In the End, the Heart Matters Most

So, it came to be after a long day that Brain laid upon the pillow yearning for a restful night of sleep.  Respite from the busyness of the day.  Brain felt it was well deserved for it had successfully navigated another day of taking care of business.  It is not easy being command central for the body and the many tasks it performs throughout the day.  Someone must take the horse by the reins and make sure everything functions as it should.  No one appreciates a body out of whack, especially the human it represents.  At the end of the day, the Brain had successfully completed the task and longed for the bliss sleep promised. 

“Ah, the comfort of sleep,” declared Brain as it slowly melted into the softness of the pillow.  Within minutes Brain was asleep and sawing logs.  As sweet dream swirled about there was a calmness of peace filling Brain.  All was well.

 

Suddenly there was a sharp, piercing pain radiating from the third toe of the right foot.  Like an electrical shock . . . a sharp, piercing pain that snapped Brain from its sleep.  Damn! That hurt! What in God’s creation was that, wondered Brain.

 

“It’s just a little neuropathy,” said the toe.  “Just wanted to let you know that we’ve come out to play.”  Of course, Brain tried to ignore the pain and go back to sleep.  Toe, on the other hand, was just warming up.  Literally.  The shock was only the prelude to the main event neuropathy had to offer.  It was just warming up and inviting the rest of the feet to participate.  It was not long before both feet were radiating with a burning sensation.  Hot feet!

 

Despite Brain’s attempt to ignore the pain and burning sensation . . . even forcing the body to kick off the bed’s covers . . . it was difficult to not acknowledge this disruption to sleep.  The feet’s hot flash was hard to ignore.  Eventually the coolness of the air cooled the feet and Brain was able to resume sleeping . . .

 

. . . for a while.  A throbbing ache quietly picked up where the feet’s neuropathy left off.  The throbbing slowly woke Brain with its incessant ache.  It was hard to ignore.  Now what, thought Brain.  “It’s us,” came the reply.  “Us hands and our buddy arthritis.  Just want to let you know that we are here and ready to play.”  Thump, thump.  Thump, thump. The aching moved across like waves lapping on a beach.  With each wave’s crash the hands let Brain know of arthritis’ presence.  Brain laid there wrenching with each beat of arthritis, longing for sleep.  Slowly but surely sleep returned.

 

The respite was not long.  Replacing the hands and their buddy arthritis was pressure pushing in the groin area.  It was not so much a pain as it was a discomfort . . . an urgent pushing demand for relief.  You’re kidding me, proclaimed Brain.  What now?

 

The Bladder Monkey!  It wanted to join in the fun too.  Jumping and bouncing on the bladder like it was some sort of trampoline.  Boing!  Boing!  Boing!  Up and down on the bladder . . . the full bladder after a day of imbibing upon countless beverages and that 3.7 liters of water to be consumed daily to be healthy.  The pressure was difficult to ignore and the Bladder Monkey continued its gleeful assault . . . boing! Boing!  Boing!  It wanted attention and it wanted it now.  Reluctantly and with grumpiness Brain forced the body to get up and take care of business.

 

Relieved, Brain once again found and embraced sleep.  Rolling the body on its side, Brain was in LaLa Land.

 

Then there was an ache . . . a pain from the hip.  The hip which the body chose to sleep on.  The ache was enough to wake Brain once again.  What now!  The feet had cooled down to warm embers.  The hands had gone into reprieve.  The Bladder Monkey was moping since the liquid had been released.  What was it now!

 

A pressure point on the hip.  The Brain had slept so hard it forgot to flip the body off its side.  After a while the hip had had enough and filed a complaint . . . persistently until Brain got the message.  Brain rolled over.  Finally, some peace and quiet.  Some sleep.

 

Bleep!  Bleep!  Rudely Brain was awakened from the hard-earned slumber . . . five minutes after appeasing the hip. Time to get up.  Time to head back to work.  Back to the ol’ grindstone.  The night was over.  Sleep was done.  Brain could not believe it.  Hoping for a restful night of sleep, Brain had only felt exhaustion having dealt with a renegade body all night.  A body that demanded attention . . . a needy body.  It exhausted Brain.

