Category: harmony

Hot Tea and Buttered Bread.

A Lesson in Appreciation.

As I stepped onto my terrace and looked across the meadow this morning, a small breeze brought a reminder that was a chill in the air, and 74 degrees Fahrenheit is a chill when the daytime air temperatures have been in the upper 90s!  Last night, a bit of a cold front passed through, along with a heavy thunderstorm, as it sometimes does here.  Now, this morning, I inhaled the fresh air and watched as the rising sun brought the dew on the grass to sparkle and glisten.  The colors of the new sunrise shifted from a pink-apricot sky and settled into a mundane blue grey.  The clouds were just as grey, too.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it rains again later this day.  In the distance, a flock of birds chirped away.  A fresh new day is upon us!

Here we are, mid-summer.  The days are warm, the thunderstorms are strong, and every day is fresh with new life.  I took note that the trees are fully leafed out and green in their full summer regalia.  Even the fields are inviting.  I went back inside just as the breeze kicked up again.

Oh!  There it is!  The timer just went off on the stove.  You see, the bread I’m baking this morning is done.  It’s a pan de mie with oats.  It is a French sandwich bread with a tender crumb and baked in a Pullman load pan.  It’s among the best breads I bake.

It’s now time to bring out the butter and a hot cup of Earl Grey breakfast tea to get my day started!

What is familiar in my world is comfort, just as the changing seasons, jazz, and a slice of hot buttered bread and hot tea are.

 

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Threads of Defiance.

A Lesson in Obedience and Conformity.

I lived in a homeowner’s association where wet towels drying on the balcony railings became the norm early on.  It was one hot summer afternoon, as I returned from work, I looked up at my building after parking my car in the lot.  There, colorful and flapping, were Ambrose and Un’iqué’s wet towels.  They clung to the eighth-floor balcony railings, the corners flipping up delicately in the breeze.  Although the colorful terry cloth towels looked pretty on an otherwise mundane beige balcony, the rules of the homeowners’ association forbade anything hanging on those railings.

But Ambrose and Un’iqué did it anyway.  Every Monday, which was wash day, their wet towels would hang until dry.  In the heat of the summer, every time the couple headed to the neighborhood pool, you could bet their beach towels would be draped across the railings after they returned to their apartment.  Over time, the towels became more than an act of defiance; they transformed into a symbol of quiet rebellion.  Neighbors began to notice Ambrose and Un’iqué’s colorful display as a sort of unspoken statement: life, with all its messiness and imperfections, could not be entirely controlled by rules and regulations.  They did it their way.

Of course, it was against the rules, by-laws, and such, but in the interest of so-called community harmony, the board of directors looked away.  It wouldn’t be nice to point out infractions, they’d say.  In reality, they broke rules, too, and it wouldn’t be right for a director on the board to be sent a friendly violation letter.

No matter that, the buildings started to look like New York City’s nineteenth century tenements.  Remember, it wasn’t all about not offending the offenders.

Soon, the monotony of the beige façades was punctuated by a patchwork of drying laundry.  Mrs. Delgado on the third floor hung out her hand-sewn quilts.  The Nguyen family draped their vibrant picnic blankets next to their toddler’s onesies.  Even creaky old Mr. Carmichael, once the staunchest enforcer of the by-laws, let his Hawaiian shirts flutter in the wind on hangers.  No one cared anymore.

The board of directors convened an emergency meeting to address what they called “The Towel Crisis.”  Yet, each time they discussed enforcement, someone brought up the sense of community the colorful fabrics had inspired.  The formerly frosty interactions between neighbors thawed, and people began smiling at each other as they passed through the hallways.

Ambrose and Un’iqué, seeing their small act ripple outward, became minor legends in the community.  And while the buildings may have resembled New York City’s old tenements, there was warmth and vibrancy to them that was cultivated that not even the strictest homeowner’s association rules could suppress.

The heck with rules!

