Every morning, Bradley and I go for a walk.
That part is his idea as much as mine. He is at the door before I have my shoes on.
But the walk is not the main event. The main event comes after.
When we get back, Bradley expects ice cubes.
Not a bowl of water. Not a treat from the cupboard. Ice cubes. So I get a glass and fill it, and I give them to him one at a time. He takes each one with gusto, crunches it down, and looks back up for the next.
Here is the part he cares about most. A few cubes are supposed to fall on the floor.
He knows this. He counts on it. While I am at the freezer, he is already watching my hands, waiting for the ones that get away. The dropped cubes are not an accident to him. They are part of the deal. The chase across the kitchen tile is the best thirty seconds of his morning.
I could be tidier about it. I am not, because he would be disappointed, and a disappointed dog is a hard thing to live with.
I used to think a good retirement needed big plans. A list. Goals with deadlines. Something to point at.
Bradley has none of that. He has a walk and a glass of ice. And he is, without question, the most content creature in the house.
What I have come to believe is this. The thing that holds a day together is not a grand plan. It is one small fixed point you can count on. Something the day bends around.
For Bradley, it is the ice. For me, it turns out, it is Bradley.
You do not need a planner full of ambitions. You need one thing you look forward to, every day, that asks almost nothing of you. Find that, and the rest of the day has something to lean on.
The cubes will fall on the floor. That is the point.
If this is your kind of thing, I write three times a week over at the newsletter.
To leave a comment, you’ll need a free account (takes about 30 seconds):