 

They say that it is “mind over matter” . . . that the Brain is the top dog . . . the one in control.  That night Brain learned differently.  Once Brain lowered the boundaries by seeking sleep, the body and its many parts jumped at the opportunity to raise some havoc.  The body let Brain know that they were there and not to be ignored.  Brain learned a tough lesson and one that it could not escape for it needed its sleep to function.  When the sun goes down and the night takes over, and sleep moves in . . . the kids come out to play.  That is life.   It was a frustratingly painful lesson for Brain.  It comes with age.

 

Yet little did Brain or the others know or realize . . . they were being watched.  Quietly observed.  Heart stood silently watching all the action taking place . . . all the antics . . . and it smiled at all the nose the body was making.  Smiled at Brain’s discomfort and frustration.  Smiled because it knew.  It knew who was really in charge and ran the show.  It wasn’t Brain.  It wasn’t the body and its many parts.  No, it was—Heart.  Without Heart there is nothing.  Nothing at all.  If Heart went, they all went.  It was as simple as that.  Heart sighed.  Maybe I should remind them, thought Heart.  They ought to know . . . nah, let them learn the hard way.

 

(This story is based on a recent sleepless night.)   

 

I Just Can’t

 

Apparently, Americans are speaking less.  According to two researchers we are talking approximately 28% less than we did fifteen years ago.  We are using less words . . . 330 fewer words are spoken per day, roughly 120,000 less words spoken per year.  The researchers state, “It’s a substantial loss.”  This lack of speaking is a concern especially because the trend seems to be continuing annually. 

It seems that this lack of intercourse between folks is a determent to psychological and social well-being.  Talking contributes to our well-being and sense of belonging.  It eases anxiety.  Helps us to trust others.  Bottom that speaking or talking is a benefit and that this dwindling of intercourse is destroying society.  Logically the means of bucking this trend is to talk more to one another.  So, I am assuming we should all talk more.

 

I can’t . . . I just can’t.  There is no way I can talk more.  I just can’t.

 

It is not difficult to see how this decline in conversation has evolved over the years.  Technology has played a major role.  Smart phones with all their innovative means of connecting people have seen major movement towards texting and messaging apps especially among the young.  Texting seems the way to go for a lot of people.  There’s no real interaction.  I see this with my children.  They would rather text or message than have a real conversation.

 

Also, smart phones are a major distraction.  The average American spends four to five hours a day looking at their phone.  This is about 70 full days per year.  I’m fairly certain that little of that time is spend talking to other people.  Here is how it breaks down:

•      Gen Z averages 6.5 hours a day. 
•      Millennials roughly 4.5 hours a day.
•      Baby Boomers average 3 to 4 hours a day.
•     Teens, at least 20%, average 5 to 8 hours a day.

All are well over the recommended screen time of under two hours per day.  Research shows that people check their phones 58 times a day.  It is hard to converse when one’s nose and attention is focused on a cell phone screen.

Thanks to the Covid pandemic, there is the issue of social isolation.  Americans increasingly spend more time alone and are not as socially engaged.  This follows the trend of more people working remotely.  If you aren’t around people, you are not going to say much.  Technology has contributed by doing lots of tasks once done in person now done online.  Paying bills can be set up online. Retailers struggle as more shopping is done online.  Everything can be done online—who needs people?  That, which has made life more efficient has resulted in less verbal action.  Shoot!  With artificial intelligence (AI) there is no need for people at all. Your best friend can be AI.

 

This all adds up to less human-to-human interaction.  An average person has gone from 16,600 words per day to a measly 12,000 words per day.

 

Honestly, I do not see a problem.  Of course, I am an introvert.  I can do with fewer people and less verbal interaction.  I appreciate the peace and quiet.  Besides, people talk too much.  It was pointed out to me long ago that we should listen twice as much as we speak.  That is why God created humans with two ears and one mouth.  Where the researchers see a problem, I see a blessing.  For that reason, it is frustrating to be urged to take up the mantle and talk more.  I can’t do it.  It’s not in me.  I’m not built for it.

