Tag: thoughts

Losing It with Quiet Discipline.

I have long known that the most reliable way to lose weight is also the least glamorous: change the way I eat, and do it without powders, liquids, pills, or any of the other gimmicks that promise transformation without effort.  They don’t work.  Real change comes from willpower, ordinary food, and an honest attitude.  These matter more than any trend.

This year, my efforts began even before Lent arrived.  A goal of losing eight pounds is losing eight pounds for more energy and just feeling better overall.  As January unfolded, I found myself preparing not only my interior life but also my habits.  I started cutting down on unnecessary snacking that crept in after supper.  Sure, I still indulged in a snack here and there, but it wasn’t gorging myself.  I continued my quiet campaign against corn syrup and the sugary additives that hide in so many foods.  And I returned to simpler cooking—meals that didn’t need to resemble anything from a fancy restaurant menu.  I proved to myself that I can cook anything well, so why do it every day?  That should be saved for special occasions.  Then I returned to meals that I grew up on that nourished rather than entertained.  There was a certain relief in that simplicity.

By the time Ash Wednesday arrived in mid‑February, I wasn’t scrambling to begin anything new.  I was simply continuing what had already taken root and ramping it up a bit.  The weight began to come off, slowly and steadily, and it still does.  But more importantly, the discipline of eating differently began to shape the discipline of living differently.

Attitude is half the work.  I stopped letting the noise of the secular world dictate my mood or my focus.  I ignored the foolishness that swirl around in headlines and conversations.  Instead, I turned my attention toward things that actually strengthen the soul: spiritual reading that lifts and edifies the mind and praying the Rosary with attentive meditation rather than mindless haste.  These practices didn’t just support my physical goals—they steadied my interior life.

There is a quiet joy in sacrifice when it is chosen freely and offered with purpose.  Lent simply gave me the structure to continue what had already begun: a return to simplicity, a clearer mind, and a heart more anchored in God than in the world’s distractions.

In the end, this has reminded me that caring for the body and caring for the soul are not competing tasks but parallel ones.  The more I simplified my meals, the more I found myself craving a simpler interior life as well — one less cluttered by noise, distraction, and the endless commentary of the world.  Lent simply gave shape to what I already sensed: that discipline is not a burden but a quiet form of freedom, and that small, steady acts of intention at the table and in prayer can reshape a life from the inside out.

 

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Fusty Skunk, Rotting Fish.

When I lived at the Sage Pointe Condominiums, I never knew which putrid odor would ambush my unsuspecting nose when I opened my door to the hallway or when I stepped on or off the elevator.

The hallway had its own olfactory roulette wheel.  Some days the marijuana smelled like musky, gassy skunk.  Other days it hit like rotting fish drenched in pungent patchouli.  Sometimes it was a perfect blend of old, fusty socks and rank elephant.  Sometimes it smelled of eucalyptus.  Add to that the lingering smell of cheap cologne and cigarettes, greasy sausage, and those scents stayed for hours, only to fade and make room for the next dreadful strain of stench.

One of the building’s finest “amenities” was the elevator, which faithfully preserved the perfume of whoever rode it last.  I have taken rides perfumed by Grandma Weede’s lingering skunky marijuana haze from an hour earlier.  On other days, the odor du jour was a baffling mix of candy‑sweet pre‑teen bath and body sprays and lotions from the Stankle girls.  It was a combination that somehow managed to get stronger the farther down you travelled on the elevator car.

Mrs. Stankle, on her own, specialized in mysterious stenches that defied classification.  Some days it was sugary carrots, and other days it was akin to coconut-musk that went terribly wrong.  And sometimes it was something so indescribable that the only reasonable response was to pray for deliverance.

Adonis was no different.  If he didn’t just return from the gym dripping with smelly sweat, he reeked of a potent blend of sweat and Drakkar Noir, a combination that could have knocked a grown adult back a full step or two.  His life is lived in bold, glossy strokes of sweat, swagger, and spectacle.

Then there’s the Weede Family, whose contributions varied by the hour.  Their hallway offerings ranged from “forest‑floor funk” to “burnt tire with herbal aspirations.”  Or they left the elevator lingering with the aroma of greasy chicken or the tang of old tacos.  Their door was like a portal to a different dimension, one where ventilation systems and their filters went to die.

