Millions long for immortality who don't know what to do with

Hear now, O children of thought and leisure, the wry and wondrous words of Susan Ertz, who wrote: “Millions long for immortality who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.” In this sentence lies a paradox both gentle and profound — a mirror held up to the restless soul of humankind. She speaks with quiet irony, yet behind her jest lies a solemn truth: that many who dream of eternity cannot yet master the art of living a single day.

Susan Ertz, a novelist of the early twentieth century, lived in a time when modern comfort had begun to replace struggle, when people had gained leisure but lost purpose. From this soil of idleness and yearning, her words arose like a sigh — a reminder that the human spirit often chases grand illusions while neglecting the small sanctities of life. We speak of immortality, of endless years and infinite meaning, yet how many of us truly cherish the fleeting hours we already possess? How many can sit with themselves in silence and find peace, rather than boredom?

The ancients, who lived without the luxuries of our age, knew well the art of being present. The philosopher Epicurus, though branded a hedonist, taught that happiness was not in excess, but in contentment — that the wise person learns to find joy in a cup of water, a conversation, or the warmth of sunlight. Likewise, Marcus Aurelius, the emperor-philosopher, wrote: “Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.” He did not speak of eternity, but of the sacred weight of each passing moment. To live well in an afternoon, he would say, is to have lived a lifetime.

Ertz’s rainy Sunday is not merely a day; it is a symbol of the quiet stretches of existence — the pauses between grand achievements, when the noise of ambition falls away and the self stands alone. It is in these moments that many discover the emptiness of their pursuits. The longing for immortality, then, is often a fear of stillness — the dread of confronting one’s own spirit without distraction. If one cannot find meaning in a quiet day, how shall one find it in a thousand years?

Consider the story of Leo Tolstoy, the great writer who, after conquering fame and fortune, fell into despair. He had everything — wealth, genius, family — yet found himself haunted by the question, “What then?” It was not until he learned to see holiness in the ordinary — the plowman in the field, the laughter of children, the rhythm of a simple life — that he began to find peace. His crisis was the crisis Ertz describes: the soul that seeks eternal purpose without learning the grace of present contentment.

There is also a subtle wisdom in her humor. She mocks gently, not cruelly, for she sees in this contradiction a universal truth. Humanity has always reached for the stars, yet stumbled over the small stones of daily being. Her words remind us that before we desire immortality, we must learn to bear the weight and wonder of life itself. To demand eternity while wasting the hours is to ask for more pages in a book we refuse to read.

So let this teaching be carried in your heart: do not seek more time — seek more life within your time. Learn to befriend the ordinary. Watch the rain fall and hear it as music. Sit in silence and know that you are enough. Speak with those you love, not of eternity, but of the simple joys that fill the present hour. For when the soul finds peace in a quiet afternoon, it has already tasted immortality, not as endless years, but as timeless awareness.

And remember this final truth, O wanderer of restless spirit: immortality begins not after death, but in the moment we learn to live. The one who can greet a rainy Sunday with gratitude and wonder has already conquered time itself — for they have found the eternity hidden in a single heartbeat, a single breath, a single day well-lived.