FINDING MY OWN LIGHT

A familiar hurt aches my body,
When sweet promises become broken truths.
My mind remains lost and somewhat foggy,
Leaving just your words as signs of abuse.

You try to run away but cannot flee,
Yet, my broken heart bleeds in ways unknown.
There are no signs of the hurt you caused me,
Leaving me to show you how I have grown.

One lesson, I should have already known,
I learned, love myself first, before others. 
I’m not lonely but I am all alone,
Giving my soul time as it recovers.

Once I accepted this enlightenment,
Instantly my life became easier.
No longer anyone’s entitlement,
I learned to live life stronger not weaker. 

Revealing hidden traits one at a time,
I now walk with purpose and a new me.
Knowing my tomorrows will be sublime,
Seeing how I am finally set free.

WEATHERING LIFE’S STORMS TOGETHER

I sit and watch the clouds conquer the morning sun,
While I ponder the worries of my friend away,

I see the gray clouds take over the clear blue sky,
Much like the pain and anguish held deep in his soul. 

I feel a heaviness in the air around us,
Perhaps it was the storm pressing its weight on us.

Or maybe it was the tension between us both,
Our t-shirts clung on to us, soaked through to the skin.

As the storm neared, the thunder roared through the dark sky, 
Drowning out my own voice as I speak to my friend.

Not hearing a word I said, my friend stares at me,
Wondering what I was trying to say to him.

The darkest clouds released the rain it held on to,
Just like the tears rolling down my friend’s frightened face.

The rain comes down harder than when it first started,
Creating its own noise, drowning out our voices.

A flash of lightning lights up the darkest sky,
Much like a camera’s flash taking a picture.

I watched the rain fade away into the gray sky, 
As he wiped his tears away and began talking.

As he unfolded his story, I felt his pain,
I listened, to not just hear words, but be present.

He shared his life’s strife and how he couldn’t let go,
Ruminating the choices made at life’s crossroads.

I watched his face transform from despair to relief, 
Like the dark clouds swept away by the midday sun.

When I looked over at his newly relieved face,
I caught a glimpse of my friend’s once long lost smile.

The sun seized the sky from the dark gray clouds again,
Returning back to the bright cobalt clear blue sky.

The sun shining its light on his new found life’s path,
Knowing that I’ll be by his side through thick or thin.

The storm itself became the photo we never took,
Capturing what our words could never speak aloud.

Reminding us, we had found each other again,
With the moment etched into our remaining days.

WHEN THE ECHO WENT SILENT

Whether we chat once a day,
Once a week or once a month.
Knowing that we can pick-up,
Exactly where we left off.
Without skipping a heartbeat,
It’s what marks our close friendship.
In return, all I ask for,
An acknowledging echo.

I will share my life’s stories,
Share myself for all my days.
I will trust you with secrets,
Share the truths I rarely speak.
I will celebrate your wins,
Share the joy you place in me.
I will be there when life’s tough,
Share the weight of your burden.
I will pour my emotions,  
Share all your fears and losses.
I will listen when you cry,
Share an ear to hear your say.
I will stand through life’s hardship,
Share the quiet of your thoughts.
I will be there by your side,
Share life’s journey, step by step.

Slowly, almost quietly,
Nothing but everything changed.
When your voice grew quieter,
Then footsteps faded away.
The day when the echo stopped,
I finally heard silence.
It’s the day I understood,
You already exited.  

 

KNOWING WHEN TO PULL THE CORD

Years passed by faster than I imagined,
Months are moments in time to remember.
Can’t believe it’s my time to retire,
After serving just over forty years.
Over the years, I’ve met some great people,
For they became my chosen family.
Some managed to leave a mark on my soul,
Others will always have a place in my heart.
Unbeknownst to me, on my first day of work,
This would be my calling and devotion.
Having lived a meaningful journey in,
Following my career through many jobs.
Learned through great mentors and supervisors,
Of learning how to keep life in balance.
Reciprocating through my mentorship,
In passing along tales that shaped my path.
Debating what I will do next in life,
After all, my story isn’t done yet.

