and worthless competitions. That ladder fell out of my truck while I was driving to the lake.

I want to lead with compassion, love, and earnestness—no chaos, turmoil, or resentment. Let’s just assume everyone is doing the best they can. They might be dealing with something tragic. I will not abandon you when you need me most, I’ll sit right next to you, and we can just cry if you want. I’ll keep your secrets as if a priest, and if you need to talk in the middle of the night, I’m your girl.

This time of life is about asking the right questions, listening carefully to each other, and responding from a place of love. Let’s let kindness reign, assume the best in each other, and let the rest go. 

I told my sister this morning that we are no longer going to automatically apologize or offer detailed explanations every time someone disagrees with us. We’re on a new journey, one that involves politely asking for what we need and saying exactly what we think. Nancy and Cheryl are kicking ass and taking names. 

Bahaha. 

I am not sorry for speaking my mind, holding healthy boundaries, or leaving a situation that is not good for me. 

Clearly, I’m not for everyone, and everyone is not for me, but when it’s a good fit, we’ll all be able to say what my mom said about being with my dad, “He made me a better person when I was with him.” Damn. That’s what I’m talking about.

I don’t care what everyone else might prioritize in the twilight of their lives. I’m prioritizing good relationships.

And pork chops, obviously. 

I’m Living in the Gap, peacefully, and appreciating all that pigs have to offer. Join me in the comments!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 51 Comments

The Journey

Inspired By Mary and Mel

The Drip

“This is the first, the wildest, and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness.” Mary Oliver

I read a poem by Mary Oliver called The Journey, and it set off all sorts of sparks in my brain. Okay, it ignited a few thoughts, but let’s get bamboozled by the details. Shall we?

We’ve heard it a million times, it’s about the journey, not the destination, because it can take a lifetime to ignore what we have been told about ourselves and learn to trust what we know to be true. Once we figure that out, the rest is simply chatter that can be considered or ignored at our own discretion.

If we become what we believe, then obviously, it’s vitally important to remember that we ourselves are the best judge of what is right or wrong for each of us. The only person who can accurately interpret my own experience is me. Anything else is conjecture or highly speculative assumptions. 

A weekend away with my sis couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. Just as all of these forces were coming together inside of me, the universe threw in an atmospheric storm, so even the weather mimicked my interior climate, and oddly enough, it was confirming.  

Nancy and I decided to slip up to the lake when we discovered she had two days off in a row because, seriously, this never happens. We’re lucky like that. 

Yes, it could have been coincidental that Mary Oliver’s poem found my eyes or Nancy’s unexpected windfall of two free days, and we were gifted with the perfect storm, but I believe life is blissfully intentional.

We decided to head up in the early morning on Saturday, grab a coffee, and not have to worry about the traffic, darkness, or the impending storm until well after we arrived and settled in for the night.

I pulled into Nancy’s driveway at 5:50 am. 

Of course, no one answered the door. I don’t know why, but I checked my watch. Was this the right day?

I knocked three times (isn’t there a song about this?). This is when I heard a barely perceptible voice from inside the house. It was Mackenzie who yelled, “I’m in the tub,” followed by some rather grouchy words that were not repeatable. 

I waited quietly on the freezing cold porch, wondering what the hell my sister was doing.

As Mackenzie lifted the lock, she greeted me, wrapped in a skimpy towel that barely covered the important parts. She explained that her mother was picking up some hash browns and would return shortly. She returned to her bath without further explanation, and I was left wondering if there would be any extra hash browns for me.

I helped myself to a cup of coffee straight away and checked Nancy’s potted plants for hydration. I try to be helpful. 

Nancy soon arrived, flying through the door, a bag of hash browns in her hand and some chocolate milk. Mysteriously Mackenzie appears, dry, dressed, and ready to eat. Which she did while Nancy and I loaded the car with enough stuff for a family of ten. I’m serious.

By 5:30 am, we had warm coffee in our hands and a couple of egg bites, and we were on our way.

The odd thing about sisters is we have similar eating habits, which worked well when we were growing up and again when we’re traveling as adults. It’s not so good when both our doctors called in the same damn week and announced that we both had high cholesterol, which needed to come down, and we were given four months to do so. 

Naturally, they wanted us to do it naturally, even though we had no idea what the hell that meant.

So we did a little research a few days prior to our getaway, and I hit the grocery store running, purchasing every known cholesterol-reducing product I could find. Things like plain oatmeal, apples, fish, avocados, tomatoes, nuts, kale, cheerios, potatoes, blueberries, black beans, okra, and Metamucil. Which prompted an extra purchase of toilet paper.

I know, I know, TMI. Thank God we have plenty of bathrooms at the lake.

One of the sites also mentioned dark chocolate and red wine as cholesterol-reducing substances, which I moved to the top of the list and considered commandments as opposed to suggestions. 

