Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
Jesus Sends Out the Seventy-Two
10 After this the Lord appointed seventy-two[a] others and sent them two by two ahead of him to every town and place where he was about to go. 2 He told them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field. 3 Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves. 4 Do not take a purse or bag or sandals; and do not greet anyone on the road.
5 “When you enter a house, first say, ‘Peace to this house.’ 6 If someone who promotes peace is there, your peace will rest on them; if not, it will return to you. 7 Stay there, eating and drinking whatever they give you, for the worker deserves his wages. Do not move around from house to house.
8 “When you enter a town and are welcomed, eat what is offered to you. 9 Heal the sick who are there and tell them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’ 10 But when you enter a town and are not welcomed, go into its streets and say, 11 ‘Even the dust of your town we wipe from our feet as a warning to you. Yet be sure of this: The kingdom of God has come near. 'This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
--------
This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
I am deeply grateful for the peace and assurance God has given me. It has given me confidence in life—enough to learn how to navigate familiar settings, repeated stages, and the inevitable hurdles along the way. And yet, my greatest joy is found not in movement or recognition, but in aloneness and solitude. There is a quiet, everyday joy in sitting in contemplation and carrying on a conversation with the Lord. No earthly attraction can compare to the peace of simply sitting still and listening.
Today feels like a continuation of yesterday. I have resumed a long-postponed journey—returning to an old dream of spending time writing, a gift I still believe was given to me for a reason. I write with no expectations, seeking only the joy of self-expression and the quiet possibility that this practice keeps me connected to the Lord through the Holy Spirit. I do share my writing online, but again, without expectation. I write about nothingness and emptiness—nothing meant to impress the world or change society—but simply to show how I find peace and rest each day.
It has become clear to me—at least in my heart—that one of the most effective ways to counter the sadness of this world, and to escape what humanity seems to be deteriorating into, is to dwell in the pasture of the Lord. The indecency, the inhumanity, the foul language spoken openly by those in power, the hatred they inspire, and the normalization of what was once clearly wrong—all of it grieves my heart deeply. In the Lord’s house, there is only peace. Conversations are quiet, sincere, and meaningful. That is where I choose to dwell, leaving behind whatever the devil has sown in this world. It is the devil’s opportunism—and humanity’s openness to it—that has caused so much unrest in my heart. I am thankful that God has shown me a way out.
Continuing what I began yesterday, I managed to meditate and write early in the day. Knowing that an Arctic blast is expected in the coming days, I went out for a long walk at the park. I covered five miles. I chatted briefly with a homeless man I recognize—a permanent fixture of the park—and then returned home to rest and resume my meditation. Later, I brought my small plants indoors and turned on the space heater to warm both the room and the plants.
I paused my meditation briefly to give my body and mind a break, reminding myself that prolonged sitting and intense focus are not healthy. I brewed another cup of coffee, walked around the living room carrying a box of plants I had moved indoors the day before, and placed them under the grow light. Then I returned to my chair. To “rest” my mind, I checked the Internet—and that is where the trouble began.
For me, going online has become increasingly upsetting. Social media quickly pulls me into comparison: one person appears to be thriving, another miserable, another desperately seeking attention. News sites offer no refuge either—just endless political maneuvering and recycled outrage from every side. Whatever brief escape I hoped for evaporated instantly. There is something about this technology that now agitates rather than comforts me. I am grateful that the Holy Spirit has helped me recognize the darker spirit it embodies—at least for me. It may inspire or relax others, but I know now that I am not one of them.
So I return to meditation-through-writing, the only comfort that consistently steadies me. Mindfulness has been a great help. It teaches me to recognize which habits and tasks quietly deliver harm to my body and spirit. The Internet, in nearly all its modern forms, is one of those forces that destabilizes me.
It was not always this way. I remember the early days of computing—when turning on my tower PC filled me with excitement and anticipation. There were operating systems to build, problems to solve, things to learn that few others were attempting. I loved diving into the inner workings of computers. Every small breakthrough felt like a celebration. Those days were deeply fulfilling. Those days are gone.