 

  

CARRYING FORWARD THE FAMILY NAME

It’s when tales become, 
Brain fog and despair, 
The stories remain, 
Memories untold.

When stories fade, 
Mist in the mind, 
Shadows that press, 
Memory thinned.

Still stories stay, 
Flowers in books, 
Held through the years, 
Kept in their nooks. 

Coming before you,
Voices are still warm, 
Guiding you through change, 
Like the calm of a storm.

Trust the spoken past, 
They mean well with words, 
Even in difference 
Of their opinions.

Countless stories shared, 
Passed through from blood lines, 
From generations, 
Past to the present.

Armed with strength in words, 
Then followed through with 
Guaranteed action 
On promises made.

Whispers talk at night 
Tell tales no one tells, 
But those are stories 
That must be passed on. 

Words become the light, 
Lanterns at dusk lit, 
Steadying our hearts, 
Teaching just to trust. 

When the years grow full, 
Lift all what remains— 
Name, echo and blood, 
Flowing through our veins.

Even the painful ones, 
It helps heal and grow 
Future generations 
Understand their past.

Bloodlines are just threads, 
Pulled from the years past, 
Bringing us closer, 
Than ever before.

Just as when there’s pain, 
Cold as winter’s air, 
Helps future young hearts 
Learn how to survive.

When time’s a burden, 
Carrying forward 
The family name 
Is all that is left.

 

FROM BELONGING AND BECOMING TO LEGACY AND CALLING

The YMCA has been woven through my life for as long as I can remember, even though I wasn’t the kid who packed a trunk for sleep‑away camp or spent summers in day camp. My childhood didn’t need that kind of structure; it had its own rhythm. I had a stay‑at‑home mom—the kind who could have stepped out of those early TV shows where the house was always tidy and the kids always made it home in time for dinner. While some of my friends bounced between camps and after‑school programs, I had a different rhythm: a steady home base, a handful of “school‑year friends”, and a set of “summer friends” I only saw when the seasons allowed.

The Y became my social outlet long before I understood what that meant. The neighborhoods we lived in didn’t always have kids my age and the Y filled that gap with drop‑off activities, swim lessons, karate classes, and the simple gift of being around other children. It wasn’t the structured after‑school world kids know today—it was looser, more improvisational. You showed up, you played, you learned something and you went home a little more tired and a little more connected.

Summers were their own chapter. From the moment school let out, I disappeared into our family cottage just north of Toronto, where the days were stitched together with swimming, fishing, hiking, canoe trips, boat rides for ice cream, and grocery runs into town. By the time I returned home in the fall, the Y was waiting for me again—familiar, steady, and full of the friends I’d left behind. When we eventually moved to South Florida, the pattern continued: karate classes, helping with the pee‑wee (youngest karate class) group, and, before long, my first job at the Y. I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of a forty‑year career and a lifetime of belonging.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was already becoming a Y‑Brat—one of those kids who grows up in the YMCA and never really leaves. My first job there in high school felt small and ordinary, but it quietly set the course for the next forty years. I stayed with the same association, moving through departments and roles, collecting people along the way who became anchors in my life. Some taught me, some challenged me, and some became family. It wasn’t just a workplace; it was the landscape where I grew up twice.

1.    My Story, Told Chronologically

I started out as the quiet kid—the one who watched more than he spoke. I wasn’t shy; I was observant. I learned early that people reveal themselves in the pauses, the glances, the small gestures. Listening became my superpower long before I knew it was one. I didn’t need to be the center of attention to understand the room. I just needed to be present.

That instinct followed me into adulthood. I became the person who could walk into a space and immediately sense what needed doing, who needed support, and where the energy was flowing. I didn’t call it leadership. I just called it being me.

2. Finding My Place At The YMCA

When I found my way to the YMCA, it wasn’t just a job. It was a place where my natural strengths—empathy, steadiness, context, humor—actually mattered. I built a career not by chasing titles but by becoming the person people could rely on.

