Posted on by cheryloreglia · 42 Comments

Curating Happiness

It’s A Thing

I am forever changed by what I discovered: life is so beautiful and life is so hard. For everyone. Kate Bowler

The older I get, the more I notice the forces within me that create both happiness and havoc in my life. Okay, I might be a slightly damaged human being after living under a heap of false assumptions for decades, but I’m not alone in this dilemma, and my philosophy has always been better later than never.

They call us the Boomers, something large or notable. And yes, we are the first generation to retire without pensions or tattoos. We witnessed the rise of television and The Beatles simultaneously, and we’re known for our resiliency and adaptability. Obviously, we literally made it to the moon and back.

We’re also closely affiliated with the myth of happily ever after, and this might be our greatest challenge.

I hosted a group of friends for a girl’s night in the other night. It was a warm evening, so we gathered at one end of my long patio table, surrounded by a plethora of appetizers, sparkling waters, wine, and friendship. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t perfect. It just was, and we were ever so grateful to have found a night that no one was traveling, working, or babysitting the grandkids. 

Life is hectic even at our age. 

Laughter was the dominant response to most of the stories we shared that evening, as were empathy, compassion, and grace, especially when things got dicey, difficult, and layered with both suffering and joy. We all went to the same high school, in fact three of us met our husbands in the hallways of Del Mar, or soon after graduating. We’re old-school people-pleasers, but we also know how to compromise (hence the long marriages) and roll with the punches. We grew up in the shadow of Gloria Steinem, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Margaret Atwood, so we’re quiet feminists, flying just below the cultural radar that remains unbalanced and polarized in many ways. 

I thought we would chat for an hour or two, dust off the sushi and charcuterie, and be on our way, but the hours slipped by unnoticed and we lingered in the company of each other late into the evening. The patio lights went on, and eventually, the heater had to be ignited as we edged toward midnight. 

I’ve known all of these ladies most of my life. Our little group included my sister Nancy, Kimmie, Lizzie, and Denise.

When I was younger, I used to believe happiness was circumstantial. You know what I mean? I thought I could create my own happiness by fostering the right circumstances. Kimmie and I were both going to marry Donny Osmond and live happily ever after as sister wives in Ogden, Utah. Bahaha. But that’s not how it works. According to Stephanie Harrison, “Happiness is a skill, something that you do. Just like any other skill, it has to be cultivated.”

As I age, I notice that my beloved peers have a lot in common. Around that very table, most of us are now orphans, having lost both parents. Some of us have lost friends, children, siblings, and one of us, her spouse. It seems as if we had enough experience with death to qualify for a PhD. I know that’s totally morbid, but cumulatively, we have a hell of a lot of experience in this arena. It might have something to do with our age.

This means our pain comes from our lived experience, not theoretical or empirical.

We’ve all struggled with various hardships and disappointments, but we’ve also enjoyed a fair amount of privilege in our lives. Overcoming setbacks has expanded our grit and adaptability. We know how to learn from our mistakes and move on. But we also know how to take advantage of opportunities and look for the silver lining in just about any situation because anger and frustration are simply a waste of time. Ralph Waldo Emerson said that for every minute you are angry, you lose sixty seconds of happiness.

I used to worry that beauty, youth, and joy would fade with age, but that is not what I am finding. Okay, the beauty and youth might be waning a bit, but our happiness is on the rise, and I believe it’s because we’re willing to work at it. Thank God we’re the generation with a strong work ethic. 

I’m a lot gentler with myself these days. I’ve slapped that interior voice into submission and forbid her to be judgmental, critical, or snarky with me. A few negative remarks slip out occasionally, but I’m much better at silencing that cynical voice because it’s poison to my soul. In fact, I have a mirror in my closet (see the image above; please don’t judge the mess), and I have written three affirmations and one question on the mirror that I see every morning, intentionally or not. 

  1. I love you just the way you are.
  2. I’m grateful for this beautiful life. 
  3. I forgive…
  4. How can I help?

I believe treating ourselves with love and respect leads to stronger mental health, longevity, and happiness. How could it not?

The other thing we all have in common is that we’re either retired or considering retirement. This is a tricky stage for all of us because our contribution to the world has been our work (whether at home or in the workforce or both), and when you let that go, who are you, and how do you continue to serve? As we age, channeling our energy towards helping others is like taking a happy pill, and there is a healthy amount of research that claims having a purpose reduces the risk of dementia. 

Hello? I need all the help I can get.