Part of this loss is my own doing. I abandoned complexity for convenience. I traded depth for ease. I lowered myself into the shallow waters of mass consumption and social validation, even though I was never meant to thrive there. I am not, and have never been, a social creature in that sense—so why did I keep checking social media? I know now that I was tempted by the illusion of recognition and acceptance. That is all it ever was.
Through meditation, communion with the Holy Spirit, and mindfulness, I am trying to reconnect with my old self and my earlier pursuits. I am resetting my focus—away from the social, back toward the intellectual and the literary. This is where I find peace. This is how I avoid the restless unease that follows indulgence in social media. I must return to my old happiness: the computer as a tool for learning and creation, and writing as my primary form of expression—without anticipation, without performance.
To do that, I need to return to programming projects and code learning. I need to refocus my literary portfolio on creativity instead of chasing reels and short videos. I know few people read literary work today, especially in a country suffering from a shortage of readers. But I am in this for the long haul. This is about self-expression, not validation. I will continue to post anonymously, perhaps read by only a handful of long-time strangers who once crossed paths with my nom de plume.
Practice matters. Writing is a skill that must be exercised, just like any other. I take comfort in knowing that while my ideas are my own, AI has become a helpful partner in editing and refining my work—saving me from the need to seek or pay for an editor.
This is something I especially want to say to Filipinos who are constantly assaulted by social media feeds pushing the worst kinds of content into their mental space. I am exhausted by the endless parade of beauty pageants, crude skits, suggestive humor, and careless use of language. I often wonder whether these feeds persist because of something I once watched too long—or because algorithms assume I share the same interests as my friends. Even when I click “not interested,” the content returns.
I can only imagine what young people endure while scrolling endlessly—how habits form, how attention is drained, how precious mental energy is spent on things they would never choose on their own. Mindfulness becomes an act of resistance—not rebellion, but self-preservation. We must return to ourselves, rather than allowing technology to dictate who we are. A child should first discover their interests, gifts, and desires before being shaped by algorithms. There is nothing wrong with becoming a content creator if that is where one’s gift lies. What is harmful is abandoning one’s true calling—whether in literature, science, engineering, medicine, or agriculture—simply to chase popularity.
Many people are unaffected by this struggle. I know friends who barely use the Internet at all because life keeps them busy with real responsibilities. When I worked full-time, I rarely touched my phone except for work-related messages. Later, when I returned to school for a second degree in IT, I was consumed by learning. I spent nights solving problems, weekends recovering from mental exhaustion, and countless hours wrestling with projects that refused to cooperate. I barely knew social media existed—and if I did, I dismissed it as childish distraction.
There are countless people like that even now. There are more important things in life than this technology. Once, the dream was to build apps, to create systems, to solve real problems. My own dream was Linux-based—raw, difficult, demanding. Even installing it felt like an achievement. I felt like a king of computing.
Ten years later, here I am—struggling against habits formed by social media, perhaps the most mindless, least challenging, and most addictive technology ever created. And yet, I am hopeful. Awareness is the first step. Mindfulness is the path back. And writing—quiet, patient, and honest—remains my refuge.
2026-02-01 13:36:15
popong
As I was saying yesterday, I am deeply grateful for this gift of writing. It feels almost deliberately designed to save me. There is always the risk of overdoing it, of slipping into excess, but I would much rather do this than sink into the sadness of the world—the noise, the irrelevance, the sometimes stunning stupidity I see on social media. Or the internet in general: rabid anger everywhere, behavior that feels less human than animal. Sometimes I feel physically sick just clicking on their links, like I’ve touched something unclean.
In the middle of all that, it is profoundly calming to reach out to the Holy Spirit. I am grateful for that privilege. Yesterday reminded me again that the Lord still holds a quiet but immense power—the power to comfort me amid the sadness and tears this age keeps hammering into my mind like a painful nail. Meditation is a gift. It steadies my footing. It opens a wide, empty pasture in my thoughts where I can rest, breathe, and decide what the day will ask of me.