I wore a lot of hats over the years: payroll, grants, training, directing, storytelling. Each role fit because I made it fit. I wasn’t the loudest voice in the meeting, but I was the one people trusted. I remembered the details. I understood the mission. I could translate chaos into something workable.

Somewhere along the way, I became a mentor. Not because I declared myself one, but because younger staff kept showing up at my door—asking questions, seeking perspective, or just needing someone who wouldn’t judge them for being human. I offered what I always had: steadiness, humor, and the sense that things would be okay.

3.    The Legacy We Leave In Ordinary Days

Legacy is a funny word. It sounds big—like something carved in stone or announced at a banquet. But most of us who spent our lives in the YMCA know better. Legacy isn’t the plaque on the wall. It’s the people who walked through our doors and left a little stronger, a little steadier, a little more hopeful than when they arrived.

The real work was never dramatic. It lived in the small, everyday moments that never made it into a report: the parent who finally exhaled because someone listened, the staff member who found their confidence, the child who learned to float and suddenly believed they could do anything. Those moments linger. They become the quiet threads of a life’s work.

Retirement gives you time to notice that. Time to realize that the true legacy of a YMCA career isn’t measured in programs launched or budgets balanced. It’s measured in the ways we helped people feel seen. It’s in the stories others still tell about us, sometimes without our knowing. It’s in the habits of kindness we passed on simply by showing up, day after day, with our sleeves rolled up and our hearts open.

And here’s the part I didn’t expect: legacy grows in retirement. It shifts. It softens. It becomes less about what we built and more about who we continue to be.

4.   The Slow Build Toward Retirement

Retirement didn’t sneak up on me, but it didn’t arrive with trumpets either. It came with cardboard boxes, old files, and a few unexpected emotions. I made my classic pro‑and‑con list—pen to paper, honest and unfiltered. I sorted through years of memories, relationships, and routines. I shed a few tears, not out of regret, but because endings—even the right ones—carry weight.

People kept asking, “What will you do with all that time?”

I kept answering, “That’s the least of my worries.”

And I meant it.

But beneath that confidence was a quieter truth: I was stepping out of a life defined by service and into a life defined by choice. That shift takes courage, even when it’s welcome.

5.    My First Days Of Freedom

My new mornings became my anchor. No alarms. No commute. No inbox waiting to ambush me. Instead, I woke early—because that’s who I am—and walked to the beach. The sunrise became my new supervisor, the ocean my new office. I traded fluorescent lights for salt air, meetings for waves, and deadlines for the slow, steady rhythm of the tide.

I still worked out at the Y, but now it was on my terms. I started each session with conversation—my closest friends, my chosen family. My mouth warmed up before my muscles. I moved enough to earn my treats, the ones that had tempted me my whole life.

My days filled themselves with a kind of ease I hadn’t known in decades: errands, chores, long showers, comfy clothes, music, TV binges, planning trips, and rediscovering the hobbies I once had to squeeze into the margins. Writing. Sketching. Painting. Reading. Cooking. Hosting dinners and game nights that left my home full of laughter and my sink full of dishes—both signs of a life well‑lived.

6.   The Quiet Work Of Reinvention

But beneath the routines, I was doing deeper work. I was learning how to be retired without becoming a retired identity. I was figuring out how to stay connected without the built‑in social structure of work. I was redefining friendships, rediscovering solitude, and learning to trust my own rhythms.

I finally named what I’d always known: I’m a learned social introvert. I enjoy people, but I need time to recharge. I thrive in meaningful conversation, not in large crowds. I give generously, but I protect my energy.

And I realized something important: the parts of me that mattered most—my humor, my steadiness, my empathy, my storytelling—didn’t retire. They simply shifted into new spaces.

7.    The Writer In Me Steps Forward

With time and space, my writing deepened. I began shaping poems, essays, parables, and reflections that explored reunion, legacy, mentorship, and the quiet beauty of everyday life. I revised, refined, and polished with the discipline of someone who understands that words are tools, not decorations.