 

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Smoke, Scrape, Yell, Repeat.

A Lesson Neighbor Consideration.

After writing “The Sheriff of Decibels,” regarding the whole “your TV is too loud” saga with Mr. Wigg, the neighbor who might have been hearing phantom sounds, I thought I had earned a brief intermission in the neighborhood drama, but then it reminded me of one of the downstairs neighbors I had once, and those thoughts led to me think of a whole different angle.  Life in a condominium is basically a rotating cast of social challenges, and the next act began downstairs.

I lived in a condominium where one of my downstairs neighbors used her balcony like it was her personal broadcasting studio.  Whenever she had company, the visitors were always on the sidewalk below.  Their conversations rose straight up.  I didn’t even have to try to overhear; the dialogue arrived fully formed, projected upward with the confidence of someone who believed the entire building was her audience.  If she ever decided to start a podcast, she wouldn’t need equipment.  She already had the lungs for it.

Another neighbor was forever loud on her cell phone.  One afternoon, I heard her give out her bank account number, a passcode, and the balance.  Wow.

Then there’s the patio furniture.  There is a neighbor who, every time she shifts a chair on her balcony, it sounds like she’s dragging a cast-iron park bench across a stone floor.  I’ve heard less noise from actual construction sites.

There was the cigarette smoke from a cheap brand yet another neighbor probably bought by the truckload.  It drifted upward in slow, dramatic spirals, and somehow it slipped into my condo like it had a key.  One moment I’m enjoying fresh air; the next, my living room and kitchen smelled like a casino buffet circa 1960.  It wasn’t ideal, but I learned to adapt since the odor didn’t last more than a half hour or so.

But here’s the important part: I didn’t complain.  Not ever.  Not a text, not a note, not even a pointed throat-clear over the balcony railing.  Why?  Because this was life in a building full of people.  They talked loudly.  They scraped furniture.  They smoked.  They lived.  And unless someone was hosting a demolition derby in their living room, I tolerated the occasional disturbances.

Besides, after the Sheriff of Decibels dealings, I’ve developed a new appreciation for not becoming That Neighbor.  If I ever feel tempted to pick up the phone and lodge a complaint, I remember how it feels to be scolded for noises that may or may not exist.  It’s an excellent deterrent.

So, I let the balcony monologues rise, let the furniture screech across the concrete, let the cigarette smoke drift out and upward like a weather pattern.  I breathed, I adjusted, I moved on.  Because in the grand, chaotic symphony of condo living, sometimes the most intelligent thing you can do is simply not add your own instrument to the noise.

I just laughed it all off.

 

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The Sheriff of Decibels, Mr. Wigg.

A Lesson in Neighbor Consideration.

I once lived in a high-rise condominium where everyone kept to himself, and all was peachy with the world.  But there was one night when I received a phone call from a neighbor, a Mr. Wigg, informing me once again that my television was on “too loud” and he can’t sleep.  I was watching an old movie, as I usually did in the early evenings if I stayed home.  This was a recurring performance on his part, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self-appointed Sheriff of Decibels.  At that point, I was starting to wonder whether the sound was actually carrying or whether my neighbor simply enjoyed the thrill of a good complaint because the room where my television is did not butt up against his bedroom, but against his butler’s pantry.

Here’s the twist: I could hear his television, too.  Talk shows, game shows, dramatic monologues, the whole cinematic buffet.  And yet I’ve never felt compelled to call him and deliver a noise citation.  I’d assume Mr. Wigg was just… living.  Watching things.  Being a person in a building full of other people doing what people do to live.  It’s part of the deal when you choose communal living over a cabin in the woods on ten acres.

Still, every time my phone lit up with his name on the screen, I rolled my eyes.  At that time of evening, it could not be a friendly hello.  It’s always a report, as if he was monitoring my condo with a sound meter and a clipboard.