Yesterday was a deliberate day of rest. I chose not to exercise, neither indoors nor outside. It felt necessary. My body needed a pause after days of prolonged activity, mostly in the garden—digging, lifting, dragging pots from one corner to another, bending, squatting, twisting. Today, I might do a little exercise, maybe outdoors if the weather cooperates. This could be my last chance for the next four days, with temperatures dropping into the low thirties. Tomorrow, I’ll bring my baby plants indoors—though I’m still not sure it’s even necessary. As of yesterday’s inspection, they were thriving. Still, today is their last “warm” day, and I can already feel winter pressing its forehead against the glass.
I feel genuine joy watching my new plants. That alone is enough reason to keep moving, to stay physically engaged. I love the quiet of the mornings once my migrant neighbors leave for their landscaping and construction jobs. There’s a particular freedom in that silence, a freedom only people who love solitude truly understand. I stand in the small yard, surveying what little space I have. Sometimes I catch myself wishing someone would pass by and say hello, but when no one does, it doesn’t really matter.
I occasionally record my activities on video, though it feels more like routine than performance. Somewhere in my brain, I’ve settled into a loose structure: three posts a week, if conditions allow. One poetry post in Tagalog. One about gardening and plants. One about exercise or dancing. Yesterday, I posted something experimental, maybe nostalgic—something I fully intended to delete almost immediately. I was too slow. A few likes came in. A modest audience. I deleted it anyway after a couple of hours. This week’s posting schedule is uneven, disrupted by weather and the death of a relative. There are moments when posting anything at all feels impolite, almost disrespectful to grief—especially when the loss touches people connected to me, even loosely.
So I keep things low-key. No fantasies about popularity. No hunger for approval. That kind of longing feels materialistic to me now. My goal remains simple: self-expression. Nothing more. Like meditation, writing is my way out—an escape from the vicissitudes, the immorality, the raw discomfort caused by the primitive ways people collide with one another online. I’m not searching for reactions or acceptance. I might care, yes—but I’ve learned not to expect. Expectation feeds paranoia. The less noise I make, the more peaceful I become.
Today begins, as usual, with meditation. Outside, the weather has shifted. I expected sunshine, like the last few mornings, but the sky is overcast, turning gray. The planned outdoor walk may have to wait. My options narrow: the gym, or staying home for a dance-based aerobic routine. I could even add some light weightlifting with my makeshift home weights. I’ll let the weather decide. Nature always seems to have the final word anyway.
For now, I’ll stick with what I’ve committed to this week: finishing my book, continuing my articles, reducing mindless browsing. Still, I allow myself occasional entertainment. Total abstinence from technology would be gloomy, even unrealistic. This modern convenience gives my mind brief rest from overthinking—if I use it with restraint.
And just like that, I catch myself drifting. An innocent internet search turns into another, then another. The lure is immediate. Mindfulness pulls me back. I remind myself—where I am, what I was doing, what I just abandoned. Return quickly. Always return quickly.
It’s quiet again at 8:15 a.m. Jim has just left for work. The house is mine once more. Yesterday, with this much freedom, I flirted with the idea of driving to places I used to haunt, just to see if something—anything—might spark enjoyment. Mostly desire of something no longer applicable to my age and health, if I’m honest. That habit still flickers now and then. But it’s losing its grip. Other tasks are gaining weight in my mental economy. Desire hasn’t disappeared; it’s simply being outbid.
This morning, I meditate, then wander through the house, standing up periodically, stretching, walking. Making coffee—always coffee—gets me moving. I sip it slowly, then inspect my indoor plants, leaf by leaf. After that, I step outside to check the outdoor ones. They’re thriving so far. I water them anyway, even as dark clouds threaten rain. I linger. Two elderly Latina neighbors are also in their backyards. Years ago, I would have tried harder to chat, but the language barrier makes it difficult. Still, I admire their work ethic. One of them is often hanging freshly washed clothes on a line early in the morning. No dryer. Maybe no washer either. Either way, it’s exercise—honest, functional movement. The other woman, who appears sporadically during the week, is clearly skilled with plants. We wave, exchange greetings. That’s where it ends.
They remind me of Filipina neighbors from my childhood. Familiar faces, familiar rhythms. Jim, on the other hand, is unmistakably gringo—blunt, guarded, protective of his solitude. Not racist, but intimidating in his indifference. I sometimes wish I could explain that he isn’t hostile, just culturally distant. He values silence fiercely, sometimes explosively—especially when neighbors play loud music or hold backyard worship services while glancing warily at his cigarette smoke. He guards his isolation the way others guard property.
