Mornings, Now That I’m Not Rushing Anywhere

Alarm clocks don’t rule my mornings anymore.

That alone is worth writing about.

For decades, my day began with a jolt—an alarm, a calendar, a queue of people expecting their spines untangled by 9am. Back then, mornings were strategy. I was a man of movement: toast in one hand, clinic keys in the other, already mentally checking patient charts before I backed out of the driveway.

But these days? These days, Bernard Michael Rochford wakes up with no one to report to except the kettle.

The Wake-Up That Isn’t One

Now I rise slowly. Not dramatically. Not late, either. Just without panic.

I wake when the room turns golden. I stretch. I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, staring at the floor like it’s a new discovery. Sometimes I mutter to myself—usually a reminder like, “Check the lemon tree,” or “Don’t wear socks with holes again.”

I don’t check my phone. Mostly because I often forget where it is. And when I do find it, I’m not met with reminders or appointment confirmations. Instead, I find a notification that someone from high school has added a new profile picture and another selling herbal supplements. No urgency. No pressure.

Bernard Michael Rochford is free to ease into his day like a teabag soaking in warm water. No rush. Just flavour.

The Ritual of the Kettle

The kettle and I have an understanding. It waits. I wait. We both hum quietly.

I make my coffee slowly. Sometimes I even hand-grind the beans, not because it tastes better (though it does), but because it gives me something to do with purpose before 8am.

I use the same chipped mug every morning—navy blue with the words "World’s Okayest Dad.” My daughter gave it to me as a joke. I drink from it daily like it’s a trophy.

Out the back window, the world shuffles awake. I see the same cat hop the same fence. I see bins being dragged to the curb. I see a neighbour trying to back out of his driveway while eating toast. And I think to myself: There but for the grace of retirement go I.

The Joy of a Slow Start

Once my coffee is in hand, I might sit in the garden. Or read a chapter of something. Or stare at the lemon tree again (it’s become a recurring character in my mornings).

Sometimes I do the cryptic crossword. Sometimes I cheat and look at yesterday’s solutions first, just to feel smart. Occasionally I scribble a list—yes, still on paper—and include things like “check mail” and “call John,” even if I forget both by midday.

But the joy is not in what I do. It’s in the fact that I can choose what I don’t do.

I don’t rush.
I don’t answer emails before breakfast.
I don’t wear anything with buttons until I’ve had two coffees.
I don’t—under any circumstances—take a phone call before 9am unless it’s from someone offering me a free lemon tree.

A New Kind of Productivity

Here’s a truth I’ve learned: slowing down doesn’t mean stopping. It means doing things deliberately. With care.

Some mornings I bake. Not well. But with enthusiasm. Other mornings I walk (in circles, of course). Some mornings I water the garden with the grace of a man hosting a nature documentary.

People think retirement is the absence of work. It’s not. It’s the rediscovery of your kind of work. The kind that pays in satisfaction, not super.

The world still moves fast. I just no longer feel compelled to match its pace.

Mornings are no longer a runway. They’re a balcony. A quiet place to watch everything unfold, knowing you’re not responsible for fixing any of it.

When the Day Does Begin

Eventually, yes, I do get going.

I reply to messages. I run errands. I write a little. Sometimes I help a friend with a sore shoulder (old habits die hard). But none of it starts with haste. It begins after the kettle. After the birds. After the clouds have had their say.

Bernard Michael Rochford’s day starts on his schedule now.

And what a luxury that is.

Final Thoughts from the Mug

So if you ask me what retirement feels like, I’ll say:
It feels like mornings.

It feels like the space between waking and doing. Like the permission to move at a human pace. Like the joy of looking out a window and thinking, What if I did absolutely nothing for a little while?

And then doing just that.

So if you ever drive past my house and see me in my robe, holding a navy mug, nodding at a lemon tree like we’re having a serious conversation—don’t worry.

That’s just Bernard Michael Rochford, living life one slow morning at a time.