This is going to come as a shock to you, but sometimes I receive hate mail. I know, right? As sweet, thoughtful, and frankly irrelevant as I am?

A New York Times story ran last week about how anyone in public office or with any kind of a public profile, whether on the street or digitally, receives vociferous mail, email, voicemail, or even in-person diatribes. Some of it is threatening and dangerous, especially against members of Congress, judges, and prosecutors.

Fortunately, I have never received anything threatening.

I tried to imagine what it would take for me to threaten someone, anonymously or in person. I struggled to come up with a scenario in which that might happen, with the possible exception of thinking it would protect someone I love. Then came a recent conversation about something similar, yet quite different.

A bunch of people my age — white hair (if hair at all), furrowed brows and eyelids that hang lower than they should — were sitting around talking. We wandered into sharing the voices in our heads that rant about aging. They are agitated, hangdog, stubborn, and resentful voices that resist accepting the realities of living in an older body. These voices of dissatisfaction speak at any age, but struggling to open a jar or walk a mile seem more basic than many healthy 30- or 40-something physical issues.

What we recognized as we sat there talking is how these voices are preoccupied with yesterday, accomplishments in the past that don’t exist now or that we can no longer do. And, the thing about those voices, we began to notice, is how they keep us from seeing, sensing, and enjoying the amazing things that surround us now, in almost any moment.

We don’t stop to smell the roses, so to speak, if we are complaining about how our sense of smell isn’t what it used to be. In fact, we probably won’t even enjoy the vibrant colors or delicate softness of the pedals, either. When we’re focused on how our bad knees or back won’t allow us to garden any more, it may even diminish our gratitude and appreciation for the person who has just given us roses from their garden.

Resentment is tricky and powerful. The word itself means to re-feel. It is the act of keeping something alive by re-feeling it over and over and over again. The original injury or offense may have happened 20 years ago, but by reliving those feelings we keep them fresh.

Resentment is drinking from an endless supply of bile through a straw. Being unable to accept the losses and limitations that come from aging is a kind of resentment, and it robs us of the ability to experience goodness the moment.

As we sat there talking about it, we all realized how easy it is to get pulled back from the exquisite beauty, loving-kindness, and experiences of joy that exist in nearly any moment. Grieving losses, of course, but refusing to accept them while resenting it, no.

That conversation left me to wonder about all those people out there posting hostility on social media, leaving threats on voicemail, and sending hateful letters and messages. That represents an ocean of resentment. How much beauty and joy are they missing, and can we somehow help turn that around for them and all of us?

Cameron Miller of Geneva is an author and minister. His fiction and poetry are available through Amazon. Contact him through his website at subversivepreacher.org.