appearances – Susan Marie Molloy

There is a particular sadness in watching people who live in a constant state of anger, and I see this quite a lot in my neighborhood, and especially since 2020. Their anger is not the righteous anger that rises to defend the vulnerable, but the chronic, simmering kind; the kind that becomes a personality, a worldview, a permanent narrowing of the soul. Some of these people turn ugly and violent when they are cordially greeted by neighbors. These are people who treat every encounter as a contest, every disagreement as a threat, every difference as a personal insult. Perhaps they believe they are defending themselves, but in truth they are defending the walls that imprison them.

Anger becomes their only vocabulary. They speak it fluently, instinctively, even proudly, and peppered heavily with vulgar and filthy words. But beneath that lies a deep poverty of spirit. A person who must always be angry and offensive is a person who has forgotten how to be free and kind.

The tragedy is not merely that they harm others—though they do. The deeper tragedy is what they lose within themselves without realizing it.

They lose the ability to be surprised by goodness.
They lose the capacity for joy that comes from generosity.
They lose the peace that only humility can give.
They lose the richness of a larger world than their own reflection.

They trade all of this for the brittle satisfaction of being “right” and boorish, even when that “rightness” isolates them. They probably do not realize that the fortress they build to keep others out is the same fortress that keeps them in.

My sadness for them is not schmaltzy. It is not the soft sadness of pity. It is the sharper sadness that comes from recognizing wasted possibility. These are people who could be expansive, curious, generous, a positive addition to the neighborhood, but instead they choose the cramped rooms of anger and rejection. They choose to live in a world too small for any soul. It is as though they are possessed by demons.

A life fueled by anger cannot lead to peace. A heart closed to others cannot experience love. A mind that rejects difference cannot grow. They may cling to their fury and their narrowness as if these things protect them, but in the end, they protect nothing. They only ensure that the person holding them remains untouched by the very things that make life worth living.

I made my way to the deli counter at my friendly neighborhood grocery store, ready to place my order, when a five‑foot‑nothing woman glided under my elbow with the confidence of someone who has never waited her turn in her entire life. Before I could blink, she was already whisper‑dictating her order to the clerk.

“Four slices of Havarti cheese,” she breathed, in a tone so soft it sounded like she was sharing state secrets.

When that order was handed over, she continued.

“Six slices of Buffalo‑style chicken breast,” she whispered again, as if the poultry might overhear and object.

This pattern repeated itself — item, whisper, handoff — like a tiny, highly specialized espionage operation. Then came the tasting sample. The clerk offered her a slice of Gruyere, and that’s when her true form emerged.

She took a tiny, tiny bite. It was a bite so miniscule it would have required laboratory equipment to detect. And she chewed it with her front teeth, slowly, methodically, exactly like a squirrel working through a hazelnut. Then another tiny bite. More squirrel chewing. I half expected her to scamper up the deli case and store the rest in her cheeks for winter.

The whole performance was incredible: she whisper‑talked like Jackie Kennedy and nibbled like Rocket J. Squirrel. I never did get my order in (I eventually grabbed some pre-cut cheese in the refrigerated case), but honestly, I left feeling like I’d witnessed a rare and delicate species in its natural habitat.

A lifetime spent chasing approval, possessions, and the noise of the world gradually drifts away from its own center. From an early age, we learn to shape ourselves around external expectations, as if our worth could be measured by admiration, status, awards, or the objects we manage to collect, and the amount of money we amass. Yet these pursuits, however dazzling in the moment, dissolve quickly. What remains is the quiet sense that we have been living outward rather than inward – living as part of the world, rather than in it.

Philosophers across centuries have warned of this drift. They remind us that the self becomes fragmented when it is scattered among too many desires, especially those desires that are not truly our own and those that make us look “better” to our family and friends. Simplicity, then, is not merely a lifestyle but a discipline. It is the art of refusing to be ruled by the shifting opinions of others or by the endless accumulation of things that promise satisfaction but deliver only distraction.

To live a life well done is not one that has a swanky mansion, a jet set lifestyle, and a fat bank account. It is, rather, one that turns toward what endures: clarity of mind, steadiness of good character, faith, humbleness, and the courage to act from one’s deepest convictions. Approval fades, possessions decay, and the world’s applause is notoriously fickle and false. But integrity and true faith — quiet, unadorned, and often unnoticed — has a way of anchoring the soul. It allows us to move through life with a sense of coherence rather than fragmentation.

When we stop performing for the world and begin listening to our inner voice that asks for honesty, restraint, and purpose, something positively shifts. The anxieties that once governed our choices loosen their grip. We begin to see that the real measure of a life is not what we accumulate but what we cultivate: meekness, compassion, wisdom, and a mind unburdened by the distractions of excess.

This is the freedom available to anyone willing to step away from the noise and chaos. It is the freedom to walk lightly, to choose meaning over clutter, and to rest in the quiet assurance that a life of depth will always outshine a life of accumulation.

Peace,

Susan Marie Molloy

Category: appearances

Are Our Lives Truly Well-Lived?

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