They say you need a lot of things in life. A job. A car. Some shoes that don’t give you blisters. A mattress that doesn’t hurt your back. Maybe some friends who laugh at your jokes and don’t ask for too much. They don’t mention courage. They don’t mention beauty. They don’t mention usefulness. But T.S. Eliot did. And I suppose that’s why no one reads poetry anymore.
He said—to do the useful thing, to say the courageous thing, and to contemplate the beautiful thing—that was enough. He said it like it was simple. Like it was tying your boots or pouring a drink. But I’ve known men who built bridges, and I’ve known men who fought wars, and I’ve known men who looked at a sunset and saw only the time. None of them seemed to think they were doing anything so noble. Most were just tired. And most were just trying to make it to Friday.
The trouble isn’t that people don’t want meaning. The trouble is they’ve forgotten what it feels like. Somewhere between buying the new phone and scrolling through the old nonsense, we started living sideways. You know—glancing, grazing, consuming things like potato chips for the mind. We became people who watch other people live, who listen to other people talk, who repeat things they’ve read on a screen and call it an opinion. We became hosts for opinions not our own. Like ghosts with borrowed voices.
And that’s the thing about courage, isn’t it? You have to say something that isn’t already being said. Something that isn’t safe. But we’re allergic to risk now. We fear being wrong more than we fear being nothing at all. Better to blend in with the slogans and hashtags. Safer to nod along. The world has turned cowardice into a system, and we all signed up without asking why.
As for usefulness, well, we’ve confused it with productivity. If you make money, you’re useful. If you fill a spreadsheet or post your brand on a platform or sell someone a vitamin supplement, you’ve done something of value. But fixing a neighbor’s fence or reading to a child or sitting quietly with someone who’s dying—these things don’t trend. They aren’t scalable. They don’t monetize well.
And beauty—God help us—we’ve starved that poor word half to death. Beauty is not filters and teeth-whitening. It is not a curated Instagram feed of sunsets and pasta. Beauty is watching someone you love struggle and not look away. It is hearing music and remembering a moment you thought you had forgotten. It is pain, redeemed by attention. But we don’t contemplate anymore. We consume. We digest quickly and move on, like there’s something better waiting in the next scroll.
So when did we stop living? That’s the question. And maybe it was gradual, like erosion. Maybe it was when we stopped walking without earbuds. Maybe it was when we stopped writing things down by hand. Maybe it was when we stopped having arguments over coffee and started posting about them instead.
I don’t know. I just know we are tired. I know we feel empty in a way that can’t be explained by work stress or weather. And I know Eliot’s words sound old-fashioned now. Like something carved into a stone no one visits. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s time we became pilgrims again. Not the kind with wide hats and buckled shoes—but the kind who walk toward something, even if they don’t know what.
Maybe it’s enough to try. To do one useful thing a day. Not productive. Useful. To say one courageous thing. Even if your voice shakes. Even if nobody clicks “like.” And to look at something—really look—and call it beautiful. Even if it breaks your heart.
That, I think, is still living. And it’s still possible.
Even now.
Join us in making the world a better place – you’ll be glad that you did. Cheers friends.