On the way up to the lake, we listened to a Mel Robbins podcast. She looks exactly like me, white hair, and black glasses, except she’s a rock star in the motivation industry, and we were floored by her wisdom and advice on how to accomplish the things you want in life. Like lowering our cholesterol, getting things done, and accomplishing our dreams.

Nancy says, “Wow, Mel says there are six pillars, and I thought there were only three.”

Me, “Three? What, like a stool?”

“Yeah,” she says, “a place to rest.”

“Bahaha, but can we remember all six? There was one about getting a lot of good sleep. I love that one.”

“Oh yeah, and she said to eat like a rabbit, no more taco Tuesday. She’s brutal.”

“I think her exact words were eat whole foods and more hydration. She also encouraged everyone to step outside every morning and just absorb the light. You should listen to that, it’s why you’re low in vitamin D.”

“She said to prioritize your relationships and hang out with people who warm your heart. Look at us, it’s as if we’re already experts.“

“And she said we should walk at least 10 minutes every day. I do that going back and forth to the refrigerator.”

“No wonder you’re so fit. She also said to pick one thing that matters to you most and make a little progress every day.”

“And we’re heading to the lake with a car full of rabbit food. Check.”

We arrived at the house early, unloaded all our junk, made some dry tuna, and chased it down with nuts and berries before heading out to our favorite antique stores. 

There was a lull before the storm, and we were taking full advantage. 

We found the most adorable treasures, like a tiny Lladro bird figurine, a porcelain turtle, an iron plate stand, an aluminum bread tray, and an olive oil dish from Italy. Total score. After cleaning, shining, and admiring our new finds, we settled in to enjoy the oncoming storm. 

By 5:00 pm, the entire house began to tremble. The wind was howling, which caused the trees to sway so violently I thought they were going to snap in two, and as we settled on a new program to watch, we felt the old tug in our tummies to make a huge bowl of popcorn smothered with butter and salt.

But we ignored that old chatterbox and graciously attended to our interior pipes with Cheerios, strawberries, and raw nuts. Not the same, definitely not better, but sufficient for their purposes.

Of course, we made a roaring fire and snuggled up with furry blankets before binge-watching an old series about family dysfunction, legacy, and power. 

I looked at Nancy and said, “Thank God you’re my sister. Those siblings are brutal to one another.”

She says, “It’s why they haven’t made a show about us. We’re boring.”

“We are so lucky.”

When the rabbit food wore off, we baked up some fresh salmon topped with pesto, reluctantly put together a kale salad, and boiled our artichokes which we realize is just a vehicle for mayonnaise. Baby steps. We might be the only two human beings to lower their cholesterol but gain ten pounds in the process.

As Mary Oliver alludes in her poem, we actually listened to the wind try and pry the windows right out of their frames, the sound of which was much like the howling of misguided souls, but I’m feeling sort of dramatic, so you’ll have to bear with me. 

The windows to the outside world held their ground, although the icy fingers of the storm continued to shake the house with rage.

By 10:00 pm, we were exhausted from consuming too much kale, Metamucil, and lemon water. Our bodies were as shocked by this mistreatment as the old wooden docks being pummeled by a constant surge of wind and tide. They creaked and complained as if toddlers fighting their bedtime while we settled into our rooms, nestling our heads deep into the pillows to shelter us from all the noise.

I felt safe tucked in my cozy bed, in a warm house, with the storm raging outside. Lying there, listening to the howling wind and pouring rain, alerted me to the realization that nothing unsafe can actually penetrate my being. It’s what comes out of my own heart that defines or defiles me. 

It’s taken a lifetime, but I finally understand that change is always an inside job. No one can fix me, and I can’t fix anyone else. It’s how we’re designed. Even the doctor is mostly an observationist, shining a light on the places within me that need attention, like my clogged pipes, then she stands back and lets me do the work.

We woke up before the sun and could not believe the size of the waves bombarding the shore, or the aftermath of a wild night, and how the landscape was literally carpeted in fallen debris. This is when we noticed the spontaneous leaks that had sprung up overnight. There was a puddle in the dining room, and the master bath was wet as if it’d just been used. 

After mopping up with beach towels and setting a pot under the drip, we decided to take a drive into Lakeport so we could pick up breakfast for Mackenzie, coffees for Nancy and me, and check out the aftermath of the storm. It was like driving through a war zone. Mudslides, downed trees, wayward branches, missing shingles on the rooftops, and fences laying forlornly on the ground.

The outside world seemed hostile, so we headed back to the house for another afternoon of roaring fires, a little reading, good conversations, blueberries, nuts, and maybe a few shows. 

This is when the lights started to flicker, then the internet went out, and if that wasn’t enough, the coffee pot stopped working, but it wasn’t until the house went completely dark that we decided to recalibrate our plans. We weren’t too keen on staying in a house with no heat, no cooking, no lights, and no entertainment. 

