Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

I’m Gambling Again

Hedging A Bet Against 

The End Of 2026

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

It’s pitch dark.

And bitterly cold.

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

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

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

Okay, all you Northerners, go easy. 

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

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

I trot out to the car idling in my driveway. 

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

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

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

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

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

I could so easily become agoraphobic. #goalsaf

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

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

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

It’s early. I might be overthinking this.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s physics. 

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

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

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

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

Whoever said the truth will set you free was lying. 

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

Ruthless.

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

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

There is no mystery. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell? 

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

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

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

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

The metaphors just keep coming. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

― Audrey Hepburn

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

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

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

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 46 Comments

The Fine Art Of Creative Leisure

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” – J. R. R. Tolkien

I can be lazy.

Okay, I said it, but trust me, somewhere in the afterlife, my mother just sighed loudly. 

If there was one thing Mom worshipped, besides a freshly vacuumed carpet, it was crossing everything off her to-do list before sundown. My mother was ridiculously disciplined and just shy of fanatical when it came to maintaining a meticulous home.

I mention my Mom because she was the one person I scrutinized so mercilessly in my youth, and smugly thought I knew everything there was to know about this woman, oh my, the cheekiness of youth.

I was ever so wrong. 

We usually are when we claim to fully know anyone but ourselves. Even then, we’re often misinformed by our own voice.

If she ever wondered about the meaning of life, it was while she was scrubbing the grout or ironing my father’s boxers (Yes, she ironed underwear. No, I don’t want to talk about it). 

Honestly, I have suspected on a number of occasions that she came home from the hospital with the wrong baby, but that theory falls apart once you realize I look exactly like my dad — I was born with permanent creases on my forehead, a mischievous disposition, and easy smile.

I always felt I hit the jackpot when it came to my parents, they were the perfect combination of order and mayhem, hard work and humor, regimen and playfulness.

I spent more time playing with my thoughts than with real people. Don’t get me wrong, I like people, but they can be a lot. You know what I mean? Especially when you’re a people pleaser. Reformed…I should add.

Some of us live in the world. Some of us live in our heads. It’s better if you have a little of both.

I haven’t been writing much this summer, and oddly, that makes me anxious as if I forgot to write a thank you note or pull out the garbage cans on Tuesday. I’ve been posting a weekly blog for over a decade, and this is the first time I’ve ever allowed myself time to reconsider what I want to do with my writing in the next decade.

Yes, I have projects in the works, ideas I’d like to develop, and a writing schedule I’d like to return to once the relatives head home and our academic schedule resumes. Not mine, but the world in general, specifically my grandkids. 

I don’t know if it is our collective joy that we are being promoted to the next grade (metaphorically) or we’re all breaking in new shoes, but I’m enamored with the idea of starting something novel in the fall.

As I mentioned earlier, I’m a bit of a sloth by nature. I like to sit in the chair I’ve converted to a desk, in the back of my room, and write about life. In particular, my life. I worry on occasion that I should be out there living, so I have something to write about. But I usually suppress those sorts of thoughts and label them as “self-limiting beliefs,” as in the lowest possible form of rumination.

Until now. 

Lately, I’ve been questioning the relevance of my writing and if it still resonates with an audience. It’s basically a recap of my experiences, how I unravel the mysteries of life, sprinkled with the mistakes I’ve made and the lessons that surface when you dissect those blunders as if a frog in a high school science class.

My interest in writing has always been to come as close to the truth as possible while simultaneously trying to understand the things that confound, challenge, and stretch us all both mentally and spiritually.

I’m just wondering if there is wisdom to discover in retirement? Or is this a time of life meant for private awakenings, broader explorations, and a lifestyle with fewer obligations and more frappuccinos?

Here’s the skinny. The truth is hard to define. It’s slippery, biased, subtly redacted by our disordered perspectives and mild quirks. Okay, it’s also true, my relationship with Instagram has gone next level, and yes, I’m entirely blind to its negative influences. 

So do I throw in the towel, stop asking all those elusive questions, and just settle into my ergonomic chair with a glass of Pinot and a decent Netflix algorithm?