 

Now don’t get me wrong . . . I talk.  When I worked full-time, I spoke as necessitated and required by my employer.  I did my part though I doubt it was anywhere close to 12,000 to 16,600 words a day.  Same as the duties I performed for over 40 years as a pastor.  I spoke when the need came up or it was a part of the duties of ministry.  I can tell you that these verbal bouts wore me out by the end of the day.  By the time I got home in the evening I wanted peace and quiet. Which was okay.  In our marriage the wife is the verbal one.  She is an extrovert and never missed a conversation.  I estimate that she speaks 75% of the time we are together.  I just shake my head a lot.  Because I have two ears, I listen.  It works for us.

 

Socially I talk I greet people with “hello”, but never with “how you doing?”  “How you doing” opens a flood gate for an all-out dissertation.  I don’t have time for that.  I will speak when others speak to me.  That’s respect.  Because of that I tend not to be social.  I have been known to get “talkative” after a couple of beers.  Alcohol lowers inhibitions and makes people chatty.  I’m not inclined to be chatty, and I always regret it the next day when I am.  For the most part to be talkative you need people.  I prefer my own company.  At least I know how the conversation is going to go.  My sister gave me a sweatshirt years ago that said, “Ewww . . . people!”  It is one of my favorite sweatshirts, but it rarely gets worn outside of the house.  People don’t always appreciate humor or sarcasm.  I know, truth hurts.

 

When researchers discover and complain that people don’t talk enough . . . that people are talking to each other less . . . I don’t see the problem.  As far as I am concerned, it is a nice problem to have.  It is quieter.  An introvert’s dream.  When those researchers suggest that people need to talk more . . . well, I get anxious.  Talk more?  That’s a big request.  I’d love to help, but I can’t.  That’s a big ask.  It would mean I would have to get out of my comfort zone.  I would have to actually be around people . . . that I would have to converse . . . to speak.  An introvert’s worse nightmare.  I will let others do the talking.  I am certain that there are plenty of folks out there who can pick up the mantle and speak up a storm.  It is an election year with plenty of talking to go around.  I am sure that these people can do it and make America great once again as “talkers”.  It just won’t be me . . . I just can’t.

 

(Blog based on article by Markham Heid, What We’re Losing by Talking Less, Time magazine, May 25, 2026.)

“Not Average”—Retired!

“Average” seems to be the baseline upon which most everything in our lives is measured.  “Average” means the typical or normal amount, quality, or degree determined by the adding of a particular group, divided by the total members of the group.  This results in the “average”.  “Average” also equates and means the ordinary, typical, normal, routine, standard, conventional, every day, commonplace, or regular.  We hear the term used on a regular basis practically every day to explain abnormalities above or below what is considered the baseline or “average”.  For the most part, “average” is what most of us would consider ourselves to be . . . “average”.  We think of ourselves as being like everyone else.  You know, “average”.  Which, when you think about it is “blah”.

Well, I want you to know that I am not “average”.  I’m retired.  The day that I formerly put my 9 to 5 work existence out to pasture, I crossed the line of “average” to retired.  There is nothing “average” about being retired.  There is nothing ordinary about retirement.  There is nothing typical or normal.  It is not routine.  Not a standard.  It sure isn’t conventional, every day, commonplace, or regular.  It is none of those things.  Whatever retirement is . . . it is not “average”.

 

Retirement is not normal.  The “average” gets thrown out the window.  What is expected of everyone else is not expected of a retired person.  Think about it.  For example, time.  Time changes.  The most common or “average” gifts for retirees is a watch of a fancy clock.  Kind of ironic.  When a person retires time is no longer of urgent importance . . . so gift the person with a watch or clock!  Something to keep track of time.  Who needs a watch or clock in retirement.  There is no lack of time in retirement.  Time is what you have—lots of it.