We quickly closed up the house, packed the car, and headed for home while the storm had subsided. We checked the major highways for flooding or detours and mapped out the safest route. We left the lake under a cover of clouds, light rain, and saturated landscapes. 

The thing is, we know when a storm is brewing long before it arrives, because there are hints and inklings, but also weather reports. I like to believe I knew on a subterranean level that something was about to blow in with the wind, like Mary Oliver instead of Mary Poppins, and it was imperative that I start listening to the promptings of my soul, which is built entirely out of attentiveness. 

As Mary writes, “There is a new voice which you slowly recognize as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do –determined to save the only life you could save.”

After a harrowing weekend, here’s what I know to be true. Kale is simply inedible, sisters by blood or choice are a gift, my own thoughts have the ability to alter my well-being, my self-confidence, and my health, reshaping who and what I am becoming. 

That’s all. Oh, and I would add one more pillar, be brave, life is both a journey and a death sentence, and I’ve come to believe our attentiveness to the journey will define how it all goes down.

Mary Oliver says, “One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began.” That’s all I’m saying, pick up your copy of Grow Damn It today! Hey, pick up a copy for your sister too, host a book club, and I’ll join you! xxoo

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 35 Comments

It’s Me And Two Air Fryers

Sums Up Our Entire Weekend

Front: Julie, Mackenzie, Tammy Back: Kelley, Cheryl, Santa, Nancy

“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” Dr. Seuss

Resurrecting beloved traditions is never what you imagined. Believe me, it can’t be done, but Nancy and I tried anyway and entered into a messy conflict between our current reality and all those redacted memories we’ve stored so carefully in our nimble brains. 

If I learned one thing from this weekend, it’s this. You can’t go back, only forward in life; by the way, change is not fickle. She’s consistent and relentless.

Nancy and I unwittingly resurrected a beloved tradition we shared with our Mom for over a decade, as if we were participating in a seance, and let me just say, the experience was filled with spirited blessings. 

Every year, without fail, Nancy and I flew into the Portland airport the first weekend of December. Mom scooped us up in her four-door sedan, and we drove directly to the Lakeshore Inn on the northern banks of Lake Owego—a swanky suburb of Portland. 

When Mom was struggling with securing Christmas presents for six grandkids, four adult kids, and a slew of relatives, Nancy and I came to the rescue. 

We decided on Portland because there is no sales tax. It’s a little over an hour’s drive for Mom, so she booked rooms at the only Inn on the lake because it was close to the Clackamas Mall and lots of good restaurants. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re probably right. 

We made that annual trip until our beloved Mom departed from this world.

Now that our girls are grown, Nancy and I wanted to resume the tradition, spend some time with our daughters, and open up all those beloved memories as if a gift from the past. 

Are you imagining Pandora’s Box? 

I got a text from Julie early this morning, hours before we needed to leave for the airport. She says, “What is the dinner plan?”

I text back, “You are so your father, but not to worry, there’s a charming restaurant right next to the hotel. We can grab a bite there after we check in.”

I get a thumbs up. 

Pulling into the Lakeshore Inn in our rented minivan, overflowing with suitcases and carry-ons, I slip into a wide spot at the very end of the parking lot. It’s dark outside, it’s well after 8:00 pm, and all of us are tired and hungry.

Julie says, “This is where you stayed every year?” (her tone is incredulous)

Tammy says, “Why?”

Nancy jumps out, “Yes, and it’s exactly as I remembered it.”

I join Nancy at the fence overlooking the lake and glance around the building to the back of the hotel. I say, “Look, the pool is steaming. It must still be heated. Did you all bring your bathing suit?”

The girls look aghast. 

Tammy says, “There’s no fence around the deck, and it’s a ten-foot drop. That can’t be right.”

Julie says, “Seems a little sketchy to me and Mom. And no one brought a bathing suit but you.”

Nancy says, “The lake is down ten feet. They do this every five years so the residents can fix plumping issues and restore the foundations of their docks. Too bad it landed on our weekend.” 

This reminds me of the living water that flows beneath our lives, and yes, sometimes, it has to be drained for repairs. 

I nod my agreement, “It’s not as pretty. Oh well, let’s go check in and find a place to eat.”

With a slight panic, Julie says, browsing her phone with her index finger, “Everything closes at 9:00 pm, and it’s 8:30 pm, Mom.”

Of course, check-in took forever. When I asked why it was taking so long, the receptionist said they had to re-input all our information because they just installed a new system. Of course, they did.

Life rarely goes the way you plan, so the five of us stood there and waited as patiently as possible while our dinner options disappeared one by one. 

We finally got our keys and quickly dumped our luggage in the rooms. Julie and Tammy have been researching restaurants on their phones and are positive nothing is open. 

There’s no rain, or very little, so we decide to walk, and head out on foot towards the restaurant we used to go to for a quick dinner. It was no longer there. Are you detecting a trend?

