Perfect Does Not Exist

By Cheryl Oreglia

What happens when the world changes, when the things we were counting on, or the things we worked hard to accomplish do not happen?

Currently, our situation fits the description of a shit show, far from perfect, and way outside my wildest apocalyptic musings.

Apologies in advance for my sour mood.

People are experiencing a scarcity of food, housing, medical, and psychological wellbeing. The lack of moral leadership is not helping, it’s as if we’ve become an expansion pack for the Lord of Flies, and quite frankly some of us are behaving like lost children.

We’re still marrying, and having babies, but we’re dying alone.

Businesses are closing, supplies are running short, hospitals are at capacity.

What else could go wrong? Oh yeah, domestic terrorists stormed the Capitol, and we’ve impeached the president twice.

This has a trickle-down effect, as if a spring waterfall, and we’re drowning in the runoff.

Students who worked their butts off to get into college are studying remotely, missing the campus experience, and more importantly the networking that occurs when socializing. They are stuck at home using zoom as their primary social connection, youth suicide rates have doubled in the last year, along with seniors.

This has been a depressing year.

Authors are publishing books and forgoing the book tours, marketing conferences, and interviews. Not so bad but if you spent ten years writing and perfecting a novel it’s not the best of times.

My world is currently incompatible with the skill set I have depended on for most of my life.

I was taught from a very young age to follow the steps and the outcome will be close, if not exactly, what I expect. Right?

Study and you’ll pass your courses, graduate and you get a job, save your money for a rainy day, work out and you’ll get stronger, eat less and you lose weight, work hard and you’ll prosper.

But nothing and no one could have prepared us for a world-wide pandemic, months of quarantine, not to mention the political and social unrest that is currently monopolizing our country. The waters are stirred up, it’s murky as hell, and it doesn’t appear to be settling anytime soon. But remember, beautiful souls are shaped by ugly experiences says Matshona Dhliwayo.

So what the hell do we do now?

These are unprecedented times in the history of the world. If we don’t write about it who will? Every country on the planet has been infected, lost elders, jobs, and their sense of security. We’re slowly forgetting what it was like to live “normally,” and worse, we’re becoming accustomed to extremely restrictive environments.

That’s just bullshit.

This is not our demise, this is our opportunity to document a historical phenomenon flashing before our screens, from our own unique perspective, because no one else in the world can tell this story the way you can.

For writers, quarantine is actually a rare occasion that offers unmitigated time to write, think, and ponder without undue distractions, obligations, or interruptions. I agree Netflix is probably part of a Russian agenda to keep us docile and tame, but we’re better than this, at least I once was.

Hello, I’ve been whining about my lack of time, congested schedule, unexpected intrusions forever. Since the first, second, and third lockdown I have cooked hundreds of meals, spent thousands of hours on Zoom calls, and watched more television in ten months than my entire life put together, and I’m embarrassed to say I’ve worn my pajamas for most of these high-level activities. “Strength doesn’t come from what you can do. It comes from overcoming the things you once thought you couldn’t,” says Rikki Rogers.

What I haven’t done is write about it.

The sad thing is creativity doesn’t repeat itself, it can’t, says Seth Godin. This period in time might be our greatest opportunity along with our worst nightmare, but no one will read our stories if we don’t turn off the television, and write. Yes, I’m talking to myself, just ignore that part, I'm such a sloth. 

This is our work. It’s not for everyone but it will serve someone, it will change something, and it has the potential to make things better. Read that again.

The creative journey takes practice, it follows a distinct pattern, pandemic or not. I have to sit down, and write every day, whether I want to or not. I have to post my work and find an audience who wants to read what I have to offer. They are not going to come to me. 

It’s not easy, most things of value are not, in fact, it might be the most vulnerable thing you’ll ever do. Expose your fears, failures, frivolity, but trust me, no one wants to compare themselves with perfect, let your flaws shine. This is what gives us hope.

Write until our fingers fail, this is our covenant, and this is what I remind myself of when I’m sitting in the same sweats for a week, eating cold chicken with my fingers, hydrating with endless cups of coffee.

