Tag: everyday life

The Poverty of Perpetual Anger.

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.

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Squirrely Pearl.

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.

 

 

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When the Day Grows Weightless.

Evening had only just begun to gather when we stepped out of the house, leaving behind the familiar busyness of the day.  The sky was already settling into that muted greyish‑blue that feels less like a color and more like a threshold of an in‑between hour when the world loosens its grip and invites you to breathe unworriedly.

We drove to the historic part of town, where old brick and weathered wood seem to remember more than they reveal, and where the streets narrow as if encouraging you to slow down.

We parked near the waterfront at Twilight Bay.  I gathered my sweater around me and took a deep breath; the salty air and the freshness of the evening made me forget the world.  We wandered toward a small bench built for two, its placement so perfect it felt almost intentional, as though someone long ago had known that people would come here seeking a moment of quiet.  The lazy breezes carried a crisp coolness, brushing away the last warmth of the day.  As we settled into the bench, the sun began its slow, deliberate descent; that an unhurried surrender that painted the bay in streaks of rose, amber, and fading gold.

Above us, pelicans glided in near‑silence, their wings steady and sure.  They usually lingered on the lawns or sidewalks nearby, waiting for a passerby to drop a morsel, but tonight they moved with a different kind of intention.  Their silhouettes drifted toward the boats anchored in the harbor, as though they sensed a more certain feast waiting among the sailors.  Watching them, it was hard not to feel that even the birds understood something about seeking what truly nourishes rather than what merely distracts.

A stout gull perched on the railing before us, facing the sunset with a composure that felt almost ceremonial.  Its white feathers caught the last light, turning the bird into a soft, luminous creature.  We admired its quiet splendor as I took out my camera.  And wouldn’t you know it?  Just as I lifted the camera and clicked the shutter, the sea gull opened its wings in a single, fluid motion and rose into the air.  The moment felt like a small benediction; unplanned, unearned, yet somehow perfectly timed.

Far out in the bay, a solitary sailboat rocked gently, its silhouette dark against the shimmering water.  It drifted without urgency, as though content simply to exist in the cradle of the evening.  There was something instructive in its stillness: a reminder that not every movement must be purposeful, not every moment must be filled willy-nilly.

Sitting there, it became clear that serenity is not something we manufacture; it is something we allow.  The bay freely offered its calmness, asking only that we pause long enough to receive and embrace it.  In a world that often demands speed, noise, and constant reaction, this quiet corner felt like a small act of resistance, a place where the soul could unclench, relax, and accept a bit of freedom.

The twilight deepened, and with it came a sense of interior spaciousness, the kind that arrives only when the world grows quiet enough for the heart to hear itself again.  A quiet truth settled over us, reminding us that stillness is its own kind of blessing.

 

 

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Unexpected Kindness (2).

About four years ago, we headed out for an early lunch before we ran our errands.  We ended up at a little grille tucked between a seedy-looking thrift store and a storefront mission, an unassuming spot that somehow serves some of the best home‑cooked meals in town.  We’ve never had a bad meal there.

The lunch crowd was thinning, and we slipped into a corner booth.  My spouse ordered steak and eggs; I chose a half tuna sandwich with cream of broccoli soup.  We talked about this and that, the kind of easy conversation that comes from years of companionship, and before long our plates were empty and we were ready to settle the bill.

At the counter, I noticed a woman—late forties, maybe early fifties—finishing her payment.  By the time we reached the register, she had already disappeared out the door.

Best Friend pulled out his debit card.

“It’s paid for,” the cashier said with a smile.

He blinked. “I’m sorry—what was that?”

“Your bill is paid for,” she repeated.  “The lady who was just here took care of it.  You owe nothing.”

We stood there, bemused into silence.  It’s one thing to read about this sort of thing in the newspaper; it’s another to find yourself on the receiving end of it.  All we could manage was a breathless, “Wow.  That was nice!”

The cashier smiled, and we left her a large tip—she had been our waitress, too, after all—before heading out into the afternoon.

Kindness like that stay with you.  They interrupt the ordinary rhythm of a day and remind you that goodness still moves quietly through the world.  You don’t always see it, and you can’t predict it, but every now and then it steps forward, taps you on the shoulder, and says, I’m still here.

 

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The Gentle Art of Wholesome Reading.

There is a particular enjoyment in reading good, wholesome books— a joy that feels almost old‑fashioned in the best possible way.  These are the books that don’t shout for our attention or compete with the noise of the world because they simply open a door and invite us into a place where I can breathe.

Wholesome books remind us that goodness is not naïve, that beauty is not fragile, good language is a delight, and that truth can be spoken without cynicism.  They offer characters who struggle honestly, worlds that lift rather than darken, and stories that leave us a little more human than they found us.  In a culture that often rewards vulgarity, shock, and spectacle, these books feel like a quiet rebellion.

There is also a deep restfulness in them. When we read something good and clean and true, our minds unclench.  We remember that gentleness is not weakness and that hope is not foolish.  Even a simple story told with sincerity can become a small refuge.

And perhaps that is the greatest joy of wholesome reading: it forms us.  It shapes our imagination toward the good.  It teaches us to look for light, even in ordinary places.  It reminds us that the world is still full of things worth loving.

A good book doesn’t just entertain; it nourishes us, and in a time when so much reading leaves us scattered or weary, finding a book that restores us is its own quiet ways.

So far this year, I have read the following good books.  They are in the order of publication year.

Seeking the Heart of Christ by Saint Claude La Colombière (1680)

Ole Mammy’s Torment by Anne Fellows Johnston (1897)

Light and Peace: Instructions for Devout Souls to Dispel Their Doubts and Allay Their Fears by Carlo Guiseppi Quadrupani (1980)

The Wisdom of Fulton Sheen: 365 Days of Inspiration (2020)

 

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Are Our Lives Truly Well-Lived?

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

 

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