Julie says, “Hey, there’s a Firehouse Pub a block away with bar food. It’s better than nothing.”

Tammy says, “Let’s go.”

Mackenzie says, “Are we walking?”

“Yes!”

When we arrive at the crowded pub we find a table near the door that fits all of us. Kelley will be arriving around 10:30 pm, so we want to be back in time to meet her at the hotel.

A friendly bartender comes around the bar and says, “What can I get you, ladies?”

The girls order beer, Nancy and I, a glass of wine, and Mackenzie a large Coke to go with the pudding she has stashed in her backpack. Why didn’t I think of that? 

Julie says, “We’d like to order some food, too.”

He says, “I’ll grab some menus, but we don’t have any greens today, and there’s only me and two air fryers.”

He reaches around the bar for some sticky menus and slides them onto our table.

We all look at each other and start giggling. 

I say, “Two air fryers and me. What the hell does that mean?”

Tammy says, “It means we’re not ordering food here.”

Julie says, “Absolutely not.”

Nancy’s like, “What about the pretzel?”

I nod my head in agreement.

Julie and Tammy, in unison, say, “No.”

So, after a round of drinks, Julie says, “It’s been twenty-four hours since I’ve had a meal. What are you feeding me?”

I start browsing my phone for anything open and find a Safeway a few blocks away. 

Nancy and I loaded up with enough groceries to feed an entire army for a week. You know when Julie’s hangry, you feed her.

Kelley walks into our foodfest a half hour later, laughing. 

She says, “My taxi driver wouldn’t let me get out of the car until he checked this place out. He thought it was abandoned. I’m not kidding.”

I defend our little hotel, “We’re all here, and I think it’s charming,” even though I can’t help but notice the dated interior.

Nancy says, “Me too!” She glances around the room at the same fixtures we remember from decades ago, but at least it’s clean.

Around midnight, Nancy took her crew to their room just one door down, and we all changed into our PJs. 

Can I just say that sleeping in the same room with your adult daughters is enlightening? Enough said. 

First thing in the morning, Kelley walks into our room and whips open the drapes, carrying a box of donuts. She’s on East Coast time and was up before 6:00 am. 

Nancy and I are excited to take the girls to our favorite Starbucks right across the street. It’s one of our favorite memories. It has a rustic fireplace in the center of the space, always lit during the winter and decorated with Christmas lights in December. It’s beyond charming. 

And guess what, it was not the same. 

They took out the fireplace to make room for more tables. There were no twinkle lights, and the ambiance was lost to what I call a modern decor. We ordered our coffees and piled back in the van so Nancy and I could give them a tour of our lake. 

The girls streamed Christmas music from their phones as Nancy and I tried to remember the way around the lake, the roads with the best views, and the most appealing spots to ogle at the enchanting houses. Although the lake was down ten feet, and you had to imagine the water in some areas, it was as spectacular as we remembered. I could see our daughters were delighted by the unique lakefront, lush landscape, and exceptional panoramas. 

And this is where the weekend veered off course and never returned.

After our tour of the lake, we headed out on foot to check out the unique stores in the plaza next to the hotel. This was when the girls decided we needed to kick off the weekend with a toast at a local wine bar they discovered just blocks away. 

Nancy and I look at each other. There was no day drinking on our Mom’s watch, but it’s a new day and a new era, so we went with it. 

The Irish Coffes were next, then lunch, and finally, onto the mall for a bit of shopping. I gave my girls a budget and a challenge. Find something for themselves, their husbands, and their children, if they have any. Hours later, laden with packages, we headed home so we could freshen up and walk to a restaurant my Dad used to take us to almost twenty years ago.

Mom used to allow my Dad one night with us on these trips. He’d take us to dinner, stay the night, load all the packages in his truck the next morning, and head home. 

The restaurant is called Stickmens. It was a tiny place not five hundred feet from our hotel, right on the water, with a boating dock so residents on the lake could boat to dinner. It had a fancy menu, fine wines, and delectable appetizers. We couldn’t wait to treat them to the same experience. 

Bahaha.

It was not the same. 

Obviously, it had changed ownership. It’s now Stickmen’s Brewing Company, and they serve bar food, a basic fare of sandwiches, burgers, and fries. The interior is stark, with only a few tables, but it was clean, and the food was good, just not the same. 

At least Julie wasn’t hangry. 

Somehow, Tammy found a recording of a voicemail from her deceased Dad, and we all cried right there at the table, using their thin napkins to blow our noses. Why are we all filled with such poignant emotions?

Seriously, I’ve felt the presence of Mom, Dad, and David all weekend. It’s as if they are right here, fully participating in all the shenanigans, but without a body. It was indeed spirited.

We watched Christmas movies in bed until we couldn’t keep our eyes open. Julie and Kelley rose early and did a seven-mile run around the lake. Tammy and Nancy did the Starbucks run and I was delighted to be served a coffee while still in bed. 