We might be taking care of grandkids, working at a local soup kitchen, mentoring a new mom, reaching out to an isolated and elderly neighbor, volunteering for a clean-up day at the park, walking with a peer through her breast cancer treatments, or reading to a child who happens to be a part of our world. We can plant trees, start a community garden, or set up a fundraiser for a cause we’re passionate about. It doesn’t matter what we do.

The magic is in helping, giving, and serving.

There are actually rules for happiness. I know it’s annoying, but it’s true. You have to have something to do, something to hope for, and, most importantly, someone to love. That came from Immanuel Kant. He was an Enlightenment thinker back in the day, so it must be true. 

We all have wisdom, gifts, and talents that we can share, so don’t be stingy. Pass it along. 

Between those five ladies on the patio, we have experience with long marriages, special needs kids, caregiving, cooking, working for diversity, education, nurturing, finance, merchandising, selling, healing, coaching, partnering, leading, encouraging, and more.

Here’s the good news: Scientists agree that the one factor that matters the most for our happiness is our relationships with other people. As we age, it’s easy to become isolated or lose touch with our friends, who are crucial to our happiness.

Do not let that happen.

Gather, call, reach out, plan, and coordinate activities that build relationships. It has been discovered that the less satisfied we are with our relationships, the more likely we are to struggle with chronic conditions. So, spending time nurturing our relationships with the people we love is vital to our health and well-being. 

The final contributing factor to ongoing happiness is to keep moving and keep growing, damn it. Don’t get stuck thinking I’m too old to change or I am who I am, and that’s just the way it is. No, we are not fossilized –yet. We can continue to be the best versions of ourselves year after year, but it takes courage and humility to reconstruct our lives over and over again, especially as we age.

Larry and I are planning on learning a new language (someday), cycling until we can no longer pedal, damn it, and we’re trying to write a book together without killing each other or encroaching on each other’s personal space. It’s an ongoing process. We screw up. We try again.

Larry was out riding with the guys while I was gathering the girls on the patio, and oh, what a night. We’re doing it again next month, hopefully, and the month after that. It’s never too late to prioritize what brings you happiness. In some circles, they call it radical self-care. 

I like to call it aegis self-support, like an underwire bra, it lifts you up! You can quote me on that.

One day, we’ll wake up from a restful night’s sleep (if we’re lucky) and realize our children are grown, our parents are gone, and we’re entering the winter of our lives. And It happened so damn fast. 

We must be diligent about creating opportunities to foster our relationships with others, even if it’s only between that first glass of wine and the waning of the moon. I witnessed laughter rising from the core of our being just as a squirrel was crossing the wires along the back fence, and the ice was melting in our glasses. Yet we lingered around that long table, feet intertwined, hearts enmeshed until the only remains of the sun were reflected in the moon. 

That damn clock is always ticking. We will never get ahead of it, only trailing after wondering where the hell it goes. Eventually, we realize life is not a race but a banquet, and happiness does not leave scars, just memories that will tug at you while you wash the dishes and fold the laundry.  Sit, eat, put those phones away, gaze at the stars, linger around the table, and dwell in the miraculous presence of each other while we’re still here. This is how we curate our own happiness and that elusive happily ever after. 

I’m Living in the Gap, searching for that elusive happiness, how about you?

The smallest shift in our thinking, or a simple change in lifestyle, can result in a massive amount of happiness. Grow Damn It is waiting patiently for you.

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 38 Comments

Do You Remember

The Times Of Your Life

“Few good friends, one great partner, and something I love to do every day, that’s the idea of my little perfect life.” Sarvesh Jain

Driving to a small airstrip in Monterey County, I feel my mouth go dry, not from dehydration but from excitement and possibly frayed nerves. It’s not every day one gets invited to fly in a private plane.

Our friends Claudia and Greg invited us to join them on their corporate plane as we’re all staying with Jan and Pete in the desert this weekend. This particular group of men has known each other for decades. They met on the campus of Santa Clara University back in the ’80s when corduroy was cool, SCU still had a football team, and parties were organized by word of mouth instead of text messages. These young men had something unusual from the start. They trusted each other as if brothers, made their own way in a competitive world, and stayed loyal to each other for over forty years. 

Yes, we’re heading back to the desert, this time Palm Desert, to stay with Jan and Pete at their beautiful home located in the fabulous Bighorn Estates, a gated golf community eleven miles east of Palm Springs.

I can’t help wondering why we’ve visited the desert three times in the last five months. There must be a connection.