I wasn’t just filling time. I was building something: a body of work that reflects who I am and what I’ve lived.

8.   Mentorship In A New Form

Even in retirement, I didn’t stop mentoring. I simply shifted the setting. Instead of payroll systems and grant proposals, I offered wisdom, context, and perspective. I became a foundation—steady, grounded, and generous—upon which younger staff could build their own chapters.

I didn’t cling to the past. I honored it. I didn’t lament leaving. I celebrated what came next. I didn’t fade into the background. I became the quiet voice reminding others that legacy isn’t about titles; it’s about impact.

9.   The Life I’m Living Now

My life today is defined by presence, not productivity. By connection, not obligation. By choice, not routine.

I walk. I work out. I write. I savor sunrises. I nurture friendships that feel like family. I enjoy meals, stories, movies, and board games with the people who matter most. I explore new experiences. I protect my solitude. I laugh often. I reflect deeply.

Legacy shows up in all of it—in the stories I share, the people I support, the wisdom I pass on, and even in the moments when I give myself permission to rest. After decades of caring for others, that too is a kind of wisdom worth passing on.

10.   The Ongoing Chapter

My story isn’t about retirement or a great career or even growing up in the YMCA. It’s about evolution. It’s about stepping into a life shaped by intention, creativity, and connection. It’s about honoring the past without living in it. It’s about writing the next chapter with the same steady presence that carried me through the last one.

I’m not done. I’m not drifting. I’m not looking back with regret.

I’m still creating. Still shaping. Still leaving a legacy—quietly, gently, and often without fanfare.

And that, in its own way, is the most enduring legacy of all.

 

CROSSING OVER

Say good-bye,
show me your love.

As you hold my hand,
my heartbeat softens,
eventually,
stops pulsing. 

When my terrestrial days finish,
shadows lurk in my life’s darkness
where only memories remain.

Flashing before my very eyes,
my entire life is replayed
in mere seconds not a lifetime.

A welcoming staircase appears,
dropping from the cloudless blue sky,
as an invitation from heaven.

I wondered if this was a dream,
everything looked familiar yet,
I’ve never been here before,

Once I arrived,
the gates opened.
I felt as if God embraced me,
with His heartfelt warmth and presence.

I was greeted
by past faces
of family and friends
from years past,
as if they knew of my coming.

From all those who remembered me,
tales of me were shared between tears,
and through all their muted voices.

Then I heard His thundering voice
welcoming me to my new home,
with a liturgy gifting peace.

So here I am now,
finding my way,
around here. 

I feel lost,
finding myself,
in a new shadow
of my former self.

 

BREAKING SILENCE AND SEPARATION

Anxiously waiting, watching, wondering who’ll move first,
From our very long overdue spoken greeting,
To an awkward, silent embrace of long-lost friends.

With an embrace imminent, I opened my arms,
As our aging bodies approached each other,
Like after a season’s lengthy hibernation.

After years without speaking or seeing each other,
First words, carefully crafted, avoiding some tears,
Though some streamed down our unshaven faces,

It felt like only yesterday since we last spoke, 
Yet, a simple, “Hello” broke the long silent void, 
A single voice dissolved time we thought were long lost.

Then slowly, all our words began to flow freely,
Like an artist’s brush dancing on a fresh canvas, 
Painting warm hues into a rising day’s landscape.

In that brief moment, nothing was lost between us,
Just old memories reclaimed and new stories shared, 
Opening new pathways to tomorrow’s friendship.  

BORROWED DAYS FROM FATHER TIME

Before I know it, 
Another week passes by,
But in reality, it’s a whole month.

“Can you slow it down?” 
Father Time just shook his head,
With a resounding, dissenting, “No!”

He explained to me,
“It will only go faster,”
just as another year passes by.

I fill all my days, 
I try to not waste a day, 
but somehow time seems to slip by me.