Today, we treated the girls to high tea and then discovered a new shopping district on the other side of town. Bridgeport, Tammy found it on her phone. What the hell would we do without those things? It was pouring rain, so we ran into the first restaurant we came across to wait out the storm. After a few appetizers, we hit the stores. 

We’re meeting an old friend for dinner at the Owega Grill tonight. Sheila Thomason, now Robey, grew up in the house next to Nancy and me on Flamingo Drive (we have stories, but that’s another blog) and later relocated to Portland with her husband to be near their daughter, Sarah. We haven’t seen each other in years and it was wonderful to catch up and share a meal together. 

And guess what? We haven’t changed one damn bit! 

Leaving the lake was hard for Nancy and me. We likely won’t be back, and if we ever do return, we now know it won’t be the same. 

As parents, we tend to hold our children above the swirling waters of life to keep them safe, but often, that means they’ll never know what we encountered or the way in which we encountered it. I adapted that from Mitch Albom, but I think my usage is better! 

I know they enjoyed this time together, but they have no ties to this lake or our mission to secure presents for Mom, but someday, this, too, will become a cherished memory for them. Well, one can always hope.

I was thinking about how difficult it is to let go of our children, probably as difficult as it is to let go of our beloved memories. The children know this, so it is up to them to move on, move away, and make their own lives. This is how we raised them, and as Phyllis Diller says, we’re not empty nesters. We’re bird launchers.

I don’t think our children realize where their stories come from until much later in life because their stories are stacked on top of our stories, like those stone cairns you see along a path to remind people they are going the right way. Our stories are actually navigational devices that we stack up in our vast memory so we don’t get lost. 

We just added to the stack. 

Who has memories they’ve tried to recreate? Do share every damn detail in the comments!

Listen! Hillary Huber is magical. Grow Damn It! [Audio Version]

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 57 Comments

Tea For Two

Today I’m doing a mini-post as I have been traveling and haven’t had the proper time to write but wanted to briefly share a recent experience with you all because although I’ve been accused of being verbose (using more words than necessary), I’m quite reticent naturally. Bahaha.

Not that you asked, but the history of tea is quite extraordinary, and the way it spreads across multiple cultures over the span of thousands of years is the same as it spreads today. It is introduced by tea lovers to their friends and neighbors as an extraordinary beverage of choice, something that will enhance one’s experience of living, and transform an ordinary day into a sacred ritual.

What’s not to like?

Most of you probably already know that tea originated in southwest China, likely the Yunnan region during the Shang dynasty as a medicinal drink, because as I found out on Monday you actually feel better while consuming the dark, fragrant, slightly bitter beverage.

Drinking tea became popular in Britain during the 17th century and has remained a staple of English society every since. In fact, after water, tea is the most widely consumed beverage in the world. Hello, what rock have I been under?

An attractive box of Yorkshire tea came to me through a fellow blogger named Pete Johnson, who resides in a small town in Beetley, England with his wife Julie, and beloved dog Ollie. Pete thought tea might be an superior alternative to my obsession with coffee as a more refined beverage and flavorful experience. He took the time to purchase the type of tea that would be easy for me to brew without the normal tea paraphernalia, boxed it up, sealed it with tape, addressed to Campbell, California, and handed it off to the postal service with the hope that tea wouldn’t get caught up in customs. You all heard of the Boston Tea Party?

“Coffee—a barbaric drink. That poor, tortured bean. All that fermenting and husking and roasting and grinding. And what is tea? Tea is dried leaves rehydrated. Just add water, Mrs. Strickland. All living things need water.” Guillermo del Toro

After making the long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, the package miraculously landed on my doorstep while I was out of town, and my observant neighbors, Ron and Debbie, graciously stored it for me until my return.

I decide to share the tea with my sister Nancy as having tea seems like an activity for two, not to mention one of our favorite authors, Alexandra Stoddard, claims, the ‘art of tea’ is a spiritual force for us to share.

I arrive at Nancy’s midmorning on Monday of this week with my precious box of Yorkshire tea in hand, she greets me as I walk through the back door without knocking, holding up my prized possession as if a five year old who scored a box of Oreos.

On her counter, Nancy had laid out a teapot I purchased for her decades ago from Nordstrom, and on the bottom, it says it was made in Portugal! It came with matching creamer, and sugar bowl. What foresight I had? She selected two delicate teacups from her collection and set them out on a spacious white tray. It all felt so mature.

My adorable sister Nancy

We haven’t seen each other for a few days, she cared for my dog while I was out of town, and the least I could do to thank her was to share my Yorkshire tea that came all the way from England!

We feel a little giddy as we wait for the water to boil and slowly began to understand the ritual nature of sharing a cup of tea. She pours the boiling water in her exquisite teapot, I add the delicate tea bags, and we set my iPhone for three and a half minutes as Pete instructed so the tea would have time to steep.