It all started with a trip to Death Valley for a fifty-mile tandem ride, then onto Palm Springs for a sixty-mile tandem ride, and now Palm Desert for a little relaxation, golf, and merrymaking. Maybe we’re searching for the elusive fountain of youth. 

Aren’t we all? 

Or could we be learning about real thirst? Maybe searching for environments defined by extremism because that is our current reality. Or are we hoping bouts of barrenness will stimulate our potential? None seem too appealing, but I’ve learned not to ignore the revelations that appear when I write because they often contain a vein of truth. 

And there’s always the possibility that I’m not alone in these quandaries.

Due to the extreme weather in California, our flight is delayed, but let me just say this is not a problem. We’re safe and warm, waiting out the storm in the lobby of this charming airstrip with endless cups of coffee, chips, and cookies. A simple trip to the bathroom proved to be a rather illuminating diversion, and as usual, I’m inclined to overshare.

After slipping through a heavy wooden door marked by a large brass handle, I enter a beautifully adorned room with deep porcelain sinks, automatic facets, private water closets, full-sized mirrors, and ceramic wallpaper (why I didn’t take a picture is beyond me). 

So I walk into one of the private bathrooms, but before I bolt the door, the toilet seat lifts automatically as if in greeting, “Welcome, have a seat.” If that’s not startling enough, hold on to your britches, it gets better.

Of course, I look around because suddenly, I feel as if I am no longer the only entity in the room. When I finally sit down. I’ll be damned. The seat is warm, and let me just say the tush is happy. On the wall next to me is a rectangular device designed to work the more intricate features of this extraordinary pissoir. With the simple pressing of a button, the toilet emits a stream of water that will pulsate, surge, or spurt on command, and it can even blow dry your privates if that is your preference. I’m not kidding. After a half hour, they sent in a search and rescue team.

I yelled through the bolted door, “I’m busy.”

When I finish my business, the toilet flushes and closes its lid without my assistance. Holy moly. If I ever win the lottery, this will be my first purchase.

When I emerge from my day at the toilet spa, relaxed and refreshed, we are joined in the lobby by another vibrant couple, also delayed by rain, and the six of us wait out the storm in pleasant banter. They’re headed to Arizona for spring training, both with computers glued to their laps and hilarious stories to share. 

I’ve revisited the facilities so many times people are becoming suspicious, but after several hours, with no let-up in the weather, everyone is getting antsy. Larry and Greg decide to venture out in search of food, returning thirty minutes later with a large bag of burritos, just as the pilot approaches us with good news. 

The weather has suddenly cleared, and the pilot quickly shepherds us onto the awaiting plane, not wanting to miss this narrow window of opportunity. I want to ask how narrow, but I keep those thoughts to myself. Regardless, we’ll be enjoying our burritos at 27,000 feet, with killer views. 

It felt wrong not having time to bid my bidet goodbye, but farewells are rarely pleasant, and I imagine her AI system has limited emotional intelligence. I’m not sure who said, “don’t cry because it is over, smile because it happened.” I wholeheartedly agree.

We pile into a luxurious but small plane and settle ourselves into our seats. My dad utilized the GI bill and learned to fly small planes when I was young. Our family enjoyed flying all over the state to visit relatives in single-engine planes. So when the pilot came back to explain about the turbulence we would encounter, I knew what to expect and double-checked my shoulder strap.

In a little over an hour, we land in Palm Desert, shaken but not stirred. I thoroughly enjoyed the experience of being back in a small plane, gliding over the lush landscape of California, and observing the world from a vantage just above the clouds. 

Pete is waiting at the airstrip to collect us, and we are whisked off to Bighorn. All I can say is let the commencement of a much anticipated weekend begin.

Their home is spacious and inviting, with high ceilings, muted colors, and spaces that encourage relaxation and conversation. There are two pools, one overlooking the golf course and one in their lush courtyard with a fireplace, group seating, and access to a charming casita. Jan settles us into our rooms, and we have just enough time to unpack our cases and freshen up for dinner.

It appears that deep conversations, excellent cuisine, a round of drinks, and laughter are our ice-breakers this evening, and we slip back into our familiar relationship as if no time has passed. 

Now my husband may have slipped a little too far back in time, feeling as if he is nineteen again. He ended the evening performing an impressive cannonball in the front pool. What he didn’t expect was the temperature of the water. Freezing. His exit was even more impressive. 

Saturday, the ladies are attending the BNP Paribas Tennis Open at Indian Wells while the men play several rounds of golf and have lunch at the clubhouse. We won this round, hands down.