I played with the idea that conducting an experiment or two.  I thought of turning down the volume to a whisper—barely audible even to me—and wait.  Would my phone ring?  I don’t know, but I was willing to bet a dime to a donut that he was hearing phantom noises, or he had superhuman hearing, or perhaps the echoes of his own television bounced around his condo like a boomerang.

There’s a special kind of fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being scolded by someone about your manners when they are chewing food and smacking loudly with their mouth open.  You want to point it out, but you know it won’t land.

So, I’ve reached a conclusion: either my television had mystical projection abilities, or my neighbor developed a hobby of policing imaginary disturbances.  I continued living my life at a reasonable volume.

And honestly, at that point, the only thing louder than my television was that special kind of comedy.  Personally, I think he had his wig on too tight.

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The Quiet Freedom of Downsizing.

To live in the world does not mean to be of the world.

Decluttering for my downsize from a large and charming house into a small and pretty condominium has been very freeing— not in a dramatic or sentimental way, but in the simple, practical sense of watching my home become cozier, easier to live in, simpler, and practical.

Before the move, as I sorted through closets, desk drawers, and the pantry, I realized how much space was quietly being taken up by things I no longer use, need, or even notice.  Letting them go has lifted a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying.  The donations to a local thrift store and selling some of the unnecessaries on eBay were enormous: bed, dressers, couches, wing-back chairs, kitchen items, extra knitting needles and crochet hooks, and clothes.  Each shelf cleared, each drawer emptied, every excess piece of furniture donated, each bag of unwanted clothes brought a small but actual sense of relief.  I felt lighter, and the burden is gone!

Another part of downsizing was unsubscribing to businesses I no longer have a need.  It reduced my e-mails, and it also inspired me to get a new password book and reorganize my passwords and account numbers to necessary sources.

Downsizing has also made daily life more manageable.  With fewer belongings, there’s less to clean, less to organize, less to keep track of, less to clutter shelves, closets and cabinets.  Surfaces stay clear longer.  Rooms breathe.  I can find what I need without becoming disgusted at the overflow.  Even the atmosphere feels different— calmer, less crowded, minimal, attractive.  It’s amazing how much peace comes from simply having less.  The home begins to work with you instead of against you.

One of the other positives, too, was that the moving truck wasn’t stuffed with “things.”  Everything that was loaded up was exactly what was needed in the new place.  No “maybes,” no “I’ll think about it later.”

Now, after settling in the new place, I decide that when any piece of clothing becomes too worn out to wear, it gets thrown out and its replacement is questionable.  I don’t need seven pairs of shoes or a dozen dresses.  All that cheesy costume jewelry?  Gone.  Purses?  Three are enough.  A plastic serving spoon breaks, and I don’t replace it since I have wooden ones to use.  Now all of the replacements are up for discussion, and rightly so.

This process has reminded me that a peaceful home isn’t created all at once; it’s built through small, steady decisions.  Choosing what truly serves your life today.  Releasing what belongs to the past.  Making room for order, beauty, and ease.  Downsizing has become a way of shaping my home into a place that supports the life I’m living now— not the lavish life I lived years ago, and not the life I imagined I might need to prepare for someday.

If anything, this move has taught me that simplicity is practical.  It’s not about perfection or minimalism for its own sake.  It’s about creating a home that feels manageable, welcoming, and aligned right.  And in that sense, the freedom I’ve found is not abstract at all— it’s woven into the daily rhythm of living in a space that finally feels like it fits right.

As I continue to live in the world without being of the world, I find myself being better-off and having more time to pray and read good, clean, and educational material.

You would be surprised at how little a person really needs to function in this life.

Peace,

Susan Marie Molloy

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Unexpected Kindness (1).

Not long ago, we stopped at our favorite little diner for a simple breakfast.  The place was alive with the familiar bustle of morning— clattering dishes, the soft murmur of conversations, waitresses moving briskly from table to table with warmth and admirable organization.  Even in the busyness, there was a sense of comfort, the kind that comes from being in a place where people know how to take care of one another in small, steady, and professional ways.