One entire floor in one of the complex’s buildings reeked of cheap cigarette tobacco that emanated from just one condo unit.

Then there was the smell of wet dog, musty dog, stale dog.  It emerged unpredictably, but usually in the late afternoons, and clung to the elevator walls until it was finally overpowered by some other mysterious stench.

The elevator contributed its own disturbing whiffs of diesel fuel, and that’s a story for another day.

Rarely did the hallways offer the uplifting aromas of barbecue or simmering spaghetti sauce.  When I brought my dog home from his Spa Day appointment, he became a walking air freshener— sort of a jasmine-lavender-powdery scent that lasts until his next appointment.  Since my condo retains this scent, I imagine he also left his trail through the hallways and elevator, just like everyone else, so maybe it was disturbing to others.

At Sage Pointe, the smells changed by the hour because there was always someone contributing to the fragrant or stinky bouquet.  Rarely—oh so rarely—did the hallways offer the comforting aromas of barbecue or sweet baked cakes.  Those scents were the rarities of Sage Pointe: imagined, longed for, and almost certainly elusive.

 

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The Profit That Destroys.

The question, “For what shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and suffer the loss of his soul?” cuts to the heart of a tension that every era rediscovers: the difference between a life that looks impressive and a life that is actually worth living.  We are surrounded by metrics — influence, fame, money, reputation, achievement, status — that promise satisfaction but often deliver only more insatiable hunger.  The question forces us to confront a truth we instinctively know: a person can win by every external measure and still feel hollow inside, a dried-up husk of a person.

Modern culture is skilled at rewarding the wrong things.  It celebrates accumulation, visibility, and speed.  It teaches us to optimize our schedules, polish our image, and chase the next milestone.  None of these pursuits are inherently harmful, but they become dangerous when they eclipse the quieter, more essential work of becoming a whole human being.  A person can spend decades climbing a ladder only to discover it was leaning against the wrong wall.

Losing oneself rarely happens in a dramatic collapse. More often, it happens gradually, when convenience replaces integrity, when ambition overrides relationships, when the greedy pursuit of More! More! More! crowds out the pursuit of meaning.  The world applauds these compromises; our inner life does not.  The cost is subtle but real: a thinning of character, a shrinking of joy, a sense that life is happening faster than we can live it.

To gain the world is easy.  It requires only that we follow the current cultural expectation.  To keep oneself intact is harder.  It demands reflection, boundaries, and the courage to choose depth over display, but only one of these paths leads to a life that feels like one’s own.

In the end, the question remains a challenge to every generation: what good is success if it costs you the very person you were meant to become?  The world offers many rewards, but none of them are worth the loss of yourself and your eternal spirit.

 

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The Noise We Mistake for Knowledge.

 

We live in an age where information is abundant, but much of what passes for “news” today is not news at all.  It’s noise, and you know that.  It’s carefully packaged, endlessly repeated, and designed to keep us stupidly watching rather than sensibly thinking.  The problem is not merely the volume of what we consume, but the nature of it because much of what presents itself as “news” is, in truth, non‑news — content engineered to provoke reaction and emotion rather than understanding.  Discernment, then, becomes not a luxury but a moral necessity.  Headlines flash, opinions multiply, and yet very little of it has any bearing on our actual lives.  The result is a subtle erosion of time, attention, our brain cells, and inner peace, and if we bow down to the mindless blather, we allow others to steal our time.  Yes—steal our time and ultimately shapes our habits.

Non‑news thrives on immediacy.  It demands attention without earning it.  It offers the illusion of being informed while quietly draining the very faculties that make genuine understanding possible.  The result is a culture that is constantly stimulated yet rarely enlightened.  We scroll, we skim, we react, and at the end of it, we are no closer to truth.  The deeper danger of non‑news is not that it wastes minutes but that it shapes habits.  It trains us to expect superficiality, to prefer outrage over reflection, to treat every passing headline as a crisis.  A society that cannot tell the difference between the essential and the irrelevant becomes easy to manipulate and difficult to awaken.