My mantra, “I will not watch reruns of The Office.” Repeat.

Remember that show, Walking Dead, it’s become a reality of sorts.

There are plenty of Walking Dead out there, this is our audience, and what we have might be the only source of hope available. Never doubt yourself, I’ve used that as an excuse, but it’s really a defense mechanism against failure. Yes, I’m talking to myself again, I write to figure things out, my thoughts flying around like kamikazes until they land on the page.

What happens when the world changes, when the things we were counting on, or the things we worked hard to accomplish do not happen?

Change your definition of happiness, or better yet, “stop living someone else’s definition of happiness and start living your own,” says David Paul Vosburg.

Our current view of the world might not be perfect because that does not exist.

How are you holding up? What are you currently writing about? Any survival secrets? 

When I’m not writing for Across the Board, I’m Living in the Gap, drop in anytime.

The Fraud Police

By Cheryl Oreglia

As a writer, I have struggled with imposter syndrome ever since I hit the publish button on my first blog. My husband yelled from the office, "you misspelled corral," and I about fainted. They'll know, they'll all know, I have no idea what I'm doing! 

"You don't know how to spell." I lamented.

"Who do you think you are?"

"Nobody wants to read what you're writing."

"You're not an expert."

Even worse.

"You'll look like a fool."

Megan Culter says, "I gave up my agency. I had put power over my passions into the hands of unknown, unseen strangers. I had allowed the fear of failure to bar the way." Our fear of looking like a fool is one of the most powerful gatekeepers to the future we envision. We would rather play it safe than risk looking vacuous?

These are the tapes that play in my head every time I'm ready to publish a new blog. I feel as if I need some sort of validation outside myself to give me permission to put my work out in the world. Why are these thoughts so pervasive?

“I have challenged fate to chess and am now attempting to keep all my confidence from puddling in my boots. What if I’m the only one betting on myself because everyone but me can see I am not suited to play at all?” Mackenzi Lee

I have to ask myself what if no one ever read a word I wrote?

Does it ultimately matter?

I tell myself so what. I would still write because when I stop writing my life doesn't work. I don't know who I am and I struggle to find the significance of living a chaotic and complicated life. It's like "holding my breath forever," says Megan Culter. Life and my search for meaning force me back to the keyboard again and again. I inhale with every note, exhale as words form on the page, and only then do I recognize myself in that which I observe from a distance.

Some writers only feel this sort of insecurity on occasion, but other writers have to live with this sense of inadequacy for their entire career as if an agitated companion who continually scans for the negative, and has no qualms about exploiting your failings at every opportunity. I say divorce that dude and move on.

You would think that after an author had experienced some measure of success as a writer, (published a successful novel, received an acclaimed award, or was hired to write for a prestigious magazine) that they would leave these doubts behind? But the reality for many writers, no matter the endorsements, is that feelings of incompetence stubbornly remain.

So how do we keep imposter syndrome at bay?

I have read that regular exercise can help, along with practices of meditation, or yoga (although I resist all of these when I'm in the middle of an IS episode). I suppose what's most important is for you to recognize when you're being lured away by imposter syndrome that you get back on track as quickly as possible. I make a pot of coffee, call my sister who is my biggest fan, browse through old cookbooks for something new to cook. And for whatever reason that always makes my writing appear more appealing!

Do what works for you, we're all different, one of my writing friends likes to garden when her thoughts are chocked with IS weeds, another goes for a run as if she could distance herself from her thoughts. I eat. Whatever. 

“When you know you're ENOUGH! When you stop focusing on all things that you're not. When you stop fussing over perceived flaws. When you remove all imposed and unbelievable expectations on yourself. When you start celebrating yourself more. When you focus on all that you are. When you start believing that your perceived flaws are just that - perception...” Malebo Sephodi

Where does this come from?