I glance at my watch,
Take a second longer look,
Only realize another day’s done.

I let out a sigh,
Out of my own frustration,
Knowing another day escaped me.

I make a promise,
As God is my soul witness, 
I’ll better plan my remaining days.

Father Time questions,
Whether or not to loan me,
Another day for my next chapter.

Then reminding me,
“Today’s been promised to you,”
“Make each moment count and memorable.”

I take time to thank, 
Both Father Time and God too,
For trusting me with their offering.

I heard both saying,
With their final words to me,
Which I’ll hold on to for all my days.

“When life throws a curve,
Reality settles in,
Tomorrow is not a guarantee.”

 

WHEN DAYS WHERE LONGER

Wearing only my t-shirt and house shorts,
I walked to the mailbox for the day’s mail. 
Quickly thumbing through it, they were all bills,
With a few pieces of junk and flyers.

As I opened my credit card statement,
I noticed it was now almost past due.
I decided to place a call to them,
Letting them know I just received the bill.

I told them I’ll mail out payment today,
So my balance won’t be credited late.
Before picking up the corded wall phone,
I fumbled for the telephone number.

I heard the dial tone, then continued,
Pressing down each of the numbered buttons.
Between silences, a low grumble played,
Until picked up by a robotic voice.

The voice greeted me, gave me some options,
I pressed the number for billing options.
There was a short wait for a live agent,
Her crystal clear voice confirmed my info.

I proceeded to state my question or two,
She listened attentively while I talked.
She asked if she could put me on a hold,
With my acknowledgment, there was silence.

Within a few minutes her voice returned,
Answering my questions with a smile.
She confirmed my payment will post timely,
So long as its post marked with today’s date.

I thanked her for her time and went on my day.
Put the corded phone back on its cradle.
Then headed to the den for my checkbook,
I wrote out a check for the amount due.

I scribbled in all the payment details, 
Into the mess of a check register.
I gently detached the payment coupon,
From the rest of my credit card statement.

I stuffed both payment coupon and the check,
In the wrinkled envelope tucked within.
Before I sealed the envelope, I checked
Then double checked contents, all good to go.

Found a stamp and a return address label,
And now it was ready to be mailed out. 
I mailed it at the nearest post office,
Making sure its postmark shows today’s date.

In the naive eyes of today’s young folks, 
It only takes a few cell phone keystrokes.
All done before the morning coffee cools,
They never knew anything different.

Yet, there was comfort in those slower steps,
A quiet rhythm woven through the day.
The stamps, the glue and the race to beat the clock,
Life moved at the pace of paper and ink.

But time has a habit of moving on, 
Breaking old routines and changing habits.
We traded patience for convenience,
Losing small rituals we didn’t know we’d miss.

LETTING GO DOESN’T MEAN WALK AWAY

My regular readers will recognize familiar threads woven through these pages — moments from my first days at the YMCA, echoes from the years that followed and reflections shaped long after I retired. These themes return not because I’ve forgotten I’ve written them before, but because they continue to reveal new angles, new lessons, new truths worth holding up to the light again. Some stories ask to be revisited. Some experiences deepen each time we look back at them. This collection honors that rhythm – even when at times they don’t necessarily follow expected chronological timelines.

After one year of retirement, I gathered my reflections into a piece called A Manifesto of Lessons Learned in My First Year of Retirement. I wrote it almost exactly on the anniversary of stepping away from my career.  If there’s one thing decades in the YMCA taught me, it’s how to respect a calendar. That first piece was my attempt to make sense of what the year had taught me, or at least convince myself I hadn’t spent twelve months reorganizing closets or mindlessly watching television and pretending that counted as “growth.” 

A few months later, I followed it with Echoes of My Past Shape My Third Act, which dug into a quieter truth: I wasn’t regretting early retirement — I was grieving the end of an illustrious career. Apparently, you can miss something and still be glad you left it, which feels unfair, like emotional fine print no one warns you about.

