At 8:00 a.m., I open the door and step onto the deck, a warm cup of coffee in hand. The sky is a brilliant blue, the sun smiling down, casting a golden glow on the trees. The green of the leaves seems more vibrant today, though a few hints of red poke through, announcing the arrival of fall. I pull the shade umbrella open and settle into my chair, placing the coffee mug on the glass table beside me. It’s so quiet. A soft breeze rustles the leaves where the forest meets my yard, moving only a few branches, as if not wanting to disturb the calm.
The cat stretches luxuriously before wrapping itself briefly around my ankles. With grace, she hops onto the Adirondack chair on the grass, content to watch the world go by. In the background, my two chickens carry on their quiet conversation, wandering the yard in search of who-knows-what.
Tranquility.
I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs, and take another sip of coffee. The warmth fills me as I close my eyes and feel the sun’s gentle touch on my face. With my eyes closed, the world turns into flickers of orange and yellow, dancing behind my lids as the warmth seeps in.
This state of "not doing," as I’ve come to call it, feels foreign. Resting in stillness isn’t something I’m naturally drawn to, but I try to ease into it, quieting the undercurrent of restlessness that threatens to rise. I’m a person of action, of plans, of tasks that need doing, of objects that need to be moved, (as my frustrated husband would testify). Early riser, sometimes up even before the sun, especially in the winter, I’d be out in the dark—letting the dog out, the cat in, unlocking the gate for the chickens, brewing coffee, or preparing to write.
But now, I remind myself, I am retired. Time stretches out before me, wide and open, unclaimed. I can take as much of it or as little as I want, or I can let it slip through my fingers like grains of fine sand. There’s no rush.
This idea of “doing” is reshaping itself into something new. It’s no longer about action in the way I used to know. Doing now is softer, less defined. It’s more fluid, easily molded into whatever shape I desire. I’m forming time, forming my new life, forming my thoughts as I sit here on the deck, basking in the sun. Just because my body is still doesn’t mean my mind is.
A new year is about to begin. My retirement years start and end in October, often coinciding with Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Apples dipped in honey, the tangy and the golden sweetness of the honey. There’s something about this moment of transition that feels like an invitation—an invitation to savor not just the sweetness of the holiday, but the sweetness of doing less. Of leaning into this soft, slow, immersive undoing.