Tempting. I know.

The thing is, my brain refuses to ignore the absurdity of a world that produces both cherry blossoms and road rage. Sunsets and spam callers. Golden retrievers and guys named “Chad” who start podcasts about masculinity.

I know, I know, I’ve officially wandered beyond my pay grade.

But here’s the deal.

It’s never too late to reevaluate your presumptions about the purpose and meaning of life, or just realign your pursuits with your own values and interests.

I’ve come to the risky conclusion that no one really knows if we should vacuum or dust first. Okay, Heloise claims to know, but does she really? 

The truth is, we always find what we’re looking for, and intuitive algorithms instantly validate our opinions. For example, make a note of what pops up on your Instagram feed when you’re casually scrolling. I tend to get ads for Amazon fashion, wrinkle creams, enticing cycling events, and unique dining experiences.

Larry’s feed is full of police chases, the best pizza parlors in NYC, Porsche events, and airplane crashes. Let’s not waste time trying to assess the deeper meaning of our Instagram feed. It’s an algorithm gone mad.

The point being, I need to be intentional about where I focus my attention. 

I, for one, want to experience everything. The flavor of good wine, the feel of a grandchild sleeping in my arms, the warmth of my partner’s hand, the smell of barbecue on a warm summer night, the joy of dancing in the frozen food aisle because Frank Sinatra is playing in the background. Who could resist?

I want to stay open to wonder. To new people. To wildly different perspectives that make me both squirm and grow. 

So yes, I’m going to be lazy. But the creative kind of lazy. The kind that leaves room for changing directions with my work, taking breaks, choosing to experience what is right in front of me, instead of the MacBook sitting on the raw plank of wood, resting on the arms of an easy chair, in the back of my room.

Because none of us knows how many pages we have left, I don’t want to miss the good stuff while I’m busy polishing my quirky interior thoughts. So how do I decide how to spend my time wisely in retirement? Maybe I’ll follow my parents’ example and let discipline and hard work hold hands with humor and mischief. And if that fails, there’s always wine and Sinatra in the frozen food aisle. I’ll keep you posted.

I’m Living in the Gap, struggling to figure me out, how about you? 

For more stories sprinkled with sass and humor, pick up a copy of Grow Damn It! and one for your mom!

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 37 Comments

The Audacity To Write

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

Clarissa Pinkola Estés

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

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

I know, scary.

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

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

Why is one compelled to write? 

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

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

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

Just the facts, ma’am. 

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

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

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

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

Life hurts. Full stop. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Heroes are rare.”

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

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

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

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

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

Kelley, you can thank me later.

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

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

Much. 

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

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

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 21 Comments

A Mini Update From The Writer Who Has Not Written

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

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

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

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

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

It happens.

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

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

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

Miss you all more than you know.

Much Love and Hugs, Cheryl

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 46 Comments

I Am A Cage

In Search Of A Bird [Franz Kafka]

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

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

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

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

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

Clearly, its work here was done.

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

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

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

What matters is how we use them. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, how do we turn this crazy world around?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Posted on by cheryloreglia · 36 Comments

When It’s Cold Outside

Here’s How You Ignite The Fire 

Tradition is not the worship of ashes but the preservation of fire. Gustav Mahler

Larry threw a magazine into my lap the other day with the words above highlighted. This particular sentence resonated with him so strongly that he felt compelled to share it with me—Larry style. 

As you can imagine, I was annoyed yet intrigued and slightly puzzled about its meaning.

Later that night, I asked, “What does that quote mean to you?” That’s a clever way of obscuring my ignorance. 

He said, “It’s about refusing to reduce our history to ashes, you know, denying it, saying it doesn’t matter when it does. It’s what fuels the present if you allow it to, and if not, what the hell is the point?”

“I thought it meant the present has to act as a lifeguard to the past because, without it, it’s like having dementia. You lose everything important to you.”

“Exactly. Treating the past as if it were dead is a destructive choice.”

“They say there is no future without the past.”

“No lawsuit without a lawyer.”

“Popcorn and Lincoln Lawyer tonight?”