A charming woman named Mary Ann will be joining us as her husband Dennis will be golfing with our men. I, myself, have never attended a major tennis event, but I went with no agenda, and of course, I was as happy as Larry (this is a phrase from the 1800s based on the Australian boxer Larry Foley who never lost a match). And yes, I will be overusing it now that I have been so enlightened. 

What we didn’t expect was the horrific traffic that forced us to inch our way to the stadium. Once we squeezed through the arched gates and pulled up to valet parking, it was a breeze. Only clear plastic purses are allowed in the facility. We had to pass through metal detectors and drug-smelling dogs before making our way to the box. 

Once inside the stadium, we are escorted into a lounge-type room by a darling woman named Sema, who represents the bank that is hosting the event. With all the unrest about the meltdown of Silicon Valley Bank and Signature Bank, you can imagine the gist of our conversations today. Sema was a gracious hostess and kept us focused on the match.

The luxurious box is furnished with comfortable couches, tables and chairs, a private bar, and an extraordinary buffet. I’m like a kid in a candy shop, and I overload my plate with lobster rolls, slices of steak, baked salmon, one grilled vegetable (because I want to appear healthy), a few slices of cheese (with honey), and a glass of champagne to wash it all down. 

Yes, I’m feeling like an imposter, and now I’m rethinking my cropped pants and simple black blouse. People are seriously gussied up for this event. I don’t even have a swanky bracelet or posh tattoo. It is interesting to me to observe the extremes I’m encountering this weekend, not only wealth, but fashion, lifestyle, and prestige. But I decide there is no sense in worrying about the things I have no control over, so I relax, and try to enjoy this rare opportunity.

We bring our laden plates out to the stadium seats. There is a narrow shelf to hold your grub, some inviting shade, and a pleasant breeze wafting through the stands. Thank God for Mary Ann, who not only painstakingly explains how the scoring works but the purpose of the line judge, all those ball kids, and the hidden nuances of the game while I lick my plate clean.

I watch with horror as the number one seeded woman demolishes her opponent. I admit, I’m a little miffed at Igga for not taking it easy on poor Clair (who only won one match in the entire series), but I suppose that is why I am not a pro athlete, well, that, and a lack of talent. 

When I return to the lounge to use the facilities, refresh my drink, and load up on some sushi provided by Nebo, I run into an old friend. I am shocked to find Bidet leaning against the wall of the bathroom as if she’d been waiting for me, boldly lifting her lid and welcoming me onto the warm seat. Am I dreaming?

Or is God trying to reward me for my stellar behavior? Well, I don’t think I’m asleep, so…

The next match is the men’s team, two USA players, both ranked, both vying for the win so they can continue climbing the brackets. Let me just get this off my chest. Men’s tennis is a totally different game than women’s. The volleys are twice as long, the speed on the ball is twice as fast, and they literally slam the ball back and forth across the court as if shot from a gun. I’m feeling sorry for the little fluorescent ball. 

Our man Taylor won, both opponents were good, and every match was close, but Taylor was on his game tonight. 

The next time I enter the lounge for refreshments, I find Chris Evert standing in the middle of the room, looking like an absolute stud. Did you hear me? CHRIS EVERT. Her arms are like small pistons, tight build, seriously, nothing on this woman jiggles. She looks as if she’s forty-five instead of sixty-eight.

Evert was the number one women’s tennis player in the world for a decade or two during the 80s and 90s. She was on the cutting edge of women’s sports, a frickin hero to thousands of women athletes, and here she is telling us what it was like to be a top competitor on the women’s circuit. The excitement in the room is palpable. 

Evert tells us how the entire women’s team was crucial in changing the opportunities for women who wanted to compete professionally, but Evert claims Billy Jean King was the driving force in this historic movement. 

She told us about warming up on the courts with her rivals before matches. She spoke about the powerful influence of her father (a tennis pro) and the dedication it took to stay on top. Evert was an absolute delight. When she opened up the room to questions, of course, someone asked about her thoughts on allowing trans women to compete on the women’s circuit.

Chris says, “Who let that guy in? I’m kidding. I’m going to respond as honestly as I can.”

Silence fills the room, but she doesn’t shy away from the question and starts with a biology lesson, she says, “when a male goes through puberty, his muscles develop differently than females, his heart is larger, and his lung capacity is greater than that of a woman. Even when they transit to a woman, they retain some of these physical abilities. So it’s not a fair match for a woman to play a trans woman. An amateur male tennis player can beat a top-ranked woman on sheer strength.” 

