Tranquility in Order

I love to drive. Being on the road with a destination set—when I’m not running late—is always somewhat entertaining. Over the years I’ve learned to enjoy the ride as much as possible and to plan for it when time allows. I might make a phone call, record an audio message for someone dear, or play music on the fly—depending on my mood, where I’m going, or who’s sharing the ride with me. Other times I hold a Rosary and pray, listen to a podcast, or remain completely silent. As I drive, my mind is rarely still. I let my thoughts drift and wander freely. Sometimes I’m lucky and have one of those aha moments; other times I simply sing my soul out. And no—you probably don’t want to hear my playlist. One thing I’ve realized is that, within the speed limit, we can only go as fast as the slowest. This often makes me impatient, disrupts my flow, and occasionally ruins my mood. That said, on a couple of occasions it has also saved me from getting pulled over. Going as fast as the slowest isn’t jus...

I grew up in a country where earthquakes are a regular part of life. We distinguish between two kinds: the strong ones we call earthquakes, ranging from 7.0 to 8.5 on the magnitude scale, and the milder ones, known as tremors, which are below 6.9. Most of the time, we don’t panic—or even move—while tables jump in front of us. It’s only when the shaking becomes intense enough that, with a mix of annoyance and resignation, we realize it’s time to stand under a doorframe or get out of the house. Because homes and buildings can collapse during especially strong earthquakes, my mother insisted that we kept our doors open almost all the time, just in case we needed a way out. And in all seriousness—this can happen. It’s fascinating how deeply these “traditions” take root. Even though I no longer live in a place where earthquakes are common, I am still mentally wired to keep doors open at all times. As I’ve grown, I’ve come to understand doors in a very different way. Throughout life, I’ve en...

When I was around twelve years old, a friend and I used to toss a ball over the cars passing down my street. I know—it doesn’t sound like the smartest idea—but at the time, it was incredibly entertaining. There was a thrill in waiting for one to approach, perfecting our throws, and estimating the height of the ball against the speed of the moving car. The challenge made the game addictive. Inevitably, after playing for a long time, I miscalculated. One throw fell short, and the ball smashed directly into a car’s side mirror. The moment I heard the crack, my heart dropped. I was absolutely terrified—of the driver, and even more of my father. I knew I was going to get into serious trouble. Oddly enough, I don’t remember my father ever grounding me, but in that moment, I was sure this would be the time. After facing the driver and exchanging phone numbers so we could deal with the damage later, I went inside and told my mom what had happened. Then came the worst part: waiting for my dad t...