I’m standing on my kitchen porch as dawn emerges. A milky colored sky. High clouds with faint splashes of gold and pink. Sock feet. Flannel comfy pants. An old Diversified Trees sweatshirt with a stain on the right sleeve.

I have a coffee mug in one hand. Arm bent at the elbow, ready at any given notice to lift and supply life-giving elixir to the orifice just above my chin.

I am motionless and quiet at the top of the steps surveying my little neck of the woods. I imagine myself a peasant lord standing on the balcony of his manor. An owl hoots at me. In reality, I own none of this. It is I who have invaded his domain.

I can see a house light through the woods from my neighbor across the creek. A light near enough to be seen, yet far enough away to be almost unnoticeable.

She’s up and about. Alone in her own kind of quiet without Wayne. I know what that feels like. I have moved inside that emptiness before. Yet I smile because I have company on this fine morning.

I raise and tip my cup toward the hillside.

I used to walk out on these steps most every morning. Regular as clockwork. Early. Five days a week. Sometimes more.

The stars would still be out in full array. I’d have a coffee cup in one hand, a lunch box in the other. I’d usually pause to look up for a moment before jumping in the truck. Late January, like today, Orion would be off to my right behind the big pine.

I’ve only been retired for a little over 18 months but sometimes that early morning routine feels so long ago that I can hardly remember what it was like. I walked out on the porch this morning because it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember the last time I saw the stars in the morning.

I’m up early enough. But I don’t take the time to go outside first thing. Most of the time, I relish the quiet. I read a book. A couple days a week I write these ridiculous stories. Before I realize it, I look out through the back door, beyond the porch screen, and the sun is up.

I think about this sometimes. There are parts of my past that I miss, like seeing the stars in the morning. Like having my child crawl up in my lap. Like being fearless on a roller coaster.

There’s just something about the human soul that reaches back and remembers with fondness the way things used to be. We get in those moods where we long for the past more than we live in the present.

And it’s always the good moments we remember. The experiences that made us pause in awe or gratitude. We would say to ourselves, “I hope this never changes.” “I wish I could stay right here forever.” “I’m going to hold on to this as long as I can.”

But life is about today, not yesterday. Life moves on. Nothing stays the same. Children grow up. Rollercoasters lose their charm. The dawn replaces the stars.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I don’t get up and out as early as I used to do. Being an early starter is something that has defined me for a long time. I learned that from my dad.

After breakfast, Mama would let me crawl back under the warm covers for a few minutes before having to get dressed. I didn’t go back to sleep. I listened.

I could hear Dad grab his lunch box off the counter. A few muffled words with Mama. The swack of a kiss. The front door would open. I could tell he held on to the screen door until it shut because it didn’t slam shut. Then his truck door would open and shut. The engine roared. The gravel beneath his tires crunched, and he was gone.

My goodness, it was dark outside. Nothing but stars.

I thought everybody started their day like that. And, so, that’s the habit I established for myself. Even when I didn’t have to. I was an owner/operator. Small business. I could’ve set a different start time for work. But I kept it early.

I think I have left the house maybe a half dozen times in the last year and a half early enough to see the stars. My world is not what it used to be.

And the truth is, it can’t be.

This is it. Me standing on the porch in comfy pants rather than bringing order to the day at the tree farm. This is my season now.

You really never know if you’re ready for a change until you make the change. You’re pretty sure you’re ready. You feel in your gut that the time is right. The rat race gets old.

Building a business used to get your blood pumping. Now, running a business gives you a headache. But you don’t know if retiring is the right move until you live in it for a while.

Well, I’ve been in it long enough to know by now. And here’s what I know.

I had lunch with my old business partner recently. Guess what? The business is doing really well without me. I’m not saying I’m expendable. I’m just saying the world doesn’t wait on anyone.

In fact, while I stand here on my porch with socks on my feet, I can hear in my head the diesel trucks warming up under the barn. Cory and I are talking louder than normal over the den of noise.

I wonder where they might be going today. I can hear the chains clanging as they buck down the equipment. The clank of a stabilizer foot, as it slams up underneath a trailer.

I can see it all, and I can feel my absence from it.

The beauty of this moment is that I am content with my absence from that world because I am content with my presence here on this porch. I have embraced a different season of life. I have learned to enjoy my coffee at dawn rather than in my truck on the ride to the farm.

That’s what it takes. Being content in any season of life. The old “bloom where you’re planted,” notion. See the bright side. Find the good. Love life.

Gheez! I sound like a self-help therapist. Gag me!

But that’s what I feel right now. The sun is coming up. I’m grateful for new opportunities and new gifts in my life that would never have happened during my working days. My life is full of things I never dreamed possible.

So, thank you Lord for the perspective. Thank you for the many seasons of life that are so different and so full of new challenges.

Thank you for the memories that make me smile. Thank you for the dawn that follows the stars. Thank you for helping me find contentment on the backend of this life.

My comfy pants fit me just fine.

So does retirement.