She shared a few more thoughts on tennis, women, and the importance of consistency, a strong serve, and endurance to become a top player. I could have chatted with her all night. What an unexpected blast from the past, but that seems to be what this weekend is all about.

As the sun is setting and the hosts are preparing the room for dinner in support of the evening matches, we decide it is time to head home. 

After returning to the house, we’re surprised to find Mike in the living room, he drove in from the coast to join the fray (another Santa Clara grad) and will be staying the night. We enjoy a fabulous dinner at a local restaurant and close the night out with a round of old fashions at the clubhouse bar. 

It’s a fairytale world, and I keep wondering when my coach is going to turn back into a pumpkin.

On our final day, the men head out early for a few rounds of golf, and the ladies stay in their pajamas all day. We catch up on our kids, our lives, and current interests, but our most beloved conversations focused on relationships, courageous conversations, Hula Hoops (that’s for another blog), and the importance of love. I devoured at least three cups of coffee, some delicious avocado toast, and sage advice from Claudia and Jan. Nicole Yatsonsky says your truest friends are the ones who will stand by you in your darkest moments–because they’re willing to brave the shadows with you–and in your greatest moments–because they’re not afraid to let you shine. I love that about these women who I have known and admired for more than half my life. 

As our plane is making its final descent, I feel as if the ground is rising to meet me instead of the other way around. And for this reason, coming home can be disorienting. There’s a shift that happens between the going and coming that is hard to define, but we’re not the same people we were when we ascended into the heavens only days ago. I suppose it is because experience is efficacious. There is no fountain of youth, we’re aging all the time, but I’ve discovered something about thirst in the desert.

Thirst is real, and I would say it’s crucial in our quest toward satiation. Like Evert says, you need strength, consistency, and endurance to stay on top of your game. And, like it or not, we live in a world of extremes. The weather in California is reflective of this truth, and so it is with faith, politics, and economics. There will always be someone more fashionable, wealthy, and accomplished than me, but that is not the point of life. I believe we all have a purpose, and figuring out why I’m here is how I become a gift, instead of a burden. Sometimes it takes periods of barrenness to figure it out, and sometimes, it’s simply an entire day lounging in pajamas with dear friends. I actually love coming home, and I think that is what faith is all about, that you are always in the process of coming home, but never without one. 

I’m Living in the Gap, glad to be home, love to hear about your weekend.

I did a podcast, linked here if you want to listen.

Link to Amazon if you want to order Grow Damn It from Jeff.

Or Link to Books Inc. at The Pruneyard.

Also available at Black Rose Writing here.

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 · 36 Comments

It’s A Jungle Out There

Life is always under construction, but currently so is my house, it feels as if I’m perpetually bewildered, unbalanced, on the brink of the unknown. It’s awkward like racing into the women’s bathroom and realizing you are surrounded by urinals.

We celebrated Mother’s Day in our backyard this year, Nic cooked his fabulous meatball lasagna, Kelley surprised us with appetizers from Sushi Confidential, Dante replenished the beer supply, Jim and Sue made a delicious dessert but all I remember is the homemade whip cream, Nancy arrived with gifts and fine wine. It was a full table with granddaughters and dog mulling about.

We were discussing, okay disparaging, the design and functionality of my old kitchen. The one that has been gutted and carved as if a pumpkin at Halloween, and yes, I take everything personally because as Kelley claims, “it’s all about me.”

Julie says, “when we were living here (note the appreciative tone) we needed two coffee pots because Dad’s coffee tastes like muddy water.”

Nic says, “honestly, it wasn’t drinkable.”

Larry says, “It was plentiful and free.”

Dante says, “they had three coffee pots cluttering the counter, there was no room to make toast.”

Cheryl says, “yeah, we had a pot for the muddy coffee, one for the millennials, and a Keurig for those of us that need a caffeine hit in the afternoon. But our circuitry is ancient, you can’t have two things operating at the same time, or we blow a fuse.”

Sue says, “Wait, why didn’t I know about this?”

Larry says, “It’s true, you can’t run the toaster or microwave if the coffee is brewing or everything blows.”

Everyone looks at Larry as if he’s missing a chromosome.

Sue says, “How long has this been going on?”

Cheryl says, “Thirty years.”

Jim says, “Why am I not surprised?”

Julie says, “Nic and I would wait for Dad’s coffeemaker to beep and we’d run in from our room to hit the start button on our pot before Dad stuck his oatmeal in the microwave.”

Cheryl says, “it was the Amazing Race, people sabotaging each other for energy usage, I was brutally condemned if I ran the dishwasher during prime time.