Studies have shown that imposter syndrome can sometimes have its roots in childhood experiences. For example, maybe a teacher once said you were a terrible writer or a parent criticized your early attempts at authoring a short story? Bruce Watson says relentless criticism in childhood can internalize parental scorn that no amount of success will silence. It's possible to get to the core of these issues by seeing a therapist who can help with the tools we need to overcome these early experiences or move beyond their reach.

I remember watching a movie with Robert Redford and Barbara Streisand, they were taking a college course on writing, and both were working on an essay as the final in which the professor would select the best one to read to the class. Robert won the contest and I remember watching Barbara, completely devastated as she ripped up her paper, and threw it in the trash. That's what happens when we allow imposter syndrome to take possession of our thoughts, it's extremely destructive and crippling as a writer.

Is this common to all creative types?

Yes! Actors, painters, dancers, writers, singers all experience "the unshakable conviction that you are getting away with something and that any moment now they will discover you. It's imposter syndrome, something my wife christened the Fraud Police," says Neil Gaiman. Even Emma Watson from the acclaimed Harry Potter films says, "any moment, someone's going to find out I'm a total fraud." But just like Harry Potter, you have the power to overcome these negative forces in your creative life, but it might leave a scar.

Nava Atlas adds, “you'll be amazed how much you have in common with Edith Wharton (who struggled to feel worthy of success), Louisa May Alcott (who badly needed money), Madaleine L'Engle (who could have papered an entire house with her rejection letters) and many other writers.”

What if it's true?

The only truth is that creative types have fluctuating careers, ups and downs, successes and failures. This is the reality in which we exist and it's like cat-nip for imposter syndrome. When you're up you think it's a fluke and when you're down you blame yourself. This is IS's main talent, they have us chasing after some unattainable ideal, resulting in disappointment and defeat. As Elsa says in Frozen, "let it go."

What can I do to fight this affliction?

I use every distraction in my arsenal. When I sense these feelings creeping in through the window of my mind, I open it wide, stick my head out and yell, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore." Try it. It works.

Sometimes I stop and ask myself how my work can benefit others? Usually, that's enough to chase the boogeyman away. Basically, it's getting out of my own head, my own thoughts, and considering the needs of others. It's amazing how fast that clarifies and validates my work.

Try doing something completely new. I tried painting and immediately felt the icy claws of IS take hold of my thoughts. I believe I even said out loud, "I hate painting, I'm horrible at this, why am I doing this?" What a whinner! My sister-in-law had set up this perfect evening, where five of us sat around the dining room table, sipping wine, and painting our vision of Mt. Konocti on blank canvases.  I felt so insecure it was almost ludicrous. But I kept at it, and by the end of the evening, I had a decent painting of this majestic mountain and a new appreciation for the strength of IS especially when we're trying something new or outside our comfort zone.

The better you get at recognizing the destructive powers of imposter syndrome the better you'll be at chasing it away, or at the very least diminishing its effect.

What do you do when you feel insecure about your writing? Share a few thoughts in the comments, sort of like introducing your insecurities to mine.

When I'm not writing for Across the Board, I'm Living in the Gap, drop by anytime.

An aside:

“Some years ago, I was lucky enough invited to a gathering of great and good people: artists and scientists, writers and discoverers of things. And I felt that at any moment they would realize that I didn’t qualify to be there, among these people who had really done things.

On my second or third night there, I was standing at the back of the hall, while a musical entertainment happened, and I started talking to a very nice, polite, elderly gentleman about several things, including our shared first name. And then he pointed to the hall of people, and said words to the effect of, “I just look at all these people, and I think, what the heck am I doing here? They’ve made amazing things. I just went where I was sent.”

And I said, “Yes. But you were the first man on the moon. I think that counts for something.”

And I felt a bit better. Because if Neil Armstrong felt like an imposter, maybe everyone did. Maybe there weren’t any grown-ups, only people who had worked hard and also got lucky and were slightly out of their depth, all of us doing the best job we could, which is all we can really hope for.” Neil Gaiman

Back to School

By Cheryl Oreglia

Do you feel it? That subtle shift in temperature, the slightest re-positioning of the sun, a gust of wind that takes you by surprise, it's as if I'm caught up in the long good-bye to summer, freedom, and the gift of unmitigated time. How do we harvest that which we planted in our time of leisure, what fruits can we gather for the work that is before us, who will accompany me into this seemingly endless stretch of the unknown?