“I’ll light the fire.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Mahler’s quote definitely challenges the way we undervalue our traditions. He argues that traditions are about preserving the fire that fuels them—like Christmas, which is a seamless (okay, not seamless or smooth, but conjoined for sure) blending of past and present. Celebrating Christmas without the traditional story of a miraculous birth, the gift of hope, and how our weary souls rejoice over the prospects of a new and glorious world is like trying to drink from an empty well. It will never quench your thirst. 

Mahler argues that tradition is a way of perpetuating the past, making it meaningful and relevant today. Okay, I’m listening, so who is this guy?

Gustav Mahler was a renowned Austrian-Bohemian composer and conductor who lived from 1860 to 1911. He was a key figure in the late Romantic period of classical music and is best known for his grand symphonies and influential choral works. I included one of his pieces at the end of the post.

Mahler was a moody and authoritarian type of guy. He thought there should be only one composter in the family and insisted Alma (his wife) give up her music studies to accommodate him. What an ass. She wrote in her diary, “How hard it is to be so mercilessly deprived of … things closest to one’s heart.”

He was Jewish by birth but converted to Catholicism later in life, some say to accommodate anti-Semitic influences in Europe, but he considered himself an atheist. He sort of covered all the bases. 

Mahler conducted the Eighth Symphony at Munich in 1910—his most significant lifetime success—but it was overshadowed by the composer’s discovery that Alma had begun an affair with a young architect. 

Hello, this guy seems bright, but he can not read a room! 

Greatly distressed, Mahler sought advice from Sigmund Freud. Can you believe that? Freud observed that Mahler’s insistence that Alma gives up her composing had done a shit load of damage. Mahler accepted this, encouraging her to write music and orchestrate. He even promoted some of her works. Alma and Gustav remained married until his death. 

Mahler understood tradition as an essential part of human culture and civilization, something that connects us to our past, but also an opportunity to revitalize the present and provide a foundation for the future, especially when you’re writing symphonies. But he also learned that tradition can become stagnant and lifeless if not nurtured, renewed, and allowed to evolve.

He forces us to consider how we make our traditions and past relevant today, even after we screw up. 

Seriously, we are constantly changing and evolving, so blindly following a tradition for the sake of tradition is crazy. I remember my mother-in-law telling me a story about a woman who always cut off the end of the roast before cooking because that is what her mother and grandmother did before her. Eventually, the woman found out that the roast was trimmed because her grandmother had a small roasting pan, and she had to cut the roast to fit. 

Trimming anything in our lives should be intentional and not just arbitrary because the things that contain us are too small.

But I also believe the past should not be callously discarded because it has become irrelevant to you. It’s like the Tesla, a vehicle that gets us from one place to the next, but unlike the traditional engine, it’s fueled by a new source. 

Edison would be so proud. 

We can use the past to ignite our anger or hope, right? For example, you can weaponize the past to malign someone’s character or use it to understand the nature of the human condition and recognize that mistakes are an opportunity for growth. 

We screw things up—literally, but that’s universal.  

Jesus told a crowd of men who were about to stone a woman to death for being caught in the act of adultery (the missing dude was not explained). He said, “I know you’re all eager to kill this young woman, but only the man without sin can cast the first stone. If not, get the hell out of here [I’m paraphrasing],” and guess what? They ALL went away—all of them. 

No one is without sin. 

It’s how we learn. Without our past—mistakes, fiascos, failures—we would not be the people we are today. Using the past to condemn the present instead of using it as a source of hope, an opportunity for maturation, or a container for our dreams is the work of a foolish person. It’s pointless and leads to misery and despair.

Figuring out who we are is our life work. Coming as close as possible to our authentic selves is how we restore ourselves from the forces that molded us, the culture that defined our worth, and the trauma from the past that shaped us. Our past does not define us, but it drives us, if you will. 

Our past is a living, breathing part of the present, not a fossilized version of our future. It is a new model based on our old design but fueled by something galvanizing, luminous, magical. 

Mahler challenges us to reconsider our relationship to the past. Rather than storing the ashes of our tradition in a large urn on the mantel, we should use them to preserve the present as if a phoenix rising from the ashes. This means we must dig deeper into the relevance of things that either support or destroy the present. 