Nancy says, “I imagine if the television was on the same circuitry it would have been fixed decades ago?” (my sage)

She gets the look from Larry who says with the practiced calm of a felon, “the entire house has been rewired, we can now run all the appliances in the kitchen at the same time, even when the television is in use.”

Julie says, “perfect timing Dad.”

I had the perfect comeback but I held my tongue because “my thoughts were so awful it would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of the cat dish (Anne Lamott).” You’re welcome.

Here’s the real issue I’m struggling to rope but keeps alluding me.

How do you retire when you still have some fight left in you? It’s as if I’ve been flank strapped, lassoed, and callously wrestled to the ground? Cowgirl style. And trust me I don’t have the balls for this sort of activity.

This is not my first rodeo, but it’s most likely my last, by the first of June I will have sixty summative projects to grade, final classes to conclude, co-workers to bid farewell, and a LinkedIn account to retire.

I mean who am I without a job? A retiree?

The truth is most of us stay in occupations, homes, even relationships long after they no longer serve us. In fact they can be toxic and yet we remain loyal, trustworthy, and professional until the bitter end. Why is that? If I were honest I would say I’m scared of living without purpose, of not being valued, of giving up the leverage a paycheck affords me, and the security of being in close relationships, even imperfect ones.

Can I just admit I’m freaking out! How will I spend my days? I won’t have anyone to lecture, lesson plans to fuss over, papers to grade. My bank account and brain function will be as stagnate as a pond in the middle of summer. I’ll have nothing to write about. WHAT WAS I THINKING?

Something could be wrong with me, but I’ll need to grieve these endings, I’ve convinced myself that this is quite normal, and I’m pretty tight with my self-deceptive side, so please don’t try and get between me and my delusions. It won’t end well for you. Ask Larry.

“There is a tiger in my room,’ said Cheryl.
‘Did he bite you?’ said Larry.
‘No,’ said Cheryl.
‘Did he scratch you?’ said Larry.
‘No,’ said Cheryl.
‘Then he is a friendly tiger,’ said Larry. ‘He will not hurt you.’
‘Go back to sleep.’
Russell Hoban [adapted]

When my mind is in the middle of a massive gentrification, I try not to go in alone, that’s why I write so I don’t have to chase my thoughts around as if a tiger chasing her tail. There is a children’s story about this, but it’s no longer considered politically correct (consider this is your tiger trigger warning), and has been condemned by cancel culture but strangely enough I still find it a potent tale.

The story goes like this, a stylish kid goes for a walk when he encounters four covetous tigers and has to surrender his colorful new clothes, shoes, and umbrella so that they will not eat him. The tigers (symbolic of the way my thoughts behave) are vain and each thinks that it is better dressed than the others. They have this massive argument and chase each other around a tree until they are reduced to a pool of butter. The kid then recovers his clothes and goes home, his father later collects the butter, which his mother uses to make pancakes.

This imagery is so deeply embedded in my subconscious and it surfaces when I’m trying to manage my internal conflicts. Outside the doors of my home it’s uncivilized, envy is crass, some things are not worth fighting over, but resolution can be found in a good meal, with lots of butter. I’ve organized my life around this philosophy. How could it be canceled?

As John Vaillant notes this is precisely where the tension lies, Panthera tigris and Homo sapiens are actually very much alike, and we are drawn to many of the same things, if for slightly different reasons. Both of us demand large territories; both of us have prodigious appetites for meat; both of us require control over our living space and are prepared to defend it, and both of us have an enormous sense of entitlement to the resources around us. If a tiger can poach on another’s territory, it probably will, and so, of course, will we. A key difference, however, is that tigers only take what they need.

Really? And they need my most fashionable vices?

As my tension reaches a crescendo I start thinking a new kitchen is not enough, I need a whole new house, a new religion, a new career, a new wardrobe, maybe a therapist, when what I really need is a long walk, a glass of water, and a medicinal movie with heavily buttered popcorn.

We all have to decide if we’re going to buy into this illusion of control or if we’re going to honor the muddy, unappealing, flagrantly futile truth about being human, we’re fragile, and it’s a jungle out there.

We don’t need to be pleasant all the time, or appeasing, we’re enough with or without our crazy, circuit-blowing, disordered predicaments.

Silenced, placating, controlled people don’t change the world, they go after the uncaged, wild, living on the edge types, who can abandon the trappings of modern culture with the bravery and majesty of a tiger.

I’m Living in the Gap, my current situation is primitive, let’s roar.