Over time, though, people adjust. I stay friendly. Jim remains aloof. Everyone learns the shape of everyone else.
I wonder what to do today. I need to go to storage and retrieve winter clothes before the temperature drops. That alone is a good excuse to move.
After cleaning the house, watering plants, and checking the forecast, I drive to storage. Florida weather is mostly tropical—until it isn’t. This year’s forecast predicts a harsh Arctic blast for several days starting Saturday. I’m grateful I’m retired now. No more battling the elements for work like I did when I was younger.
At storage, I pull out my winter clothes—mostly joggers and regular pants I rarely wear. Since I occasionally appear on social media, I feel oddly pressured to rotate outfits. In reality, I cycle through two pairs of pants, three shirts, maybe three shorts. The rest sit folded, forgotten. Laziness, not lack. I make a mental note to care a little more about how I present myself. Not for vanity—but for dignity. I don’t need to look careless just because I’ve stopped caring about approval.
I go straight home, any urge to wander evaporated. Retirement has clarified one thing for me: time is shorter now. This is a narrow window. To waste it waiting for miracles or chasing hollow excitement feels not only foolish, but almost ungodly.
There’s a new book waiting after this one. That feels exciting. I briefly consider visiting a plant store, but the incoming cold convinces me otherwise. No need to add new worries. At home, I read a few more pages, then check my indoor plants again—another small loop of movement. I realize I completely forgot the house aerobics and weights I planned earlier. Instead, the day filled itself with lighter work: cleaning, watering, driving, organizing.
Long walks and gardening take their toll. Digging, lifting, stepping, turning—these are not gentle acts. They strain joints and muscles in ways that add up quietly. Today, light activity feels right.
And that, too, is a form of listening
2026-01-31 09:49:06
blog
Reflection 2-1-2026
Jesus Sends Out the Seventy-Two
10 After this the Lord appointed seventy-two[a] others and sent them two by two ahead of him to every town and place where he was about to go. 2 He told them, “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field. 3 Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves. 4 Do not take a purse or bag or sandals; and do not greet anyone on the road.
5 “When you enter a house, first say, ‘Peace to this house.’ 6 If someone who promotes peace is there, your peace will rest on them; if not, it will return to you. 7 Stay there, eating and drinking whatever they give you, for the worker deserves his wages. Do not move around from house to house.
8 “When you enter a town and are welcomed, eat what is offered to you. 9 Heal the sick who are there and tell them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you.’ 10 But when you enter a town and are not welcomed, go into its streets and say, 11 ‘Even the dust of your town we wipe from our feet as a warning to you. Yet be sure of this: The kingdom of God has come near. 'This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
--------
This is the same passage I often return to when I feel unwelcome wherever I go—whether that unwelcomeness is felt in people’s hearts or expressed through the physical barriers that stand in the way of my journey. What matters, though, is that there are always other places, other moments, and other people. More importantly, there is the Lord—the only One who welcomes me with an open heart, open arms, and a peace that does not waver. That, above all else, is what truly matters.
I am deeply grateful for the peace and assurance God has given me. It has given me confidence in life—enough to learn how to navigate familiar settings, repeated stages, and the inevitable hurdles along the way. And yet, my greatest joy is found not in movement or recognition, but in aloneness and solitude. There is a quiet, everyday joy in sitting in contemplation and carrying on a conversation with the Lord. No earthly attraction can compare to the peace of simply sitting still and listening.
Today feels like a continuation of yesterday. I have resumed a long-postponed journey—returning to an old dream of spending time writing, a gift I still believe was given to me for a reason. I write with no expectations, seeking only the joy of self-expression and the quiet possibility that this practice keeps me connected to the Lord through the Holy Spirit. I do share my writing online, but again, without expectation. I write about nothingness and emptiness—nothing meant to impress the world or change society—but simply to show how I find peace and rest each day.
