Meditation Today 1-21-26

Today is another day, and I thank God for the growing quiet in my life. I can feel it deepening—not just as the absence of noise, but as a presence of rest. I have not only curtailed my social media use; I have also lost the level of interest I once had in it. In return, I have gained something far more precious: genuine rest and better sleep. What remains for me now is the careful and faithful use of my daily free time—to nurture the hobbies and gifts the Lord has entrusted to me. I am not fully there yet, but I am getting closer, despite the occasional and inevitable real-life distractions.

Lately, I have been working on two pieces of writing—both expressions of the gifts I believe were given to me. One is a story about the mountains I once climbed; the other is a series of small, anecdotal reflections on my day-to-day workouts. These are not the kinds of works that sell or attract attention. Yet I hold onto the hope that if even one person encounters them, that person might experience life a little more deeply—much like how a reader briefly lives another life through a book.

There is a loneliness in my daily routine, but no lonelier than life lived online. Social media, after all, offers the illusion of company—large crowds, endless chatter—yet most of it is superficial. It creates the feeling of not being alone, even though one is surrounded only by a virtual presence. In contrast, my solitude is quiet, honest, and unembellished.

This path is my personal choice. I have chosen to tour life quietly, often alone, with the only meaningful feedback coming from the Lord. I am not comfortable turning my life into a public display—a reality show shared with countless strangers who do not need to know the details of my days. Doing so makes me anxious and robs me of sleep. I know this attitude is my own; others may thrive on sharing, and rightly so, especially if it advances a career or provides financial support.

I walk quietly in the park, covering my usual distance—often more than 11,000 steps. Along the way, I encounter fellow walkers and hikers. We exchange brief nods or gestures, but we mostly guard our solitude. We are not there for conversation; we are there for nature. And for me, more specifically, I am there for God—for His beauty, His order, His quiet reassurance.

Retirement brings with it a subtle danger: the temptation to abandon real life in favor of a virtual one. High technology combined with idle time can quietly pull a person away from reality. When I was still working, my life was naturally anchored to the real world. I woke up, drove to work, and spent my days with people as they truly were. There was structure, urgency, and physical presence. There was little room—and no need—for social media.

That remains true for many people today, especially those whose lives are filled with tangible responsibilities: work, family, conversations that still happen face-to-face, much like in earlier times. In my town, men young and old gather to drink, joke, sing karaoke, and simply be together. Vacationers travel, explore unfamiliar places, and lose themselves in ocean waves under the sun. Others work in the digital world itself—creating documentaries and educational content that are thoughtful, grounded, and meaningful.

Even I have recently discovered travel documentaries that speak to my soul—stories of nature, mountains, and people living far from modern civilization, surviving and thriving on the simple blessings of the earth. I would like to believe that most people are still firmly embedded in real life.

Yet there are people like me—those at risk of falling into the vacuum of unreality. Living alone with abundant free time makes that risk very real. There was a period when I was consumed by social media, living as though a camera were always watching me. I felt compelled to share everything, as if each moment carried great importance. I assumed—incorrectly—that what interested me must interest others.

I spent time learning video recording and editing, building confidence in speaking after years of believing my voice sounded strange or inadequate. Yet I ended up living a significant portion of my life in a digital and virtual space. Instead of sleeping, I scrolled. Instead of writing—a gift I have carried since childhood—I checked views, comments, and likes. Instead of reading or programming, I imagined scenarios to post and share. These habits never existed when I was still working. Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of my original goals for retirement.

Only recently have I come to understand the true nature of the internet—and especially social media. Used correctly, it can be a healthy distraction, a brief mental rest. Used excessively, it can be deadly, much like fentanyl. The difference lies entirely in how it is used.

Through meditation and the gentle guidance of the Holy Spirit, I was led to this realization. As I gradually stepped away, I redirected myself toward what I originally intended for retirement: storytelling, writing, reading, and computer programming. I am now focusing on purpose-driven tasks rather than performance. I am moving away from a curated life and returning to the reality of living. I meditate, exercise, garden, and rest. My attention still wanders at times, but mindfulness gently calls it back.

I do not completely dismiss the usefulness of social media. Just yesterday, my peace was shaken by an unexpected sewage problem—a situation that could easily spiral into stress. Watching YouTube and scrolling briefly helped me calm down through escapism. But I kept reminding myself to return to reality as soon as possible, because reality—imperfect as it is—is what keeps me grounded and alive.

The phrase artificial intelligence is fitting. Much of digital and virtual life is artificial and disruptive to the body and mind. I see its effects clearly in the political world. Donald Trump, for example, appears to inhabit a reality of his own making—immersed in a digital echo chamber, posting impulsively, reacting without reflection, demanding recognition of an imagined greatness. The underlying question seems to be: Why can’t everyone see what I see? This disconnection from reality is something I fear and actively resist in myself.

So I return, again and again, to the solutions I discovered earlier in retirement—solutions I truly believe were Spirit-led. I spend time with my gifts. I write. I read. I contemplate reality. I sit in my favorite chair, typing on my laptop between 4:00 and 6:00 a.m. I resist the fantasy of admiration and acclaim. It is pleasant to imagine, briefly, but it belongs to the realm of illusion.

At my age, shaped by the culture I grew up in and my tendency to write long, reflective pieces in an era of shrinking attention spans, I accept that few may ever read what I write. And that is all right. My fulfillment does not depend on an audience. It rests in my ability to express myself honestly.

To still think, still write, still reflect—that alone is something to be grateful for. My joy is in self-expression. My gratitude is in the ability to pause, to summarize my life, and to refrain from acting impulsively without purpose—something I have struggled with most of my life.

There is deep value in experiencing life fully and physically: being present in the world, in nature, in humanity. Watching a new leaf unfurl. Seeing a cutting sprout fresh buds. Walking through a garden that resembles the jungles I once loved to disappear into.

And here is the best part: I am sitting by my window as the morning sun pours through the glass, illuminating my baby philodendrons, pothos, and fast-growing elephant ears. I have just called a plumber to address yet another backup in the bathroom. I watched a documentary about the pitfalls of buying a condo in the Philippines. Jim has left for work. I am alone now—truly alone—and enjoying the quiet. I am choosing not to dwell on plumbing stress. Instead, I am writing this reflection.

How, in moments like this, could I possibly complain?
2026-01-21 13:51:25
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