Today, near the end of our welcome back assembly at Notre Dame, we were asked to place our left hand on the shoulder of the person sitting next to us, and our right hand over our heart, as we set before God (life) a prayer for the new semester. I felt this heartfelt connection to everyone in the room as over seven hundred people bowed heads, bound to neighbor, bound by heart, offering up our gratitude and joy for the challenges that lay ahead. It was a powerful reminder we do not enter into this work alone. There are co-workers, staff, and most importantly our students who accompany us on this journey. Each dependent on the other, for not only safe passage from one grade level to the next, but a well defined curriculum that stretches the imagination, encourages critical thinking, and a school-wide dedication to life long learning.

Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to work I go...

I love the first day of school although I usually get a severe case of the butterflies before the first bell. The students are excited, the classes are short, the expectation is simply to establish community. I've learned over the years if you fail at the first day it is almost impossible to get back on track. I think that might be true for many things in life? 

We have an amazing student body at Notre Dame and I've never been anything but enamored with my students (it is my hope they feel the same about me). This year did not disappoint. I floated home, enchanted, charmed, and excited to dive into a curriculum that not only challenges our deeply held beliefs, but asks us to confront controversial issues with compassion, humility, and respect. Our school motto teach them what they need to know for life.

I find the dynamics of a classroom not unlike the dynamics of a home. A place where you can take off your armor when you walk in the door, abide by agreed upon expectations and rules, confront the work that needs to be done together, striving for peaceful resolutions should conflict arise, and injuries call for amends. It can be difficult at times to keep peace in one's own family but removing the emotional reaction to what appears to be disobedience or a derogatory attitude is key to identifying the real issue. It is almost never about the behavior. It usually stems from hunger, exhaustion, anxiety, or fear of rejection, sometimes even the appearance of rejection. 

A deep sense of love and belonging is an irreducible need of all people. We are biologically, cognitively, physically, and spiritually wired to love, to be loved, and to belong. When those needs are not met, we don't function as we were meant to. We break. We fall apart. We numb. We ache. We hurt others. We get sick. Brene Brown

I've learned to expect the unexpected the first week of school. My first block went off without a catch (other than a few technical glitches and mispronounced names) we warmed to each other. By block two I was forced out of my room, moved upstairs (due to a student on crutches who needed a ground floor room), and spent fifteen minutes corralling my confused students, sending others to hastily reassigned rooms. It was a bit of a snafu. But our sense of humor prevailed and we eventually pulled it together. My final block entailed a small group of students with an interest in discernment, pilgrimage, and journey. Martin Luther King, Jr. says the function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically. Intelligence plus character - that is the goal of true education. 

“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company...a church....a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past...we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude...I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it. And so it is with you...we are in charge of our attitudes.” Charles R. Swindoll

After my classes today I picked up my three granddaughters from daycare, their parents had work obligations, and I was available. I liken it to picking the short stick on purpose although managing to get three children (3years and under) from daycare to home is no simple task. The first challenge was opening the stroller which requires not only strength and agility, but an engineering degree, and enormous perseverance. It's a good thing I'm resourceful and when the hidden latch unexpectedly popped open things sort of fell into place. So with a whole new appreciation for previously unknown stroller operating skills I strut across the street to the daycare with a functioning carriage. 

I now realize (lifelong learner) you can leave the triple stroller outside of the facility while you gather the children, bottles, papers, sweaters, art work, and such, but I was blissfully aware of this policy (some people refer to it as ignorance), so I brought said stroller into the unusually small infant exchange area (not unlike picking up clothing at the cleaners) without a clue. I marred every doorway and may have dented the sheet rock in a few places. Try not to judge, it's like an obstacle course in there, wee ones running about, and of course I have the Winnebago of strollers to navigate. I was able to procure all of the grandchildren safely home so that's pretty much a win.

