Song of Solomon 2:15
Catch for us the foxes,
the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
our vineyards that are in bloom.
I’m grateful that I no longer give in so easily to the primitive urges of my brain—especially when it comes to how I live each day. Since retiring, I’ve developed a lifestyle shaped more by reflection, reason, and self-discipline. This is largely thanks to the neocortex—the higher, more evolved part of the brain responsible for logic, foresight, empathy, and moral decision-making.
In my younger years, I was far more driven by what psychology calls the “id”—the primitive self. That part of us seeks immediate pleasure: food, sex, material things, high-risk excitement. Back then, I rarely questioned those impulses. Life felt like a constant tug-of-war between desire and guilt. I now understand that I was under the influence of the primitive brain—the older, reptilian and mammalian parts of the mind that govern survival instincts, aggression, lust, and addictive behavior.
But things have changed. Whether it’s due to age, illness, experience, or spiritual growth, I no longer feel those urges with the same intensity. Instead of constantly battling my impulses, I find that my neocortex—what others might call the moral compass or superego—now acts as a wise guide. It doesn’t just suppress my urges; it replaces them with better alternatives. I don’t have to fight as hard anymore. A calmer, more centered part of me gently reasons with the old impulses.
Yesterday was a good example. After a beautiful morning walk beneath a sky that shifted from soft light to heavy overcast, I felt a familiar restlessness. Years ago, I might have jumped into the car and gone searching for distractions—maybe even something or someone to satisfy a craving or fill a void. But now, those thoughts trigger a quiet internal debate:
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“Will this truly satisfy me?”
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“What are the long-term consequences?”
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“Do I even have the energy or desire to follow through?”
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“What if something goes wrong?”
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“Will I feel good about this tomorrow?”
These questions come from self-awareness, not fear. And they come up often—when I think about traveling, visiting Miami, going on spontaneous trips, or even flying back to my home country. It’s not anxiety that stops me—it’s thoughtful evaluation, a kind of internal check-in.
In the past, I used excuses to hold myself back—like responsibility to my sister, family obligations, or concerns for my safety. But truthfully, I often still gave in. I made impulsive choices. Some nearly led me to serious harm.
Now it’s different. I’m not repressing the old desires—I’m redirecting them. I walk instead of wandering aimlessly. I write rather than chasing empty connections. I have meaningful conversations in the park about health, aging, and pain—topics that matter now more than ever.
Yesterday, I spoke with a martial arts instructor who asked about tightness in his hip. As a retired physical therapist, I shared my thoughts on the difference between muscle and joint restriction, and how to safely increase range of motion. Earlier, I had spoken to a kind, slightly overweight man who often sits alone at the far end of the boardwalk. We talked about aging and illness. That’s the kind of connection I now seek.
This park has become a kind of classroom for me. Over the years, I’ve seen all kinds of people pass through—from local families to addicts, drifters, and rehab patients. When sober homes for profit flooded our town years ago, many out-of-state young people were brought here to recover. Some succeeded. Others didn’t. I watched many fall through the cracks—abandoned, relapsed, wandering the streets far from home.
It’s shaped how I see people. There’s a quiet young man who often sits alone at the far end of the boardwalk. He’s well-groomed and clean—not homeless. But something about him makes me wonder if he might be a dealer. Yesterday, the martial arts teacher left in a hurry right after talking to me—possibly headed toward him. I can’t say for sure. It’s just a hunch, and I could be wrong. But I’ve learned to trust my observations.
I remember a young man named C–––, a homeless kid who looked clean and normal—until he was arrested for selling fentanyl that caused someone’s death. Appearances can be misleading.
And then there’s J–––, a woman who’s had multiple strokes. She still walks the park with others who are homeless or addicted. She often tells stories of being robbed or assaulted. Once she paid for a hotel room to be with C–––, only to be robbed by him and left behind. She was angry, but unaware that she was acting out of compulsion. That’s what happens when the primitive brain dominates—it hijacks judgment and shuts down self-care.
J––– could live safely in a facility using her disability or Social Security checks. But she, like others, chooses to live on the streets—where she can spend her money on drugs or unstable relationships. I think of another woman, B–––, who died drunk on a street corner after losing her husband. Her son, later found high and drifting, was another life lost to impulse and emotional chaos.
This is what I fear most—not just for others, but for myself and for society. When we live solely from the primitive brain, we throw out reason, love, responsibility, and even our dignity. That’s the path I want to avoid.
So how do I resist it?
I speak with the Lord. Constantly.
I believe the neocortex is more than just a part of the brain—it is where the Holy Spirit dwells. While the primitive brain is wired for survival, the neocortex is wired for transformation. Through prayer, quiet reflection, meditation, and writing down my thoughts, I keep the conversation going with God.
I also find strength in spending time with people who share this same spirit. A good friend, a kind partner, or someone who lives from their higher self—these relationships help me stay rooted in what matters.
When I look around and see the chaos in the world—politicians addicted to power, influencers hungry for attention, people filming fights and violence for clicks—it’s clear that the primitive brain is on full display. Even some Facebook posts are so vulgar, impulsive, and unrestrained they feel more animalistic than human.
That’s why I write. That’s why I reflect. That’s why I give thanks—because I know the Holy Spirit lives in me and speaks quietly when the lower parts of me try to rise. Every day, I ask:
“Is this good?”
And more often than not, that simple question brings me back to peace, to purpose, and to the stillness where grace lives.