Maybe this year, we refuse to drag our negative thoughts, or our ideas of scarcity, perfection, and control into the new year but caudle that flame of faith, hope, and love—the pillars of every lasting tradition. Go ahead, toss a few ideas into the lap of life, and we’ll figure it out together. This is how we fuel our internal magic. We plug into a new source of inspiration, igniting our integrity, honoring our legacy, and propelling us toward a brighter future with all the energy, passion, and inspiration of the past.

Calm down. There is still time to grab up a dozen copies or so of Grow Damn It! It makes an excellent stocking stuffer, the perfect white elephant if you pair it with poppy seeds and gardening gloves, and, of course, a sweet reason for enjoying my failures and epiphanies in 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 · 36 Comments

Hold On, I’m Coming

The Entanglement of Joy

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

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

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

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

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

What do you think about this tile? 

How long should the new vanity be?

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

What are your thoughts on lighting? 

Should we put a half wall here?

I’ve taped everything off. Come look.

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

It was a full morning.

In fact, it was a full weekend. 

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not easy this whole aging thing. 

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

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

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

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

It was heroic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted on by cheryloreglia · 58 Comments

I Don’t Mean To Brag

But I Made A Pie
FROM SCRATCH
The aftermath…

Inspired by Dorothy’s New Vintage Kitchen

“Baking is…Life. So when you describe what you’re making, you must describe life. Do you see? It’s not just recipes…” – Jenny Colgan

Standing on the back deck overlooking the lake in the late afternoon is a fabulous way to procrastinate. I like to pretend I’m spying on the landscape. If I stand perfectly still, it’s as if I disappear, or maybe I just become part of the natural terrain. I observe how the current is gently moving the water along with the heat towards the west, how the trees sway in unison with the breeze, and if you squint your eyes a little, the ducks that congregate on the edge of our beach resemble a burnt pie crust. I don’t know why, but from my perspective, the world looks like it’s covered in wheat, brown sugar, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. 

Maybe I’m hungry.

You can only write, rewrite, edit, write, and rewrite for so long, then I lose my mojo about whatever I was tackling, and I have to go and do something else. I’m looking for a task that is gratifying, like stealing a forkful of pasta salad from the frig, ordering shit I don’t need from Amazon, or baking a pie.

I settled on baking a pie because my friend Dorothy’s recent blog post caught my interest. It involved blueberries, sugar, and a flaky crust.

How hard can that be?

Dorothy is a whirlwind in the kitchen. She hosts an incredible blog filled with creative recipes, but it’s not just recipes. She shares her family traditions and childhood memories and has an incredible knack for using seasonal produce in ways you’ve never imagined. I always tell her, “Dorothy, you somehow make me look good in the kitchen, and cooking isn’t my thing.” 

So what the hell, I’m going to bake a pie from scratch, up at the lake, and I don’t even have a rolling pin. Dorothy writes, “A fruit pie is sometimes a bit of a challenge,” and here I thought tackling RAGBRAI was courageous. 

Larry and I drove into town to pick up all the ingredients, such as blueberries (obviously), unbleached flour, unsalted butter, lemons, sugar, and cornstarch. I thought it would be fun for Larry and me to bake the pie together. I’m picturing Josh Brolin and Kate Winslet in The Last Days Of Summer. It was an epic pie scene.

Well, that didn’t happen. He disappeared the minute I started assembling the ingredients. Maybe he’s looking for some SAG (supply and gear) support? God knows we need it.

Dorothy says to make the crust first so it can chill. Then, she adds, which I didn’t see until it was too late, that for best results, everything should be chilled, including the flour. 

The flour? 

So I start gathering the tools I’ll need to make a perfect crust. 

It eventually dawned on me we don’t have a pastry cutter or a food processor as the recipe calls for, so I substituted with a potato masher and a large fork. I also don’t have a rolling pin, but we do have a lot of wine bottles, so I removed the label and washed one up really well, and I’m confident that it should be adequate for the task. Maybe I should chill it?