The shift itself was abrupt. One day my calendar was packed with meetings over meals, coffee catch‑ups, hallway conversations, and the steady hum of people needing things from me. The next day, all of it stopped. No warning, no tapering, just… silence. It’s hard not to call that a loss, even if part of me enjoyed the sudden freedom to eat lunch without an agenda. What took longer to understand was that I wasn’t just adjusting to a new routine; I was mourning the part of myself shaped by decades of purpose, responsibility, and connection. A long, meaningful career occupies more than your schedule — it occupies your identity. Letting go of that was something I had to grieve in my own time, preferably with coffee, long walks, and the occasional pep talk reminding myself that “unstructured time” is not a moral failing.

1.    A Career Built on Contribution, Not Spotlight

YMCA careers take many shapes. Some people move through multiple associations, collecting titles and chasing the next challenge. Others, like me, spend decades rooted in one place, building programs, relationships, and culture from the inside out. My work was never about visibility; it was about contribution — the quiet kind that keeps an organization steady.

For more than forty years, I worked behind the scenes to make the magic happen. I wasn’t chasing corner offices or spotlight moments. I was the steady presence who made sure the lights came on, the programs ran, and the payroll didn’t implode. That rhythm suited me. It shaped me.

On my last day, I walked out the same doors I’d walked through for decades. No confetti, no montage — just me, a box of memories, and a key card that no longer opened anything. Simple, fitting, and exactly my style.

2.    Retirement Changes the Schedule, Not the Wiring

Retiring two days before my fifty‑fifth birthday wasn’t an escape or a crisis. It was intentional — the first time I chose my life’s pursuits over my career’s demands. Today’s workforce is used to change; lifers like me experienced fewer transitions, so when the big one comes, it can feel abrupt. But abrupt doesn’t mean negative. It just means different.

Retirement changes your calendar, but it doesn’t change your wiring. After years in a mission‑driven community, you don’t simply flip a switch and disconnect. Most of us look forward to the same things: time with family, relocating or downsizing, long-delayed travel, hobbies we set aside, trying new ones, or simply breathing after years of service. There’s no single path — and no wrong one.

3.    Identity Evolves, It Doesn’t Disappear

What surprised me wasn’t the quiet — it was realizing how much of my identity had been stitched into the Y polos I wore over the years. I was Robert the payroll guy, the grant writer, the trainer, the program director, and the association historian. I was the one people came to for answers, history, or a calm voice in the middle of chaos.

When that role ended, I had to ask a question I hadn’t asked in years: Who am I when no one needs anything from me?

The answer didn’t arrive dramatically. It came in small moments — morning walks, quiet afternoons, conversations with friends who knew me long before job titles did. I realized I was still the storyteller. Still the listener. Still someone who values connection, even if I prefer it in smaller, more intentional doses.

Identity doesn’t evaporate. It evolves.

4.   Rebuilding Connection With Intention

Like many men, most of my friendships lived inside the workday. We bonded through tasks, not dinners or weekend plans. When the job ended, some relationships naturally shifted — not out of malice, just out of distance.

But losing the surface‑level connections made the meaningful ones stand out. A few coworkers became chosen family, the kind who stay long after the name badge is gone. Community doesn’t disappear; it just needs to be rebuilt with intention.

As a social introvert, I’m learning to build connection differently now — smaller circles, deeper conversations, and more time with people who matter.

5.    Why Some Retirees Return — and Why Some Don’t

For many Y retirees, letting go doesn’t feel like closing a chapter so much as setting down a familiar book. Not everyone chooses to pick it back up. Nearly half of Y retirees prefer not to stay connected at all, and that percentage continues to rise. Those who do reconnect often wait a year or more. Both choices are valid. Whether you return often, occasionally, or not at all, the years you gave remain part of the story.

For those who eventually wander back, the connection looks different than it once did. No roles. No responsibilities. No advice. Just presence, shared history, and the comfort of familiar faces.