 

The “average” person is constantly concerned with time.  They are on a schedule with a nose to the grindstone because “time is money and money is time”.  Not in retirement.  There are no schedules.  What do you call a parson who is happy on Monday?  Retired.  Of course, there is a problem.  Stepping out of the rat race of time is wonderful but a person needs to learn how to live on less chains.  Jumping out of the constraints or time leaves the door wide open for things to do.  The wife tells me I must do something with my time . . . or else.  I am not wanting to experience the wife’s “or else” . . . so on some days I have started getting up early in the morning, hopping in the car, and driving around real slow making everyone else late for work.  On other days it is just nice to wake up with no place to go like work.  So now I am doing it three, four times daily.  That’s not “average” . . . and it keeps me entertained.

 

This is frustratingly annoying to my wife.  I do not think this was what she bargained for when I retired.  When I retired, she ended up getting twice as much of me for half the money.  She misses the money.  As Yogi Berra said, “A nickel ain’t worth a dime anymore.”

 

Another thing not “average” about being retired is personal appearance.  Things like hygiene and clothing choices.  The “average” person has to deal with those things daily.  Not the retiree.  Nope.  Hygiene is optional.  Taking a shower daily—nah!  It’s kind of a throwback to childhood with the mandatory bath once a week.  Daily bathing is for others especially when you work.  In retirement there is no one to please.  It is shower at will.  Of course, this is not a popular habit in the eyes of the wife . . . or should I say nose.  She expects a nice smelling spouse.  I shower regularly because it is good for the marriage.  Now shaving . . . that’s another story.  I shave every two to three days or as necessitated by need or demand.  For public and family events I shave.  Got to look nice for the public, besides I’m not a beard person myself even though all the adult men in the family fashion beards of different shapes, sizes, and growth.  Still, it is nice not to have to shave every day.  Even at 68 I have a baby face—not “average” for my age.

 

Clothing . . . well, there is the great debate.  For most of my life while working I have been “average”—nice button-down shirts, khaki pants, and comfortable dress shoes.  Business casual.  I wore the uniform.  Not anymore.  Now it is t-shirts, jeans or shorts, a pair of Crocs, sandals, or hiking boots, with a ball cap for the head.  Comfort over style.  Color and pattern coordination is optional.  I have found that the older and worn the clothing is, the more comfortable.  In retirement I covet comfort as more important than style.  When people laugh or comment about my appearance, I just reply, “I’m retired.”  At the same time, I think they wish they were me—comfortable.  The wife doesn’t mind so much.  She knew she didn’t marry a fashion icon.  The expectations were not that high.  Basically, the clothing had to be clean, especially the underwear because you never know when you might be in an accident.  They were expectations I could live with.  Besides, she tell them, “He’s retired . . . what can I do?”

 

I’m not “average”.  “Average” people work.  I don’t have to work.  “Average” people are time conscience.  Not me.  Appearance is important to the “average” person.  I have embraced the beach bum—or maybe just bum—look and really don’t care what anyone else thinks.  “Average” people are busy.  Busy is a four-letter word for me.  “Average” people go to bed.  I can stay up as late as I want.  Tired!  Ha!  I can take naps anytime I want.  I can go sit in park and people watch in the middle of the day.  “Average” people cannot.  I can order off the “senior” menu at restaurants.  “Average” people cannot.  I can sit on the deck in my pajamas until late in the morning and people say, “Oh, he’s retired.”  But I don’t because the neighbor lady has reported me to the police a couple of times.  The “average” person cannot.

 

I am not “average” . . . I am retired.  There is nothing “average” about me.  The transition into retirement was not that difficult because most of my life people did not consider me to be “average”—except they used the other term, “normal”.  I have been called a lot of things over the span of my life, but “normal” or “average” was rarely used.  The difference is that in retirement I no longer must pretend or act to be something I never was to begin with.  I can be . . . well, I can be me . . . retired. Just don’t call me “average”.  I’m not.  I’m retired . . . and the living is good.