True news informs and clarifies, and it should edify us.  It should help a person understand the world.  But this blather does the opposite: it distracts, inflames, and consumes hours that could have been spent on something productive.  It is astonishing how quickly a day can disappear into commentary, speculation, and manufactured outrage that leaves us no knowledgeable than before.

The danger is not merely wasted time; it’s also wasted focus and a counterfeit form of engagement.  When we allow trivial stories to occupy our minds, we lose the capacity to notice what genuinely matters: the people around us, the responsibilities entrusted to us, the quiet work that builds a meaningful life.  Non‑news thrives on urgency, but it produces nothing lasting.

Discernment asks a different question: Is this worthy of my time, my mind, my peace?  It is a refusal to let trivialities masquerade as significance.  It is the discipline of distinguishing between what is merely loud and what is actually important.  In a culture that profits from distraction, such clarity is countercultural.  Choosing to step away from it is not ignorance; it is discernment.  It is the decision to guard one’s attention as a precious resource rather than surrender it to whatever happens to be fashionably trending.  A person who refuses to be pulled into the churn of non‑news gains something rare in our age: clarity of mind and control of oneself.

When we decline to participate in the churn of non‑news, we reclaim our attention for what is real: the responsibilities before us, the people entrusted to us, the truths that do not change with the news cycle.  We become less reactive and more rooted.  Sure, the world will always offer distractions, but we are not obligated to accept them.  Our time is finite, and our attention is inviolable.  Spending it wisely is an act of both strength and sanity.

 

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Erosion of Thought and Thinking.

This past weekend came and went in a blur—swift, full, and satisfyingly productive.  I don’t think I had ten consecutive minutes of idleness, except during sleep, and truthfully, I relish weekends like that.  There is a certain peace that comes from purposeful accomplishments.

In one of my conversations over those busy days, a curious topic surfaced: the increasing need to remind people—again and again—about the simplest responsibilities.  A bill due.  An appointment scheduled, a task promised, or a basic, everyday obligation.  I remarked that in these present times, many people seem capable of focusing on only one thing, whether it be children, grandchildren, entertainment, work, or some other singular preoccupation.  Everything else, such as duties, commitments, even common courtesy, all fall by the wayside.

It has become difficult to hold a meaningful conversation with someone whose world has narrowed to a single point.  The most engaging and educated people, in my experience, are those who can move gracefully across topics, who can offer insight, curiosity, and a well-formed exchange of ideas.  But to enter into conversation only to discover that the other person can speak of nothing beyond their kids or chasing the almighty dollar, a meaningless sports statistic, or their favorite sports team quickly becomes futile.  Unfortunately, the dialogue collapses before it begins.

Alongside this narrowing of attention, there is also a rising tide of blatant selfishness, that inward curl of the human heart that makes genuine engagement even more difficult.  Many people have become so absorbed in their own preferences, comforts, and routines that they no longer consider how their choices affect others.  Commitments are treated casually, responsibilities are postponed indefinitely, and the smallest inconvenience is met with irritation rather than maturity.  It is as though people have allowed themselves to be trained to prioritize their own ease above all else.  This self‑preoccupation doesn’t merely strain relationships; it impoverishes the soul.  A life turned inward eventually collapses under its own smallness and vapid reality.

Something has shifted in recent years, revealing a kind of dullness and a thinning of interior life.  Perhaps it stems from weakened social skills, the isolating effects of social media, the aftershocks of the scamdemic years, a decline in religious grounding, or some combination of these.  Whatever the cause, the result is the same: many lives have grown small, distracted, and strangely brittle.  And in that narrowing, something essential and human seems to have been lost.

If anything, these observations should stir in us not frustration but a quiet resolve.  We cannot control the narrowing of other people’s worlds, but we can refuse to let our own shrink.  We can choose to cultivate curiosity, to read widely, to think deeply, to converse generously.  We can reclaim the art of attention—toward religion, toward others, toward the responsibilities entrusted to us.  Renewal begins not with grand gestures but with the simple decision to live awake in a culture that drifts toward distraction.  If we desire a richer, more meaningful world and personal life, we must first become richer, more meaningful people who are anchored, attentive, and alive to the fullness of life that really is intended for us.

 

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