We decide on which teacups we prefer while I fill the creamer with fresh milk and Nancy fills the sugar bowl.

Finally, the timer sounds and as instructed I squeeze all the goodness out of each bag into the teapot with a dual spoon technique I made up on the spot. Yes, I can be innovative when necessary. We make a show of pouring our tea, adding cream and sugar, but can’t stop ourselves from giggling like schoolgirls before the first sip.

Magnifico! It is smooth, pungent, and instantly addicting. The second sip is even better!

There is something in the nature of tea that leads one into deeper discussions, relevant chatter, and definitely good cheer. It’s ritualistic by its very nature. One has to heat the water, add the fragrant tea, allow for it to steep properly, and then pour it with reverence into delicate teacups usually made of opaque porcelain. The process alone is enchanting.

Then your taste buds come alive, the soft warm steam assaults your skin, as the fragrance ignites the olfactory system in your nose. My hand naturally caresses the delicate pattern of the teacup with each lift to my lips, sip, and return to the matching saucer. It’s so damned refined as if a substance in search of like corporeality.

As Alice Walker claims, “tea to the English is really a picnic indoors.” So true.

The process inculcates one with a sense of harmony, the mystery of mutual adore, and the drive to perfect the imperfect. We spent the next hour reordering several of Nancy’s rooms, assessing the well-being of our mutual relatives, and planning for the future should we ever be able to move about the world again.

Tea does not insight idle chatter, it feels more like worship, an attempt to accomplish the impossible amidst the deterrents of a complicated life. As Phoebe Stone says, “a great idea should always be left to steep like loose tea leaves in a teapot for a while to make sure that the tea will be strong enough and that the idea truly is a great one.”

We discuss making this a regular event, maybe adding some cucumber sandwiches to our experience, I even found a delicious recipe online which includes, bread, cream cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes, avocados, olive oil, and balsamic. Pete kindly sent enough tea to last me at least six months!

“Tea. I find that both settles the stomach and concentrates the mind. Wonderful drink, tea.” Cassandra Clare

There are many things that distract us in this life, cause worry, and distress but as Kakuzo Okakura says, “let us have a sip of tea. The afternoon glow is brightening the bamboos, the fountains are bubbling with delight, the soughing of the pines is heard in our kettle. Let us dream of evanescence and linger in the beautiful foolishness of things.”

I offered Dante a cup of tea after he returned from work today, truth is I wanted another cup, but also wanted to share the magic with my son. The thing about tea is it’s slow, to steep, to cool, and especially to enjoy. We sat on the sofa waiting for our cups to steep before I rang the “goodness out of each bag.”

Dante says, “it takes a long time to cool but the flavor is good.”

This makes sense to me because good things take time. Thank you Pete Johnson, I’m ever so grateful.

Anecdotes:

“Tea is the magic key to the vault where my brain is kept.” Frances Hardinge
After a cup of tea (two spoonsful for each cup, and don’t let it stand more than three minutes,) it says to the brain, “Now, rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature and into life; spread your white wings of quivering thought, and soar, a god-like spirit, over the whirling world beneath you, up through long lanes of flaming stars to the gates of eternity!” Jerome K. Jerome
“Who would then deny that when I am sipping tea in my tearoom I am swallowing the whole universe with it and that this very moment of my lifting the bowl to my lips is eternity itself transcending time and space?” Daisetz Teitaro Suzuki

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 31 Comments

Our Hearts are Mingled with the Missourians

Jim, Sue, Cheryl, Larry, Rachel, Ellie, Gail, Michael (Missourians in bold)

They’re back!

I’m referring to the relatives from Missouri, the ones I feared might be ax murders a few years back (see; 5 Reasons to Choose Happy), who have finally returned to the lake, and they came bearing gifts. You’ll be relieved to know they brought us a custom-made set of Cornhole boards, instead of a game of ax toss, it’s those unexpected moments that give you the chills.

Larry and Ellie throwing some serious corn!

And this time they brought their lovely daughters, Rachel and Ellie, exceptional versions of Mom and Dad, who charmed the hell out of us with constant smiles, and devilish sparkling eyes!

Upon meeting I say, “sorry, we’re all a little hot and sweaty.”

Ellie responds, “I like warm hugs.”

Can I keep her?

So grab a glass of wine and go boldly with us into the adventure and unexpected bounty of beautiful Lake County!

Wine Anyone?

Our first evening is meticulously choreographed, stocked with Clearlake favorites, designed to ensure our guests will never leave. Now, who’s the creepy cousin? Seriously, I’m irredeemable when it comes to manipulation, but I’d like you to know Larry, Nancy, Mackenzie, Jim and Sue were totally complicit in the bait and lure plan. As they say, it takes a village to get the right shade of lipstick on a pig…

I should mention Jim and Sue are quite proficient at luring their guests, they’ve had one couple stay an entire year, we can only hope!