It has become clear to me—at least in my heart—that one of the most effective ways to counter the sadness of this world, and to escape what humanity seems to be deteriorating into, is to dwell in the pasture of the Lord. The indecency, the inhumanity, the foul language spoken openly by those in power, the hatred they inspire, and the normalization of what was once clearly wrong—all of it grieves my heart deeply. In the Lord’s house, there is only peace. Conversations are quiet, sincere, and meaningful. That is where I choose to dwell, leaving behind whatever the devil has sown in this world. It is the devil’s opportunism—and humanity’s openness to it—that has caused so much unrest in my heart. I am thankful that God has shown me a way out.
Continuing what I began yesterday, I managed to meditate and write early in the day. Knowing that an Arctic blast is expected in the coming days, I went out for a long walk at the park. I covered five miles. I chatted briefly with a homeless man I recognize—a permanent fixture of the park—and then returned home to rest and resume my meditation. Later, I brought my small plants indoors and turned on the space heater to warm both the room and the plants.
I paused my meditation briefly to give my body and mind a break, reminding myself that prolonged sitting and intense focus are not healthy. I brewed another cup of coffee, walked around the living room carrying a box of plants I had moved indoors the day before, and placed them under the grow light. Then I returned to my chair. To “rest” my mind, I checked the Internet—and that is where the trouble began.
For me, going online has become increasingly upsetting. Social media quickly pulls me into comparison: one person appears to be thriving, another miserable, another desperately seeking attention. News sites offer no refuge either—just endless political maneuvering and recycled outrage from every side. Whatever brief escape I hoped for evaporated instantly. There is something about this technology that now agitates rather than comforts me. I am grateful that the Holy Spirit has helped me recognize the darker spirit it embodies—at least for me. It may inspire or relax others, but I know now that I am not one of them.
So I return to meditation-through-writing, the only comfort that consistently steadies me. Mindfulness has been a great help. It teaches me to recognize which habits and tasks quietly deliver harm to my body and spirit. The Internet, in nearly all its modern forms, is one of those forces that destabilizes me.
It was not always this way. I remember the early days of computing—when turning on my tower PC filled me with excitement and anticipation. There were operating systems to build, problems to solve, things to learn that few others were attempting. I loved diving into the inner workings of computers. Every small breakthrough felt like a celebration. Those days were deeply fulfilling. Those days are gone.
Part of this loss is my own doing. I abandoned complexity for convenience. I traded depth for ease. I lowered myself into the shallow waters of mass consumption and social validation, even though I was never meant to thrive there. I am not, and have never been, a social creature in that sense—so why did I keep checking social media? I know now that I was tempted by the illusion of recognition and acceptance. That is all it ever was.
Through meditation, communion with the Holy Spirit, and mindfulness, I am trying to reconnect with my old self and my earlier pursuits. I am resetting my focus—away from the social, back toward the intellectual and the literary. This is where I find peace. This is how I avoid the restless unease that follows indulgence in social media. I must return to my old happiness: the computer as a tool for learning and creation, and writing as my primary form of expression—without anticipation, without performance.
To do that, I need to return to programming projects and code learning. I need to refocus my literary portfolio on creativity instead of chasing reels and short videos. I know few people read literary work today, especially in a country suffering from a shortage of readers. But I am in this for the long haul. This is about self-expression, not validation. I will continue to post anonymously, perhaps read by only a handful of long-time strangers who once crossed paths with my nom de plume.
Practice matters. Writing is a skill that must be exercised, just like any other. I take comfort in knowing that while my ideas are my own, AI has become a helpful partner in editing and refining my work—saving me from the need to seek or pay for an editor.
This is something I especially want to say to Filipinos who are constantly assaulted by social media feeds pushing the worst kinds of content into their mental space. I am exhausted by the endless parade of beauty pageants, crude skits, suggestive humor, and careless use of language. I often wonder whether these feeds persist because of something I once watched too long—or because algorithms assume I share the same interests as my friends. Even when I click “not interested,” the content returns.
I can only imagine what young people endure while scrolling endlessly—how habits form, how attention is drained, how precious mental energy is spent on things they would never choose on their own. Mindfulness becomes an act of resistance—not rebellion, but self-preservation. We must return to ourselves, rather than allowing technology to dictate who we are. A child should first discover their interests, gifts, and desires before being shaped by algorithms. There is nothing wrong with becoming a content creator if that is where one’s gift lies. What is harmful is abandoning one’s true calling—whether in literature, science, engineering, medicine, or agriculture—simply to chase popularity.
