The Slow Art of Coming Home

What makes me happy?

The answer is surprisingly simple. I want to wake up in the morning, exercise, attend to my plants, read a good book, write, meditate, and rest. These ordinary pleasures sustained me during my years in Florida and gave structure and meaning to my days. Now that I have returned to the Philippines for retirement, I am trying to reclaim them, one by one. Unfortunately, the process is moving painfully slowly.

This morning, I woke up feeling slightly better than usual. I decided to skip the allergy medication I often take, wondering whether it might be contributing to my drowsiness. The morning seemed pleasant enough for a walk, so I headed toward Banqueruan. I deliberately limited myself to about 7,000 steps because my feet have recently begun protesting against longer distances. At 64, I have learned that the body sometimes has a different opinion about what constitutes a reasonable workout.

I completed my walk and stopped by the market for breakfast. There was the familiar assortment of sweet bread and rice noodles, the kind of inexpensive, uncomplicated food that reminds me I am back in the country of my birth. I ate, took my metformin afterward, and returned home, satisfied that I had accomplished something worthwhile before the morning was over.

But then came the difficult part of retirement: deciding what to do with the rest of the day.

Back in Florida, my routine was predictable. I would wake up, meditate, exercise, eat breakfast, and attend to my garden. Sometimes I would read or write afterward. On other days, I would drive somewhere, take photographs, or simply enjoy the comfort of having nothing urgent to accomplish. I had spent years developing that lifestyle, and it suited me perfectly. Now, thousands of miles away, I am discovering that reproducing the same routine requires more than time and desire. It requires a place, transportation, practical arrangements, and, above all, patience.

I have already purchased a car, which should restore much of the independence I enjoyed in the United States. The problem now is finding adequate parking. Actually, I need two spaces: one at my parents' house, where I am staying, and another near the property I intend to develop into my garden.

And that brings me to my latest obsession: a hidden piece of land that I imagine becoming my private tropical oasis.

Yesterday, I visited the property again, and the sight of it filled me with excitement. It is tucked away from the crowds, traffic, and noise of the main road. To anyone else, it might look like an overgrown lot with wild bushes and uneven ground. But to me, it is already a garden waiting to happen. I can see monsteras spreading their enormous leaves beneath the shade, ferns filling the damp corners, and climbing vines creating a green wall around the property. Somewhere in the middle, I imagine a quiet place to sit with a book, a cup of coffee, or my laptop.

Of course, imagination is considerably faster than construction.

The lot needs extensive clearing. Some sections have collected stagnant water, and I am concerned about mosquitoes and dengue fever. Those depressions must be filled before I can safely develop the area. The bushes need cutting, unwanted vegetation removed, and the ground reasonably leveled.

I have spoken with a local worker who seems to be the go-to person for this kind of job. We discussed clearing, filling, and creating a parking area. I also recruited my older sister to coordinate the workers, arrange their schedule, and handle their payment, which I will cover.

A tenant currently uses part of the property to store drums that he collects and sells for a living. I have no intention of disrupting his livelihood. We discussed arranging the space so he could continue his business while leaving enough room for my vehicle. I examined the gate's width and explained what I hoped to accomplish. Everyone seemed agreeable, and we settled on a plan.

Agreement, however, is one thing. Execution is another.

I am rediscovering a familiar aspect of life in the Philippines: things do not necessarily happen when I expect them to. After so many years in the United States, where I had grown accustomed to making arrangements and expecting work to proceed on schedule, I now find myself adjusting to a different rhythm.

I am not suggesting that everything in America happens efficiently or that everything here moves slowly. But I have become so accustomed to doing things independently that relying on others and coordinating several projects can be exhausting.

At the moment, three projects compete for my attention: widening the parking space at my parents' house, creating another parking area on my property adjoining the garden lot, and clearing and filling the garden itself. None is particularly complicated, but together they have become a substantial undertaking.

Strangely enough, I love it.

I love having something to look forward to. I love the thought of getting my hands dirty again, trimming plants, moving pots, digging, and transforming an untidy piece of land into something beautiful. Gardening has always been more than a hobby to me. It is exercise, meditation, creativity, and communion with nature. It gives me a reason to get out of bed and move.

The car will also allow me to explore the country where I was born, a place that has become both familiar and strangely foreign after decades away. There are roads I want to drive, towns I want to revisit, and landscapes I want to photograph. I have no desire to rush from one tourist destination to another. I simply want the freedom to go somewhere whenever the mood strikes me.

But all of that will have to wait. And waiting may be the most demanding exercise of my retirement.

By the time I returned from my walk, ate breakfast, and settled into the house, I found myself caught in an absurd collection of conflicting desires.

I wanted to move, but I also wanted to remain perfectly still. I wanted something satisfying to eat without sending my blood sugar soaring. I wanted to walk toward the highway and inspect my garden again, but my feet were tired. I wanted to bring some potted plants indoors because they were struggling in the oppressive heat, but I had no suitable table or shelf for them.

I wanted to read, but I also wanted to sleep. I wanted to sit in a chair, but lying in bed seemed equally attractive. I wanted to accomplish something, yet I could not decide what that something should be. So I sat there, yawning repeatedly, trying to write this meditation.

It was already eleven in the morning.

I still needed a shower, but my phone informed me that the book light I ordered online was out for delivery. Experience has taught me that this notification means very little. The online store has a habit of announcing that a package will arrive soon. Apparently, "soon" can mean anything from fifteen minutes to late afternoon.