When we enter the house I mistakenly brought our dog Shaggy because he was needy after spending the entire day alone. But he's a dog, not very helpful, and by no fault of his own he sort of knocks the children over with his exuberant greeting. So with three crying children I race to the pantry and pull out the prohibited fish crackers before dinner. As quickly as possible I strap the one year old twins into high chairs, it's so much easier when they are secured, and generously dump fish crackers onto their trays. I hand Audrey a bowl because she is a big girl (three) and as for me I simply eat straight from the box.

As the children are happily munching on prohibited foods I'm able to prepare the fruits, yogurts, and pasta as instructed by Julie. Audrey wants a blended drink? It took about twenty minutes to find all the parts to the blender, cut up the appropriate fruits, not allowing them to touch before blending (which makes them yucky), and managed to create just the right texture. Yeah, I was totally sweating it out. 

In the meantime the twins are starting to fuss so I spring into action and for an entire thirty minutes supply them with an endless array of cut up foods. They are crusted over with unspeakable stickiness by the end of the "meal." I consider carrying both highchairs out back and rinsing them down with the garden hose. I don't think my daughter would approve although I believe I can pull it off as entertainment?

After removing some of the crud I take our little entourage to the back yard where I quickly lose control of the situation. The perfect storm; pool, water, dirt, and dish soap ~ three kids and a dog. At some point the three year old starts losing it, she needs protein, attention, and maybe a little calm. As a grandma you can observe deviant behavior from a distance, it doesn't get to you like it did with my own kids. I can see beyond the expression into the source of the issue. Which is the only way to alleviate her distress as well as my own. With that all said it was not easy reigning her back in, even with professional distractions, and Grammie bribes. By the time Julie walks in the house I'm ready to crawl into the playhouse and curl up in the fetal position. She offered me a glass of wine so I preserved and helped with the baths. 

I guess the very long point I've been trying to make is I'm continually learning because life and the prevailing circumstances keep changing, I'm either compelled to react with empathy and compassion, or ruthless apathy. The goal, my harvest, the fruit of unmitigated time comes in the form of creativity. Creativity expands the mind, stretches it beyond ordinary human comprehension, resulting in a mind capable of transcending, of discerning new and complex situations claims Michael Johnson. We live in an unpredictable world, we need each other, along with creative problem-solving skills, and when strollers are involved perseverance and agility. 

Real education enhances the dignity of a human being and increases his or her self-respect. If only the real sense of education could be realized by each individual and carried forward in every field of human activity, the world will be so much a better place to live in. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam

Meet me in the comments, share a few of your own life lessons, or maybe you have a back to school story worthy of repeating.

I'm Living in the Gap when I'm not writing for Across the Board, drop by anytime.

Nothing is a Horrible Word

By Cheryl Oreglia

When it's time to post a blog sometimes the panic surges up in my esophagus, as if struck by severe indigestion, and I find it hard to breathe. Especially if I am late to the process. Desperately scanning my life for relevant material, knocking back cup after cup of french roast, but when nothing surfaces, I slump against the wall in total resignation.

Nothing is a horrible word. It means of little importance, of no concern, not anything, nil, zero, zilch, nada, zip, diddly-squat, and apparently that's all I have.

In a feeble attempt to avoid the blank page I order a therapeutic candle and vintage mixing bowls from Amazon. The thrill is short lived.

These are my current thoughts, "I want to accost the gardner who has been running the blower since eight this morning, causing the neighbor's dog to bark incessantly, and the whine from the refrigerator is taunting me.

I might need to move to Paris?

With nothing to write I'm sort of forced to scan Facebook, but it's the same three friends, checking into the same three restaurants, eating the same enticing food, which they photograph and post. Now I'm hungry.

I open both sides of the refrigerator and narrow in on a slice of leftover steak. It's dry, someone has taken a bite out of it, and decided to leave it behind? Maybe I'll take a picture and post my pathetic meal on Facebook? Maybe not.