Anecdotes:

  • “Life is a tiger you have to grab by the tail, and if you don’t know the nature of the beast it will eat you up.” Stephen King
  • “The romantic movement, in art, in literature, and in politics, is bound up with this subjective way of judging men, not as members of a community, but as aesthetically delightful objects of contemplation. Tigers are more beautiful than sheep, but we prefer them behind bars. The typical romantic removes the bars and enjoys the magnificent leaps with which the tiger annihilates the sheep. He exhorts men to imagine themselves tigers, and when he succeeds the results are not wholly pleasant.” Bertrand Russell
  • “With destruction comes renovation.” Wally Lamb
Posted on by cheryloreglia · 39 Comments

Mama’s Kitchen Table

Defining spaces has become my new obsession. 

We’re in the middle of an expansive remodel, I’m teaching hybrid (half my students in the classroom, half on Zoom), and I’m having a world of trouble letting go of the old to make room for the new.

As you know I’ve been giving myself over to Sam Harris every morning for approximately eight to ten minutes. He’s fabulous and I’m enjoying his casual style and silky smooth voice. 

Sam is my meditation instructor, he takes me through a brief time of quiet, respite, and daily restoration. Every morning I sink into this blissful calm, almost tranquil state of mind, it’s as if I’ve been soaking in a hot tub with bath salts.

I get in a comfortable position, nestled in my bed, it’s not ideal, but the pillows are just right. I click the link on my phone, close my eyes, and melt in to Sam’s melodious instructions. 

He starts by asking me to pay attention to my breath.

How hard could that be?  

Well let me fill you in, It’s like catching fish with your bare hands, our thoughts are slippery, and they come in vast schools.

My blood pressure slows to a trickle as I allow my thoughts to slither away. It’s quiet for a couple of minutes when Sam asks me to pay attention to the sounds that come into my awareness. I pick up the sound of a bird chirping, an airplane in the distance, I can hear the dryer is going in the next room, and then my stomach growls which reminds me we have no kitchen, food issues take center stage, as I try to refocus on the birds. 

Somewhere between birds, dryers, and my stomach growling I start worrying about selling our old kitchen table, if a black backsplash is the right way to go, and if leather couches are too cold to sit on?

This is when I hear a text message has come in on my phone. It’s killing me not to open my eyes and check the message, but I resist. I assume it must be Julie checking in on dinner plans tonight. 

The next thing I hear is my phone ringing. What the hell? I gallantly ignore the persistent buzzing and continue with anxiety about meals, tables, and countertops. 

This is when I hear Larry’s phone ring which he answers from his office, he says, “hi Kelley. No I didn’t feel anything.” I hear him walking towards my room.

No!

He enters the room, I peek out of one eye, and hold my hand up while stressing, “I’m meditating, go away.”

He says with a little sarcasm, “Mom’s meditating,” and he plops himself next to me on the bed, he’s holding his computer with my daughter and her husband Tim staring at me from the screen as if I’m meshugana?

They’re on FaceTime. See what I mean about how difficult it is to define my personal space? 

Total fail, I click the pause button, Sam’s melodic voice disappears, as I position myself on the wobbly shelf of judgment which can be destabilizing.

I ask, “How are you two doing?”

Kelley says, “we’re great, you had an earthquake last night.”

Larry says, “it was only a 2.8, you don’t feel those, especially if you’re sleeping.”

After catching Kelley and Tim up on the status of the remodel, I get up and throw on sweats, the urge to relax has long since passed.

The electrician is coming in a few days and we have to decide where we want all the lighting to go, where we need electrical plugs, and switches.

Here’s the problem, we don’t know where we are going to put the kitchen table, seems to be a popular issue these days. 

Thirty years ago I squirreled away every penny I could find so I could buy this huge round table I had my eye on for a over year. They agreed to sell me the floor model for a hefty discount, it had a few scratches, but it was made of solid wood, with a huge lazy susan, and seats eleven in a pinch. I believe we all came to love this table, it harbors decades of family memories, but it has always been too big for the space designated as the dining room. 

Until recently, when I had this brilliant idea, which has been hotly debated, but hey, I’m already on the wobbly shelf of judgement. I decided that we should switch the dining room with the family room. Buy a rustic farm table, center it in the bigger room, with a mirror and a really cool light. Oh how I danced around the gutted house with this brilliant but evasive vision. As Shauna Niequist says, those of us who believe that all of life is sacred every crumb of bread and sip of wine is a Eucharist, a remembrance, a call to awareness of holiness right where we are.

What would they do without me?

