The morning in Vista often begins under a heavy, gray marine layer that rolls in from the coast, pressing a damp, muffled stillness over the neighborhood. At 4:30 a.m., the driveways are still full. The local commuters are either blissfully unconscious or stumbling blindly toward their showers, clinging desperately to their last shred of peace before the nine-to-five grind claims them for the day.
Inside the house, the quiet is profound, broken only by the sharp, mechanical click of the kettle as it reaches a rolling boil.
I stand at the counter, watching the dark ground coffee bloom as hot water hits the French press's stainless steel. The smell is sudden and heavy—a deep, roasted-earth aroma that cuts through the morning fog. I push against the plunger’s gritty resistance, pouring a cup that radiates dark, stinging heat against my palms.
Even in this heavy quiet, my brain—conditioned by decades of managing assets and treating every Tuesday like a hidden performance review—wakes up buzzing with static, trying to optimize my Thursday. I carry the mug to the table and set my notebook down, actively fighting the conditioned urge to draft a strategic plan for cleaning the garage.
Beside my notebook sits my instrument of choice: a plastic BIC multicolor pen. People with expensive, heavy-barreled fountain pens will tell you writing is a sacred, elevated ritual, but I just like having four colors in one instrument. The plastic is light in the hand, and the stiff clack of the slider switching from blue to red is about as close to operational complexity as I intend to get before breakfast.
I don't open the notebook to build a highly productive to-do list—that would be a relapse. Instead, it serves as a mental spillway. Whatever nonsense is rattling around—a half-baked Dr. Seuss rhyme, or the sudden, urgent need to check yesterday’s Cubs score—bleeds onto the page with the smooth, deliberate scratch of ballpoint ink on paper. I might even linger to draw and color a sunrise.
In his book Wherever You Go, There You Are, Jon Kabat-Zinn calls this active clearing of space "voluntary simplicity." I call it taking out the mental trash.
Once the noise is safely quarantined on the page, the slate is clean. That’s when I step outside into the cool air and grab my bow.
I shoot a Hoyt Satori, a beautifully engineered, simple piece of equipment that demands absolute attention. Let’s be clear: I’m not training for the Olympics. Most days, I’d be thrilled to consistently hit a cantaloupe at twenty yards. But the cool, machined aluminum of the riser in my hands, the fresh scent of the damp air, and the tight, woven bite of the string against my fingers as I draw tension into my lower back demand every ounce of focus I have. You cannot fret over what to have for lunch while holding forty pounds of tension next to your cheek.
Well, you can. But you probably won't be very good at archery.
It forces me to physically inhabit the present moment.
I engage my core, feel the resistance of the limbs, settle into the shot, and let the arrow fly. For that split second, there are no expectations. Just the thwack of the target. Which, I've discovered, is a much more satisfying performance metric than anything I encountered in my working life.
It’s funny how often the phone rings these days with someone on the other end—usually someone still trapped in the nine-to-five grind—asking in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone: “Are you still in love with your retirement?”
It’s as though they expect me to break down and confess that I desperately miss morning commutes and pointless meetings. My answer is always an immediate, slightly obnoxious Yes.
You see, it isn't just the lack of a schedule. It’s because I finally own my own time, and the crushing weight of the "shoulds" has vanished.
Owning your time means losing yourself in a book without guiltily glancing at the clock. It means pulling the Trek out of the garage and pedaling down the bike path just to feel the wind in your face, rather than rushing to squeeze in a panic-workout before a morning meeting. It means having a Tuesday afternoon available for absolutely no reason whatsoever. And I am beginning to suspect that "no reason whatsoever" may be one of life's more underrated destinations.
But the absolute pinnacle of this voluntary simplicity? The peak of my newly liberated existence? Just sitting . . .
By mid-morning, the marine layer has burned off, leaving a heavy, sun-warmed stillness—the kind of quiet that makes every sound distinct and sharp. I settle into my chair, watching birds climb all over the feeder outside. A woodpecker has set up shop on the wooden fence Steve and I spent four sweating, splinter-filled months building.
Now, a bird with a brain the size of a pea is methodically dismantling our handiwork. He is a blur of nervous, feathered energy, head bobbing like a manic sewing machine, spraying tiny flecks of pale sawdust into the light with every strike. Crack. Crack. Crack.
In this moment, I just sit, sip my coffee, and admire the brutal efficiency of his work. The woodpecker doesn't appear to have a five-year plan. He isn't worried about maximizing his morning. He isn't networking or wondering whether he should be doing something more meaningful. He just finds a solid piece of wood and gives himself to the labor.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
No committee. No strategic initiative. No PowerPoint. Just wood.
It’s simple. It’s pure. And, from where I sit, it looks remarkably free of performance anxiety. The woodpecker has his work to do. And I, wonderfully, have none.
Well, okay. Maybe the dishes. And cleaning Missy’s litter box. Retirement has not eliminated all management responsibilities.
But after that, I do have one highly demanding item left on today's agenda. I’m going to get in a quick, unapologetic siesta before heading out to meet my good friend Russ for lunch. Hah, I put it on the calendar just to make sure nobody tries to double-book my REM cycle with a quick meeting.
Mastering this level of voluntary simplicity is exhausting work, but somebody has to do it.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask better questions. See you—On the Fly.
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