It’s rarely about programs or policies. It’s about walking into a lobby where someone still remembers your name. It’s about catching up with a former coworker who knew you long before retirement reshaped your days. It’s the ease of conversations that don’t require explanation — simply being there.

6.   Presence Without Pressure

What returning isn’t is stepping into the role of advisor or mentor. Experience only becomes guidance when someone asks for it. Otherwise, it can feel like interference, especially in a world where the new generation wants the freedom to write their own story. That tension isn’t personal; it’s generational.

Staying connected becomes something simpler: presence without pressure.

Sometimes it’s sitting in the lobby with a cup of coffee. Other times it’s a conversation that drifts from memories to everyday life. Sometimes it’s simply being a familiar face in a place that once felt like a second home.

The Y doesn’t disappear — it changes shape. Staying connected means allowing your relationship with the Y to evolve into something lighter, rooted in shared history rather than responsibility.

7.    Why the Y Still Needs Its Retirees

Here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: the YMCA still needs its retirees. Not as relics, but as resources.

New staff walk in with energy and ideas, but they don’t always know the history behind the mission. They don’t know the stories behind the policies, the battles behind the budgets, or the values that shaped the culture they’ve inherited.

They need someone willing to share their own history and the association’s history on their terms.  Then relate it to the next generation not as advice but as perspective when they initiate conversations regarding topics such as variations of the proverbial – who? what? when? where? why? and how?   Here are some examples of questions I’ve asked my mentors over the years.

•       “Who are some key people I should get to know?”

•       “Who was that one person or two who provided you mentorship?”

•       “What was learned doing it the hard way?”

•       “What did you try that absolutely did not work?”

•       “When did you know the Y was your calling?”

•       “When did you know it was time to move on or retire?”

•       “Where do I go from here?”

•       “Where did most of your support come from?”

•       “Why did you do it this way?”

•       “Why did you stick it out through all the changes?”

•       “How can I build my own story to share?”

•       “How do I know if I am ready for the next step?”

Sharing that history isn’t nostalgia. It’s stewardship. It’s giving the future a head start.

Staying connected doesn’t mean hovering or reliving old days. It means offering perspective, the kind that helps the next generation avoid the potholes we already fell into — sometimes twice. It means being the anchor while they chart the course. It means giving context, clarity, and continuity — the things only experience can provide.

Legacy isn’t about titles. It’s about the lives we touched and the wisdom we can still give.

8.   A Wider Path Forward

Retirement isn’t an ending. It’s a widening — of time, perspective, and possibility. Letting go doesn’t mean walking away. It means walking differently, with intention and clarity.

The Y shaped me, but it didn’t define all of me. I’m still the storyteller. Still the person who shows up when it counts. Still someone who values connection — just not the kind that comes from a crowded room or a packed calendar.

What I’ve come to understand is simple: letting go of a job doesn’t mean letting go of the impact you made. The movement continues, and we still have a role to play.

Sharing what we know isn’t holding on. It’s passing something forward.

It’s important to remember if chose to go back, sometimes it’s enough just to sit, to listen, to talk and to understand letting go doesn’t mean walk away.

That alone is a legacy worth offering.

 

 

THE PEN SPEAKS MY MIND

I have always said,
my written word,
speaks louder
than my 
voice.

I can recall and remember,
Then I take my time,
ensuring timelines are on point,
details are coherent,
ruminate each rewrite 
and carefully craft 
each written word.

If I were to use 
my voice,
I fear,
I either will 
short change the story 
I am about to share or worse,
exaggerate and elongate 
the tale I am about to tell.

Once they leave my voice,
There’s no offer to taking back,
nor redo’s, nor retractions.

Once recited, 
it left my thoughts,
through my voice 
pass through my lips 
then without fail 
it’s gone forever, 
without a copy of 
what was said.

Or worse…
becoming a 
he said 
versus
they said,
with truth muddled 
somewhere in between.

Perhaps, 
when I speak,
I get clumsy at the podium,
and stutter my words
as I know I will.
It’s then I have 
lost my pace
then my purpose. 