Many people are unaffected by this struggle. I know friends who barely use the Internet at all because life keeps them busy with real responsibilities. When I worked full-time, I rarely touched my phone except for work-related messages. Later, when I returned to school for a second degree in IT, I was consumed by learning. I spent nights solving problems, weekends recovering from mental exhaustion, and countless hours wrestling with projects that refused to cooperate. I barely knew social media existed—and if I did, I dismissed it as childish distraction.
There are countless people like that even now. There are more important things in life than this technology. Once, the dream was to build apps, to create systems, to solve real problems. My own dream was Linux-based—raw, difficult, demanding. Even installing it felt like an achievement. I felt like a king of computing.
Ten years later, here I am—struggling against habits formed by social media, perhaps the most mindless, least challenging, and most addictive technology ever created. And yet, I am hopeful. Awareness is the first step. Mindfulness is the path back. And writing—quiet, patient, and honest—remains my refuge.
2026-02-01 13:36:15
popong
Listening to my Thoughts
As I was saying yesterday, I am deeply grateful for this gift of writing. It feels almost deliberately designed to save me. There is always the risk of overdoing it, of slipping into excess, but I would much rather do this than sink into the sadness of the world—the noise, the irrelevance, the sometimes stunning stupidity I see on social media. Or the internet in general: rabid anger everywhere, behavior that feels less human than animal. Sometimes I feel physically sick just clicking on their links, like I’ve touched something unclean.
In the middle of all that, it is profoundly calming to reach out to the Holy Spirit. I am grateful for that privilege. Yesterday reminded me again that the Lord still holds a quiet but immense power—the power to comfort me amid the sadness and tears this age keeps hammering into my mind like a painful nail. Meditation is a gift. It steadies my footing. It opens a wide, empty pasture in my thoughts where I can rest, breathe, and decide what the day will ask of me.
Yesterday was a deliberate day of rest. I chose not to exercise, neither indoors nor outside. It felt necessary. My body needed a pause after days of prolonged activity, mostly in the garden—digging, lifting, dragging pots from one corner to another, bending, squatting, twisting. Today, I might do a little exercise, maybe outdoors if the weather cooperates. This could be my last chance for the next four days, with temperatures dropping into the low thirties. Tomorrow, I’ll bring my baby plants indoors—though I’m still not sure it’s even necessary. As of yesterday’s inspection, they were thriving. Still, today is their last “warm” day, and I can already feel winter pressing its forehead against the glass.
I feel genuine joy watching my new plants. That alone is enough reason to keep moving, to stay physically engaged. I love the quiet of the mornings once my migrant neighbors leave for their landscaping and construction jobs. There’s a particular freedom in that silence, a freedom only people who love solitude truly understand. I stand in the small yard, surveying what little space I have. Sometimes I catch myself wishing someone would pass by and say hello, but when no one does, it doesn’t really matter.
I occasionally record my activities on video, though it feels more like routine than performance. Somewhere in my brain, I’ve settled into a loose structure: three posts a week, if conditions allow. One poetry post in Tagalog. One about gardening and plants. One about exercise or dancing. Yesterday, I posted something experimental, maybe nostalgic—something I fully intended to delete almost immediately. I was too slow. A few likes came in. A modest audience. I deleted it anyway after a couple of hours. This week’s posting schedule is uneven, disrupted by weather and the death of a relative. There are moments when posting anything at all feels impolite, almost disrespectful to grief—especially when the loss touches people connected to me, even loosely.
So I keep things low-key. No fantasies about popularity. No hunger for approval. That kind of longing feels materialistic to me now. My goal remains simple: self-expression. Nothing more. Like meditation, writing is my way out—an escape from the vicissitudes, the immorality, the raw discomfort caused by the primitive ways people collide with one another online. I’m not searching for reactions or acceptance. I might care, yes—but I’ve learned not to expect. Expectation feeds paranoia. The less noise I make, the more peaceful I become.