It’s been about two decades since I’ve made a pie, maybe more, and I’m sure I used a pre-made pie crust. I know, don’t get all judgy, I’m not a baker, but I like the idea of baking, and I like to imagine that I’m a goddess in the kitchen with an adorable apron and pearls. That all makes sense if you’ve seen the movie Julie and Julia (highly recommend).

My first task is the crust. Dorothy says whatever you do, do not overwork the dough. It’s not what I would call an ambitious substance, but in deference to Dorothy, I remained silent and asked nothing more of my blob than to be flaky (get it).

After measuring out the flour, butter, salt, and shortening, I gently cut in the butter and shortening with my masher and fork. She says to work on it until it resembles wet sand—like that kinetic stuff you get the kids for Christmas because it knows how to hold a shape. 

It’s easier said than done. It took me almost an hour to get there with my adaptive utensils, or maybe my vision of wet sand needs adjusting.

Simultaneously, I made a list of things for my next Amazon order, especially a pastry cutter. 

Dorothy says the next part is particularly tricky, so I looked deeply into my bowl of wet sand and suggested it was in its best interest to work with me. I try to be encouraging. 

I whispered, “You might feel like wet sand, but you’re really a soft pale mound, like a well-rounded breast,” which takes the concept of food porn to a whole new level, but I think it helped.

You have to be very careful when handling the dough (the same goes for money). A light touch goes a long way, so I gently added the juice of a freshly squeezed lemon (picking out the seeds as they fell) and a splash of ice-cold water after removing the ice. After easing the ingredients together, barely stirring, and hardly breathing, I felt a little proud about the entire process. 

A pale mound of dough starts forming in the bowl. I pluck a small piece from the mound and pop it in my mouth even though it states in bold print on the flour package not to eat it raw! What a rebel.

She says to wrap it in plastic, cut it in half, wrap up both pieces, and chill for at least 30 minutes. So I educated myself about the importance of keeping everything cool. For one, it lengthens the time that the fat in the dough stays solid. See, it’s all about the gluten, if you use only a little cold water it reduces the gluten content and also allows the dough to be crisper. Also, a minimal amount of handling reduces the gluten, so we do not knead pastry dough into submission like we do when we’re making bread (Not that I ever plan on making bread, but never say never, who ever imagined me making a pie).

The mounds are not even, but such is life.

Will you look at what I made with a potato masher and a fork? 

Janet Clarkson says, “A pie is only as good as its pastry, and one of the delights of a good pie is the contrast in texture between the crisp pastry and the filling – whatever it might be.” No pressure.

While the sun is baking the outside world, I preheat the oven to 400 per the instructions and place a cookie sheet on the lower middle rack. 

This part is clever. Dorothy says when the pie is ready to bake, you put it directly on the hot cookie sheet, which helps cook the bottom of the pie quickly so it won’t be soggy. No one wants a soggy pie, and Dorothy has figured it all out. 

Glancing at the lake, I notice a layer of smoke clinging to the mountains like steam from a boiling pan, casting a grayish oura over the entire lake. The glass door between me and the outside world is hot to the touch. I’m suddenly appreciative of the air conditioning, which allows me to work with butter and fruit without having everything melt and spoil. It’s as if my kitchen has become an oasis in the desert of summer. 

When I’m working on a story, I gather words and images to make it rich and satisfying to the reader. I found out it’s the same with baking. The right flour, butter, cream, and sugar all enhance the experience and the outcome. I suppose writing and baking are both creative expressions—something that engages all our senses.

So now that the crust is safely chilling out in the refrigerator, I have to prepare the blueberries. After rinsing them in a colander with cool water, I measure out 6 cups into a large yellow bowl and add cornstarch, lemon zest, lemon juice, sugar, salt, and cinnamon. I lean over the bowl so I can breathe in the sweet earthy smell before mixing all the ingredients thoroughly and slipping them into the frig. I feel so satisfied, like a seasoned cook I brush the dust from the cornstarch on my pants, dramatically wiping the sweat from my brow. 

