No agenda
After a long time, I sat on my balcony—not in a rush, not checking my watch, but simply sat, with no agenda. Today, there is no office to go to, no meetings to attend, no deadlines pressing on my shoulders. I have retired, and for the first time in years, my time feels like my own. As I looked into the distance, a soft calm settled over me. The green trees stood tall, their leaves swaying gently in the breeze, whispering a language I had forgotten. That subtle, rhythmic rustle—I hadn’t noticed it in so long. It was as if nature was reminding me of all that I had missed while I was caught up in the noise of work and routine. Birds began to appear, chirping cheerfully, hopping between branches. Some were small and plain, others vibrant and striking, their feathers painted in shades I could barely name—sunset orange, deep indigo, soft yellow, emerald green. I watched in quiet awe as they moved about freely, as if celebrating my return to this moment of stillness. It struck me then how much beauty had been waiting here all along, just outside my door, just beyond my hurried life.
Today, there are no stars to chase, no races to run. The urgency of ambition has faded, and for the first time in a long time, peace feels not just possible—it feels present. I am sitting quietly on my balcony, the same balcony that once only marked the beginning or end of a hurried day. But today, it’s different. The air feels lighter. The silence is no longer empty—it’s full of life.
In the distance, I see a road, gently curving through the neighborhood like a familiar thread in a well-worn fabric. Along that road, several children are walking to school, their brightly colored backpacks bouncing with every step. They’re laughing, pushing each other playfully, talking about who-knows-what with a joy that needs no reason. Their laughter carries up to me like music, carefree and light. And suddenly, I remember.
I was like that once.
There was a time when I, too, wore a backpack bigger than my body, when the world felt simple and full of wonder. When joy came easily, without planning or permission. I remember walking down roads just like this one, barefoot sometimes, or with shoes untied, racing friends just because we could. I remember the smell of the morning air, the feel of the sun on my face, the thrill of knowing the whole day was ahead of me. Now, decades later, I sit here, watching those small reflections of my past move forward into their own stories. And for the first time in years, I don’t feel the need to catch up. I feel content just watching. The road ahead belongs to them now. My road—the one I walked with effort and purpose—has brought me here, to this peaceful moment.
And it is enough.