We already put the old piano and sectional couch out on the curb with a big free sign, Julie and Kelley posted it on social media, and as if a miracle they were picked up in a few hours.

Next, I put up a folding table in the driveway, Larry was not pleased, but everyday I would add vases, bowls, linens, rugs, light fixtures, trays, bunk beds, speakers, puzzles, cookbooks, and such to the pile. And each day I would marvel as the pile slowly dwindled. It felt good to know someone wanted and would use the things we no longer needed.

I was feeling rather Kondoish, I had simplified the entire house, and we would now live with only the requisite.

I mentioned to our dear friend Jim that I was looking for a solid wood farm table, that it was disappointing to discover tables are now made with veneers which crack and peel after a while. He’s been dabbling in furniture making and decided he could make a farm table from reclaimed wood with a metal base for a smidgen of the cost of a laminate table. Problem solved.

Recently I’ve been waking up at three in the morning, after acquiescing to my bodily needs, I noodle on things, and of course I had an epiphany which I was compelled to share.

I shake Larry’s arm, “honey, you awake?”

He says, “no,” there was an edge to his voice I might add.

“But you’re talking?”

“I’m trying to sleep,” emphasis on the last word.

I’m not easily discouraged, “but I had an epiphany.”

“Tell me in the morning.” He rolls over. Rude.

“I might forget.”

“Then it’s not an epiphany.” He adjusts the covers over his ears.

I mumble something about Jesus having the same issue with his disciples.

“I not your disciple.”

“Oh ye, of little faith.”

In the morning I admit I was not the best version of myself, but the electrician was coming and I had a completely new plan to actualize.

As soon as Larry brought me coffee (we set up coffee service in the laundry room, our only haven of civility) I leap out of bed, promptly drag Larry down to the demolished parts of the house, and with complete confidence I say, “we’re going back to the original plan.”

He scratches his head, “remind me.”

“We’re keeping our round table, we’ll move the hutch into the other room, which gives us more space in here, and we’ll create a little conversation area over there (I point), and now you can keep the section around the wine bar open like you wanted.”

“So no farm table?”

“No”

“And no leather couch in here?”

“No”

“And no new lighting?”

“Let’s not get crazy, we’ll need a new light over the old table, probably a bistro set for the wine bar, a few pieces for the sitting area, maybe a rug to define the space, and a really cool coffee table for appetizers.” I stand back with both hands on both hips, a very satisfied look spread across my face.

“This is your epiphany?” He looks incredulous.

I talk slowly, as if speaking to a small child, “we’re saving a lot of money on a table.”

He holds back his unruly hair with both hands, looks around, and says, “we’re spending way more than we’re saving.” He likes to call this mission creep, which is just creepy in my opinion.

“It depends on how you look at it, we’re keeping our beloved kitchen table, and you can’t put a price on love.”

He looks at me as if I just grew horns? 

I say, “Honey, you better call Jim and cancel our customized farm table. Do you have time to run to Ethan Allen later today?”

“If the home is a body, the table is the heart, the beating center, the sustainer of life and health,” says Shauna Niequist

So a few days later we’re driving to breakfast, because Larry’s breakfast buddy, Steve, has moved away, and I’ve become the egregious substitute. 

I say, “I put the old rocking chair out on the curb yesterday with a free sign and it was gone in less than an hour.”

Larry says, “So you’re paying someone to fix the broken rocking chair and you gave away the one that works?”

“Exactly,” I smile, the choice seems so obvious, “the broken one my grandfather made and as you know love has no price tag.”

“Or limits apparently.”

“I’ve become a minimalist.”

“Let’s hope I don’t get put out on the curb?”

I look at him over the rim of my glasses, “I’ve considered it,” giving him a cheeky smile.

“I’m a classic.”

“There’s not a lot of demand for 60’s models and you require a lot of maintenance.”

“But I still work.”

“Retirement envy.”

I’m Living in the Gap, leaving things on the curb, come by and check it out. 

Anecdotes:

  • “Everyone has a price”, as they say. So let the price on your tag say “PRICELESS” “INVALUABLE” “IRREPLACEABLE” Omoakhuana Anthonia
  • I don’t want to live life too cautiously. I mean, you can step off a curb and twist your ankle. Rickie Fowler
  • “To gather together around a table – the ultimate symbol of communion – is the only truly authentic way to properly prioritise the ritual of eating.” Michelle Ogundehin
  • “To those of us who believe that all of life is sacred every crumb of bread and sip of wine is a Eucharist, a remembrance, a call to awareness of holiness right where we are.” Shauna Niequist