Today begins, as usual, with meditation. Outside, the weather has shifted. I expected sunshine, like the last few mornings, but the sky is overcast, turning gray. The planned outdoor walk may have to wait. My options narrow: the gym, or staying home for a dance-based aerobic routine. I could even add some light weightlifting with my makeshift home weights. I’ll let the weather decide. Nature always seems to have the final word anyway.
For now, I’ll stick with what I’ve committed to this week: finishing my book, continuing my articles, reducing mindless browsing. Still, I allow myself occasional entertainment. Total abstinence from technology would be gloomy, even unrealistic. This modern convenience gives my mind brief rest from overthinking—if I use it with restraint.
And just like that, I catch myself drifting. An innocent internet search turns into another, then another. The lure is immediate. Mindfulness pulls me back. I remind myself—where I am, what I was doing, what I just abandoned. Return quickly. Always return quickly.
It’s quiet again at 8:15 a.m. Jim has just left for work. The house is mine once more. Yesterday, with this much freedom, I flirted with the idea of driving to places I used to haunt, just to see if something—anything—might spark enjoyment. Mostly desire of something no longer applicable to my age and health, if I’m honest. That habit still flickers now and then. But it’s losing its grip. Other tasks are gaining weight in my mental economy. Desire hasn’t disappeared; it’s simply being outbid.
This morning, I meditate, then wander through the house, standing up periodically, stretching, walking. Making coffee—always coffee—gets me moving. I sip it slowly, then inspect my indoor plants, leaf by leaf. After that, I step outside to check the outdoor ones. They’re thriving so far. I water them anyway, even as dark clouds threaten rain. I linger. Two elderly Latina neighbors are also in their backyards. Years ago, I would have tried harder to chat, but the language barrier makes it difficult. Still, I admire their work ethic. One of them is often hanging freshly washed clothes on a line early in the morning. No dryer. Maybe no washer either. Either way, it’s exercise—honest, functional movement. The other woman, who appears sporadically during the week, is clearly skilled with plants. We wave, exchange greetings. That’s where it ends.
They remind me of Filipina neighbors from my childhood. Familiar faces, familiar rhythms. Jim, on the other hand, is unmistakably gringo—blunt, guarded, protective of his solitude. Not racist, but intimidating in his indifference. I sometimes wish I could explain that he isn’t hostile, just culturally distant. He values silence fiercely, sometimes explosively—especially when neighbors play loud music or hold backyard worship services while glancing warily at his cigarette smoke. He guards his isolation the way others guard property.
Over time, though, people adjust. I stay friendly. Jim remains aloof. Everyone learns the shape of everyone else.
I wonder what to do today. I need to go to storage and retrieve winter clothes before the temperature drops. That alone is a good excuse to move.
After cleaning the house, watering plants, and checking the forecast, I drive to storage. Florida weather is mostly tropical—until it isn’t. This year’s forecast predicts a harsh Arctic blast for several days starting Saturday. I’m grateful I’m retired now. No more battling the elements for work like I did when I was younger.
At storage, I pull out my winter clothes—mostly joggers and regular pants I rarely wear. Since I occasionally appear on social media, I feel oddly pressured to rotate outfits. In reality, I cycle through two pairs of pants, three shirts, maybe three shorts. The rest sit folded, forgotten. Laziness, not lack. I make a mental note to care a little more about how I present myself. Not for vanity—but for dignity. I don’t need to look careless just because I’ve stopped caring about approval.
I go straight home, any urge to wander evaporated. Retirement has clarified one thing for me: time is shorter now. This is a narrow window. To waste it waiting for miracles or chasing hollow excitement feels not only foolish, but almost ungodly.
There’s a new book waiting after this one. That feels exciting. I briefly consider visiting a plant store, but the incoming cold convinces me otherwise. No need to add new worries. At home, I read a few more pages, then check my indoor plants again—another small loop of movement. I realize I completely forgot the house aerobics and weights I planned earlier. Instead, the day filled itself with lighter work: cleaning, watering, driving, organizing.
Long walks and gardening take their toll. Digging, lifting, stepping, turning—these are not gentle acts. They strain joints and muscles in ways that add up quietly. Today, light activity feels right.
And that, too, is a form of listening
2026-01-31 09:49:06
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