Naturally, I suspected that the moment I stepped into the shower would be the precise moment the delivery man arrived at the gate, shouting my name. So I waited and eventually dozed off. I could not tell whether the drowsiness came from my blood sugar, fatigue from walking, or the boredom of waiting for something that might not arrive for another six hours.

When I woke up, my mind wandered toward unrelated matters.

Whatever happened to the tofu vendor? I had not seen him for several days. Had he stopped selling tofu, changed his route, or taken a vacation? I had no idea why his absence suddenly concerned me, but there it was, another small mystery of barrio life occupying my mind.

Then I remembered Gene, whom I had encountered at the bakery some time ago. It occurred to me that I could have paid for his purchase as a small gesture of generosity, perhaps a gift from someone who had just returned from America. The thought never crossed my mind at the time.

That bothered me briefly.

There was a time when I understood the customs and expectations of this place instinctively. I knew how people greeted one another, when to offer something, when to insist, and when to politely decline. These were the unwritten rules of the community where I grew up.

After decades in the United States, some customs have faded from memory. Others have been replaced by American habits, where independence, privacy, and a certain degree of social distance became part of everyday life.

Now I sometimes wonder whether I am behaving appropriately in a place that is supposed to be my home. Am I expected to pay for someone's breakfast? Should I stop and chat longer with an old acquaintance? Am I being too distant? Too American? Too indifferent?

Then another thought interrupts the interrogation.

Why should I care so much at 64?

I am no longer a young man trying to establish himself in the eyes of his neighbors. Most of the people I grew up with have aged alongside me, and some are no longer around. We have traveled separate roads, accumulated private histories, and arrived at this stage of life with different habits and expectations. Surely, by now, we have earned the right to be ourselves.

I did not return to the Philippines to become the person I was before I left. That young man belongs to another time. He had ambitions, anxieties, and a future that seemed endless. I have already lived much of that future. I worked, built a career, made a home in America, developed friendships, experienced losses, and eventually reached retirement.

Coming home does not mean reversing those years. It means bringing the person I have become back to the place where my life began.

Perhaps that is why I am determined to preserve the daily rituals I developed in Florida: meditation, walking, gardening, reading, writing, blogging, and resting. They keep my mind occupied, my body moving, and my spirit peaceful. They are not impressive accomplishments, nor do I intend to present them as such. They simply make me happy.

I do not need an elaborate social calendar, attend every gathering, revive every old friendship, or participate in every neighborhood activity. I certainly do not need to explain my whereabouts or justify how I spend my days. I have spent enough years responding to other people's expectations and have little interest in seeking validation from neighbors, acquaintances, or social media.

Even my Facebook activity has declined considerably. I once enjoyed posting frequently, sharing observations, photographs, videos, and whatever thoughts occupied my mind. I still enjoy creating things, but I no longer feel compelled to display everything.

Some things are more satisfying when they remain private.

My writing does not always need an audience. Neither does my garden. I can spend an afternoon arranging plants, pruning leaves, or experimenting with growing methods without photographing the results and announcing them to the world.

Still, I have not abandoned photography. I suddenly remembered my Canon camera, which has been sitting idle since my move. I should find its charger and give the battery some attention. Once my garden takes shape, I might photograph the plants, experiment with light and shadows, or capture interesting scenes during my countryside drives. Perhaps I will even resume making videos, not because I need people to watch them, but because I enjoy creating them.

For now, everything remains a work in progress.

The garden is overgrown, the parking spaces unfinished, and the workers still need to be scheduled. My plants must somehow survive the heat. My health also requires attention, and my body occasionally reminds me that I can no longer approach physical work with the endurance I had twenty years ago.

Some days, I feel energetic and eager to accomplish everything at once. On others, like today, I can barely decide whether to sit, walk, read, sleep, or take a shower.

Perhaps this is what retirement really looks like when stripped of romantic expectations.

It is not necessarily a permanent vacation or an endless procession of pleasant mornings and perfectly organized afternoons. Sometimes it consists of waiting for a delivery, wondering about a missing tofu vendor, worrying about parking spaces, or sitting in a quiet room while your mind races ahead of your body.

Sometimes it means learning that the things you want most cannot be hurried.

I spent much of my adult life in America building a future. Now that I have returned to the Philippines, I am no longer interested in building another grand future. I want to build a garden, establish a comfortable routine, preserve my health, and enjoy whatever years remain with as much independence and peace as possible.

There is something liberating about such modest ambitions.

I do not need to impress anyone with the size of my property, the car I drive, or the places I visit. A few healthy plants, a comfortable chair, a good book, a working camera, and enough strength in my legs to enjoy a morning walk would be sufficient.

I suppose the real challenge is accepting the time it takes to put these things in place. After all, I have only recently returned to a country I left many years ago. It would be unreasonable to expect everything to fall neatly into place within a few weeks. The house, garden, car, and daily routine will eventually settle into some workable arrangement. When they do, I suspect I will look back at these restless mornings with amusement.

For the moment, I am still sitting here, occasionally yawning, waiting for a book light that may or may not arrive before sunset.

Outside, the tropical heat continues to build. Somewhere beyond the highway lies my hidden garden, still covered in wild vegetation, waiting for someone to uncover the possibilities beneath all that growth.

I can almost see myself there one morning, tending to the plants beneath the shade, listening to the quiet sounds of the barrio, with no appointment to keep and nowhere else I need to be.

That is the retirement I have been imagining. And perhaps, without fully realizing it, I have already begun living it.

I only need to learn how to wait.
2026-10-09 23:19:05
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