Once I finish,
I became my worst enemy,
I try to recall my words
but best I can do is ruminate.

So I return to the page,
where my thoughts slow down,
where truth doesn’t tremble,
and clarity waits for me.

Here,
the pen speaks my mind—
and finally,
I hear myself,
before anyone else does.

UNCOVERING MYSELF THROUGH NEW ROUTINES

It’s been just over a year,
Seems like only yesterday,
Since I retired
From my career at the Y.

I spent time,
More than I probably should have,
I ruminated and
Created an old school
Pro’s and con’s list.

While emptying boxes,
A tissue or two wipes away tears
As old memories resurface.

But now its done,
Everyone asks me,
How will I fill my time,
Which will be my own.

I honestly said,
That is no issue,
As I have plenty,
Keeping me busy.

I wake up early,
Way before the sun,
Get the java going,
I no longer race,
Beating morning rush,
Get to work early,
No longer eat breakfast,
In the car or on the go
Avoiding traffic,
But in facing the rat race
Of the office politics,
Of the favorites and
Of the never ending
Phone calls, emails and visits.

I only race
Out the door to the beach,
Where I race the clock,
Greeting the waking sun,
As it scrambles the horizon,
Climbing above the ocean,
Greeting me back with His light.

I still try to workout,
Most days of the week,
At my local Y.

Before my body,
Feels any movement,
I start with my mouth,
A quick chat amongst,
My closest friends.
Only then I am ready,
Getting my muscles moving
Preventing aging and decay.
I am a far cry,
Being a gym rat,
But allows me to splurge,
In those evil treats,
Which all my life,
Bombarded my senses,
From all directions.

I fill my,
Voids in my day,
With whatever fills,
My balance of joy,
Finish chores and
Chase any errands,
Catch-up chit-chat,
With friends,
Who really are family,
Over a shared a meal,
Then catch-up on,
Latest happenings.

I find my way home,
Grab the closest drink,
With no other plans,
Take a long shower,
Get dressed in home threads,
find my comfy chair,
Either listen to,
My favorite songs,
Or put on TV,
To binge a season,
Or more of something,
I waited to watch,
When I looked the time,
Maybe find the time,
To plan my next trip.

I later decide lunch,
Meet up with a pal,
Or make something here,
It’s one of a few,
Hard pressed decisions,
I am forced to make,
Each and every day.

I return to my home,
Ready for a nap,
Maybe take time for,
One of my many
Solo diversions.
Which I fought for time,
Before this new normal.

Finding time to write,
Or even to sketch,
Or paint a picture,
Or read a novel,
Or catch up on mail,
Or some new hobby,
Which I have yet to learn,
But have the time to learn.

With more time to spare,
I try recipes,
Which collected dust,
From not seeing light,
In my junk drawer,
Or the one I caught,
Watching too many
Cooking TV shows.

I invite friends over,
Share a meal and
Some stories and more,
Maybe a movie,
Or old school board games,
Make for a relaxed,
Evening for all.

Once the evening ends,
I’ll clean up the mess,
With a smile on my face,
From new memories created,
Of the night’s events.

Then when I’m ready,
I’ll call it a night,
Say a prayer or two,
Then lights off,
Only to repeat it,
On another day.

But in reality,

Yet,
I still struggle
finding and accepting,
My new normal,
My new routines,
My new social circles,
My new triggers,
My life as I know it.

I realize I am,
No longer the shy boy,
Now a middle aged man,
I have grown to call myself,
The learned social introvert,
Where I love being with people,
Yet, my life battery drains,
Needing a full recharge,
Before I can do another round.

I reflect back,
How far I have come,
I can stand tall and proud.
With a longstanding legacy,
I left behind for years to come.

Where I first started,
Over few decades ago,
To where I finished up,
My life played out much like
A few good rounds of poker.
I played all my chips at once,
I doubled down with nothing to lose,
And after a few royal flushes,
I walked away smiling,
Knowing I won life’s jackpot.