Now I can refresh my wine and sit on the deck for a spell, enjoying the swallows fighting off a crow that’s trying to get at their nests. It’s an extraordinary effort on the swallows’ part to chase away this huge crow. I provided a solid stream of commentary, but the birds completely ignored me.

When my timer goes off, it scares the crap out of me. Shit, now it’s time to roll out the perfect pie crust with a wine bottle. The thing is, civilization was built around wheat, right? It’s why we all stopped camping, built our little brick houses, and got to know the neighbors. Baking is probably one of the oldest professions, well that, and story telling. 

But I digress.

I take the first lump of dough out of the refrigerator and sprinkle my massive round cutting board with flour. Engraved on the edge of the board, it says, “You Are What You Eat.” Hey, sometimes I can be kneady.

Larry appears out of thin air, looking anxious. He gets that way around food, especially when I’m trying to make the perfect pie crust.

He says, “Do you know what you’re doing?’

“Does it look like I know what I’m doing? I have a lump of dough and a wine bottle.”

He points as I’m rolling out the dough, “It looks a little thick there.”

I’m thinking the dough is thick? But I have a choice, I can either roll my bottle over the plump edge or break his finger. 

When the dough is thinned to perfection, and I have formed it into an awkward circle, he says, “Now, what are you going to do?”

Are you with me as I consider the multiple purposes of rolling pins? 

The crust is sort of stuck to the board, so I turn my pie dish upside down onto the dough, lift the extraordinarily heavy round board into the air, flip it over, and ease the mailable dough into the dish. Parchment paper would have been helpful here!

The move was daring and semi-successful. Larry and I pushed the edges of the dough into the round pie pan, and I was relieved to see there was a substantial amount left over to create an attractive edge. I use the word attractive loosely.

After pouring the chilled berries into the freshly rolled dough, I start rolling out the second pale mound. Larry makes similar suggestions as we flip the board over and gently lay the dough over the berries. We pinch the edges together, trim the excess dough, and slice a few air holes in the top before popping it into the oven.

I set the timer, grab my wine, and head out to the deck. In fifteen minutes, I turn the oven down and let the pie cook for the better part of an hour. I sit here watching the bats head out for their evening supper of bugs. There is a crazy one this year. He comes out every night but only manages to fly in circles like his radar is out. I call him Loopy. 

As I was sitting here smiling at Loopy, he flew into my space, and I had to duck or get buzzed by a bat. I think he just wanted to say hi the way bats do, with a swoop and flyover. It’s kind of cute and sort of creepy. 

Dorothy says the blueberries have to boil, or the corn starch will not activate, and the pie will be soggy. Oh, good lord, it’s like a never-ending science experiment. I keep checking to see if the berries are boiling. Who knows?

I wait, I check again, I ponder the sanity of even attempting to make a pie. But I do feel a deep sense of accomplishment. I suppose that baking doesn’t change the world or your current circumstances, but it is a great way to lift your spirits and imagine you’re Julia Childs for an hour or so, who advised, “Learn how to cook – try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless, and above all have fun!”

Will you look at that attractive crust? Absolute perfection…Bahaha

If you need a little distraction because you’re in a writing slump, I say get in the kitchen. Pretend your apron is a cape. Play with really good ingredients. Make something you can share with others, something that makes people smile. There’s nothing like a shimmering blueberry pie with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream in the middle of a hot summer night. 

The hardest part? Waiting for the pie to cool and set before cutting into it. 

I’m Living in the Gap, heating up the kitchen, join me in the comments, we’ll chat.

PS. The pie was delicious–enough.

PSS. Loopy was up early this morning when he should have been sleeping. Larry unfortunately left both the front and back doors wide open to let the cool air in, and Loopy thought he’d slip in and say hi. Oh my, if we had a video of Larry and I trying to coax Loopy out of the house and not get bit in the process, you would pee your pants.

PSSS. My granddaughter asked how old I was. I told her I was 64. She said, “Did you start at one?”

If you enjoyed this post, you’ll love Grow Damn It, a series of humorous essays on the sanctity and meaning of life. They’re written as an invitation, come in, grab a spot on the couch, and let’s have a rip-roaring discussion on how we go about living our best life. 

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!