When we finished eating, we waited for our bill, chatting and enjoying the last sips of coffee.  After a few minutes, we flagged down our waitress.  She hurried over with an apologetic smile, but instead of handing us the check, she delivered a surprise: another patron — already gone by then — had paid our bill in full.

For a moment, we were silent— stunned, in fact.  Then we laughed, not out of amusement but out of the sheer delight that comes when kindness breaks into an ordinary morning.  There was no explanation, no name, no chance to say thank you.  Just a quiet act of generosity left behind like a blessing.

Without hesitation, we asked our waitress for another table’s bill, and we silently paid it.  It felt like the natural response, almost as if the kindness had momentum of its own.  I like to imagine that it continued moving through the diner that day — one table of patrons blessing another, and another, until the whole place was strewn with grace.

Experiences like this renew my faith in people.  They remind me that kindness is not extinct, though it might be rare these days – it just isn’t always readily visible.  It simply tends to work quietly, without fanfare, often unnoticed unless you happen to be the one receiving it.  And yet, these small acts have a way of softening the heart.  Moments like this remind me that God does work through the hands of strangers.  It reminds me that there are good people out in the world, especially on the days when discouragement creeps in.

There have been times when I’ve given gifts or extended gestures only to receive silence in return.  I admit, there are times when I grow discouraged.  I’ve given gifts that were never acknowledged, and extended gestures that were met with silence.  No acknowledgment, no thank you.  It’s easy to conclude that some people were never taught gratitude or the joy of giving in those situations.  It can feel disheartening to offer something freely and receive nothing in return — not even a basic nod of recognition.

But then something like the breakfast that morning happens, and my perspective shifts.  I remember that for every person who forgets to express appreciation, there is someone else who goes out of their way to brighten a someone’s morning and day.  For every moment of grave disappointment, there is a moment of kindness and decency waiting quietly around the corner.

Kindness doesn’t need applause.  It doesn’t require a spotlight or a stage.  It thrives in the unnoticed spaces of everyday life — in a paid bill, a held door, a handwritten letter, a phone call, a warm smile, a greeting card, a small sacrifice made without expectation.  These gestures may seem insignificant, but they carry a peaceful power. They remind us that we belong to one another, that goodness is still possible, and that the world is held together not by grand gestures but by countless small ones.

And perhaps that is the most hopeful truth of all: kindness usually is contagious.  One generous act inspires another, and another, until a single moment of goodness becomes a chain of kindliness stretching farther than we will ever see.

We left the diner that morning with more than our breakfast paid by someone else and us paying for someone else’s.  I left with renewed belief in hope.  For every moment of ingratitude I’ve encountered, there are countless unseen acts of goodness happening all around us.  God is still at work in the world, often through the simplest gestures.

And perhaps that is the heart of it: kindness is a small echo of Divine Love.  When we give it freely, we become instruments of grace.  When we receive it humbly, we are reminded that kindness often arrives in unexpected ways— sometimes in the form of a stranger who quietly pays your bill and slips out the door before you even know his name.

 

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A Quiet, Reflective Corner.

Welcome to my website and thank you for stopping by.  This spot is a refuge from an often overwhelming and vastly chaotic world, and I’m grateful to share the pacific serenity that exists with you.  My blog opens a window into my personal life, where every topic — whether lighthearted or deeply reflective — is written with honesty and positive intention.

Think of this as a peaceful corner filled with stories, gentle opinions, encouragement, inspiration, emotions, and humor.  I’ll explore the beauty of living simply, cultivating calm within our homes, and clearing away the toxic clutter — both physical and emotional — that weighs us all down at one point or another.

I invite you to join me as I write, reflect, and share pieces of my life.  My aspiration is to post a couple of times each week, offering moments of my life, the stillness of peace, my observations, and the connection we need – plus some humor, too!

Peace on Earth,

Susan Marie Molloy

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