Continuing to veer off course, I send out a few self-serving tweets, watch the hummingbirds fight over the feeder just outside my window, when unexpectedly I become fixated on exfoliation.

Diligently digging through my makeup drawer for said product, I spend ten minutes massaging mud onto my freshly washed face. Glancing in the mirror at the dried brown mask I realize all I'm doing is hiding. Damn. I hate it when reality slaps me in the face.

Rinse. Moisturize. Pluck eyebrows because this seems less painful than plucking words from my brain.

Back to the blank page. Maybe I need is a prompt?

I rifle through recent events as if on the Easter egg hunt, searching for something hidden, relevant, apposite. It's daunting. The empty page stares me down until I run to the kitchen with my mug screaming, "the road to hell is paved with adverbs," a Stephen Kingism.

Sometimes I use starters like, "Today I notice... I'm curious about... I couldn't live without... I wonder about...." The word that keeps popping into my head is NOTHING.

Let's hope the coffee kicks in soon.

I admit during the summer it is especially difficult to write because I'm busy relaxing.

Now some people have interesting lives. I just don't happen to be one of them. But interesting things do happen around me.

When I started blogging I thought it would be effortless. Sit my ass  down in a chair and allow the words to flow through me. Ann Lamott says “All good writers write [terrible first drafts.] This is how they end up with good second drafts and terrific third drafts. . . I know some very great writers, writers you love who write beautifully and have made a great deal of money, and not one of them sits down routinely feeling wildly enthusiastic and confident. Not one of them writes elegant first drafts. All right, one of them does, but we do not like her very much. We do not think that she has a rich inner life or that God likes her or can even stand her. (Although when I mentioned this to my priest friend Tom, he said you can safely assume you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.)”

Maybe I need  a priest?

Or a writing process?

What would a process look like? So glad you asked. Here, I gave it a go. You're welcome.

1. Feed the Blog. I need to get in the habit of jotting down memorable events. Worry less about spelling. Ramble, unload, let it go...this is not the blog, this is food for the blog (shitty first draft). For example, the enormous fires that surrounded us at the lake house last weekend, or the old friend who called me up out of the blue, because she's selling some miraculous anti-aging gel, and wants me to be part of her downline? Than there's my beloved cousin who demanded we clean out the refrigerator because she insisted a colony of botulism had moved in the produce drawer. The common theme seems to be preservation? We'll let those thoughts marinate while I cut up some cucumbers for my eyes.

2. Groom the Blog. I am a quote hoarder. It's true. I obsessively write down quotes, passages, articles, books that inspire. I keep a notebook handy or just record them verbally on my iPhone. This week I came across; "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind." Dr. Seuss. "Where’s your will to be weird?" Jim Morrison. "The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire," Ferdinand Foch. A Writer's Guide to Harnessing the Creative Power of Resistance by Deb Norton, "Don't look where you don't want to go." It's odd how I come across just what I need, just when I need it? Spooky... 

3. Weed the Blog. Spy on your thoughts suggests Deb Norton. Good writing is about telling the truth. Start with that shitty first draft, then weed, weed, weed until the truth is able to grow. “If something inside of you is real, we will probably find it interesting, and it will probably be universal. So you must risk placing real emotion at the center of your work. Write straight into the emotional center of things. Write toward vulnerability. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it. If you’re a writer you have a moral obligation to do this. And it is a revolutionary act—truth is always subversive,” Anne Lamott. As if a child investigating a June bug, be fearless, notice everything, abandon yourself to the delight. 

4. Liberate the Blog. I'm not talking about the feminist movement, or burning your bra, this is about getting the words down and letting them go. “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won’t have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren’t even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they’re doing it.” Anne Lamott. I have this running inner dialogue which tries to derail me, I realize this comes from a place of fear, I attempt to mollify her with kindness, or caffeine, and then unfollow her as if an annoying Facebook troll.

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.” Enid Bagnold

What does your writing process involve? Where do you find inspiration? How do you generate material? I'd be ever so grateful if you shared a few thoughts in the comments.

Full story at Living in the Gap, drop by anytime, I crave good company.