It’s early afternoon when our prey arrive, most of us are casually adorned in colorful swimsuits, beading with sweat, basking in any available shade, with various body parts dangling in the water. I believe the temperature reached 107 degrees today and the high humidity was not a bonus. Welcome to the lake.

Larry is referred to as our exclusive MSS, “Master Slushy Sommelier,” it takes years of practice, lots of tastings, and several industrial blenders to accomplish such a feat, but as you know, he’s persistent, and has duly earned his title. Slushys are a secret combination of ice, limeade and vodka served up in a styrofoam cup. They only taste good when you’re at the lake, a phenomenon that has never been soberly (pun intended) researched, or substantiated. You’ll just have to trust me.

After loosening everyone up with a refreshing slushy, Larry takes an able-bodied crew water skiing. I stayed home to wave from the deck, and bonus everyone is successful, although Larry took a descent spill while confronting a rather aggressive wake. No broken ribs, just sayin.

Rachel Cutting it Up

Upon their return, our beloved neighbors, Jim and Sue, serve up some delicious coffee martinis, which accompany my bountiful charcuterie board quite nicely. We gather around the hammered copper fire pit on the deck overlooking our beloved lake, catching up on life, shooting the shit, swapping stories about our pre and post COVID experiences.

Coffee Martinis with Mike

It appears we’ve all become quite proficient at using tools like Zoom, living with extended family, and entertaining a ruthless game of Catan. Who knows how will these skills carry us into the future? Let me just say there’s no touch-up my appearance button in real life, but I know the value of noise-canceling headphones, and how to garner my resources when necessary.

Juggling controversial topics with care, we discovered we’re well aligned on the vac wars, masking, and managing our toilet paper supply.

Oh, how we’ve missed those Missourians.

After peeling off those soggy swimsuits and slipping into some cool cotton we convene around the dining room table for a sumptuous meal of filet mignon (cooked to perfection by Jim), mushroom pie, grilled vegetables, and arugula, watermelon, and feta salad that made me wish I was a dog with two tails. My mouth is watering just writing the words. I admit I moaned through every single bite, much to the annoyance of my fellow dinners, whereas my sister Nancy remained speechless the entire meal. She may have been adopted?

Our Table Runneth Over (pictured Cheryl, Larry, Sue, Jim, Nancy, arm of Ellie, arm of Rachel, arm of Mike, photo credit Gail)

If I have learned one thing through the years, it’s this, the act of eating together creates feelings of mutual trust and rapport, and becomes a powerful means of creating kinship. Our hearts have mingled like red wine and dark chocolate, it’s not only decadent, but ages well.

Speaking of decadence, Larry opened some delicious Six Sigma Tempranillo, complimenting the provisions beautifully, and aiding in the expansiveness of the evening.

“There’s a kinship among people who have sat by a dying fire and measured the worth of their life by it.” William Golding

It’s no wonder we failed to notice the evening bleeding into the night, nor the slow cessation of several bottles of wine, while the local bat population soars into the darkened skies right over our heads. We talk for hours about nothing in particular, maybe discovering the meaning of life, but having no memory of the panacea in the morning. There is a word for this, it’s called Samar, and it might be my favorite word of all time.

The morning finds us sitting on an already warm deck, with plates of heavily buttered Belgium waffles, smothered in syrup. A beloved Clearlake tradition. We have this industrial waffle maker, it’s magical, and puts out one waffle every two minutes, worthy of the wait, and besides it stretches out the morning with a delicious sort of leisure.

Of course, there are endless cups of coffee, a morning walk in the hood, with Mike marveling at the variety of fruit trees this peninsula supports, and me retelling the intriguing tale of Captain Richard Floyd who established and christened this community as Kono Tayee back in the 1860s. Our street is named Cora, after the Captain’s wife, a name one of our granddaughters now claims.

Six Sigma Ranch and Winery

Loading the cars with heavily laden picnic baskets we head to one of our favorite Lake County Wineries, located southeast of Lower Lake in beautiful Lake County. Six Sigma, established by a gregarious man named Kaj and his lovely wife Else, whose motto is to make the customer feel welcome, celebrated, and valued. It’s not just the usual wine tasting experience, it’s an unforgettable event, one where the owner takes the time to stop by our table and chat it up with us.

At Six Sigma they “combine the old-world art of making wine with the science of data-driven Six Sigma principles. Our team works hard toward one common goal: Making wine of extraordinary quality at an affordable price,” as noted on their website.

“Our story is in every single bottle of Six Sigma wine,” says Kaj Ahlmann. I’d say they’re a novel success and one we are driven to return to time and time again.

Needless to say, Mike and Gail joined the Six Sigma family, their selected wines will be delivered to their home in Missouri in the fall, and Larry and I can boast that we influenced our relatives to consider serial wine club membership. We’ve popped their grape so to speak.

After packing up our grub, we make our way to Vigilance Winery, just twenty miles down the road in Lower Lake, the tasting room is a rustic old farmhouse that was once home to one of Lake County’s pioneering families, and as a bonus, there are spectacular panoramic views overlooking Anderson Marsh State Park. It doesn’t get better than this.

Vigilance Winery

Okay, admittedly our cousins are have not been trained to withstanding the effects of visiting multiple wineries in a single day, their endurance is shall we say subpar. After a short flight of delicious wines, the drive home was eerily quiet, a few of us snoozed a wee bit, but upon entering the nicely cooled house it was a total sleep-fest. Bodies everywhere.

What the hell?

Not the napper type myself, I enjoyed the quiet cool of the kitchen as I putzed around preparing wild king salmon with a dusting of feta cheese and pesto, grilled asparagus, and a caprese salad with Sue’s homegrown tomatoes and basil. Yes, I was hydrating all the while with several glasses of refreshing ice water before wandering over to the Goudreau’s for some fresh company, cantaloupe, and a splash of Sauvignon Blanc.

One by one the Severance’s emerge from their afternoon siesta and join us on the lush patio of Jim and Sue’s.

Our last supper is bittersweet, I offer a small toast thanking our guests for making the long journey to the lake, for their generosity, and for bringing their lovely daughters, whose endless good cheer added so much to our gathering.

Ellie and Rachel adorning Six Sigma’s charming porch

Knowing this is our last night together, our next visit still unknown, I’m a wee bit melancholy.

Many of our discussions revolve around travel plans for a nebulous future, mountains we hope to conquer, canyons waiting to be forged, formula one races we hope to attend, a shopping spree in Paris, and of course our plans, now delayed by two years, to walk the El Camino de Santiago from France to Spain. Our buckets are overflowing.

Mike says, “I need more than one lifetime to pursue all the vocations I enjoy and places I hope to explore.”

I say, “I know, but maybe we have multiple lives, this might not be our first rodeo, it could be our thousandth?”

Mike wasn’t buying it, he says, “I’ll make the most out of the one I have because honestly, I’m doing exactly what I love.”

Me, “oh, that’s going in the blog.”

Nicholas Sparks claims, “the reason it hurts so much to separate is because our souls are connected. Maybe they always have been and will be. Maybe we’ve lived a thousand lives before this one and in each of them we’ve found each other. And maybe each time, we’ve been forced apart for the same reasons. That means that this goodbye is both a goodbye for the past ten thousand years and a prelude to what will come.”

Who knows?

I will boast, on our final evening, while sipping wine on the deck, we actually outlasted the ritual surge of bats at dusk as they make their way into the inky night. We decided to make it an early evening, nonetheless, in order to accommodate the Severance’s departure in the morning. Although there’s nothing good about goodnight when you know it means goodbye in the morning.

Lounging on the deck, shooting the shit, Rachel, Ellie, Mike, Cheryl, Sue, Larry

Gail says on the morning of their departure, “I love the Swedish word, resfeber, which means the restless best of a traveler’s heart before the journey begins.”

The restless best of a traveler’s heart, I love that.

I say, “awe, that’s from Lost in Translation, great book.” I was actually stuck on the word, Iktsuarpok, which means the act of repeatedly going outside to check if someone is coming.

Gail responds, “but they don’t have a word that describes the feeling when the adventure is over and it’s time to go home.”

I say, “it’s called bittersweet.”

I have this little word book I stow in the guest room featuring significant words from around the world which carry with them expressions that resonate on a human level, regardless of nationality, because as Walter Benjamin notes languages are not strangers to one another, and given the chance neither are human beings.

Our final adieu was tinged with gratitude, knowing what we know about the capriciousness of life, if we’ve learned anything from COVID we now understand every moment is precious, having in it the essence of finality.

Standing on the sidewalk watching their car drive away, we wave at the enormity of the world that separates us, but we lean into our next crazy adventure, whatever that may be, because the restless best of our traveling hearts are mingled with the Missourians.

Until we meet again…

I’m Living in the Gap, smiling at the memories, until we see you again.

Anecdotes:

  • “The summer ends and we wonder who we are and there you go, my friends, with your boxes in your car and today I passed the high school, the river, the maple tree I passed the farms that made it through the last days of the century and I knew that I was going to learn again again, in this less hazy light I saw the fields beyond the fields the fields beyond the fields” Dar Williams
  • “What does brace mean, anyway? Brace. Such an odd word. It comes from the Latin brachium, meaning arm. It means, as its heart, to embrace. It was a hug. A hug good-bye.” Laurence Gonzales
  • “Celebrate the people in your life who are there because they love you for no other reason than because you are YOU.” Mandy Hale
  • “Woven into our lives is the very fire from the stars and genes from the sea creatures, and everyone, utterly everyone, is kin in the radiant tapestry of being.” Elizabeth A. Johnson