The strong pull of daily life

It has been a little more than two weeks since returning home, and the days already feel oddly stretched, as though time on land follows a different current. This week, I am in Bonn, visiting my daughter and her partner. The morning began with writing, as most of my mornings still do, and now I am sitting in the Botanical Gardens, surrounded by trees standing perfectly still on this windless day, their leaves shifting toward autumn’s palette. Their calmness feels both lovely and unnerving after months of constant motion.

Quite a lot has happened since coming home, enough to pull me quickly back into the gravity of daily life. A dear friend has complications with her health, and the uncertainty around her condition has left me thoughtful and subdued. My prayers are with her and her family throughout the days. Another friend is going through a battery of interviews for a new job position. Her company made a decision from one day to the next and closed down their department. 

There are also the practical matters that always seem to queue up whenever one steps away for too long: correspondence, bills, and the newest character in this domestic drama, taxes. I am now expected to pay a pre-tax amount every few months for my freelance work as a ghostwriter and content developer, which seems comically disproportionate to what I actually earn. Everyone claims that continuing to work after retirement is simple: you just pay a bit more in taxes. But that is probably only true if you are a retired executive consulting from a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. For the rest of us, it is more of a labyrinth than a lifestyle.

Still, I am oddly grateful for this sudden re-immersion into real life. The ship had its own order, its rhythms and routines, and now I must learn the tempo of home again. The voyage at sea changed something in me, and I keep asking what that something is. I have come to two conclusions.

The first is that I want to keep writing. Encouraged by family and friends, I have decided to begin a book, not fiction but something closer to creative nonfiction, perhaps about the voyage or the inner journey it set in motion. I do not yet know what form it will take, but I know how it felt to write at sea, how the discipline of it sharpened my focus, and how much joy it brought me. I miss that feeling.

The second is that I want to live a simpler life. At sea, life was pared down to its essentials: a few clothes, a small cabin, the comfort of routine, the steady company of the crew. You discover how little you truly need. Back home, things expand again with choices, demands, and distractions. It takes effort to protect the quiet that allows for reflection. I want to hold onto that quiet as best I can.

My husband and I have been talking about this, and we both know that a slower, simpler life will also mean a leaner one. We have been fortunate for many years, and now it feels right to pare back. To travel less, to eat out less, to enjoy what we have rather than chase what we do not. I suspect we will both be happier for it. Our philosophy about financial security has always been that there is a deep sense of satisfaction in learning to live within your means, in knowing that enough really can be enough.

Retirement in Germany has changed in the last ten years. What we receive from the state pension is far more modest than what was promised forty years ago when we started our careers. Downsizing, economizing, and constant reflection about what constitutes a good quality of life have become daily practices.

I am aware that this new phase of life will take some adjustment. For more than forty years, I have defined myself through my work. To stop doing that, or at least to loosen that definition, feels both freeing and strange. When people ask what I do, I hesitate. I am no longer the L&D expert, not yet the writer, and not quite the retiree. Perhaps I am all three for a while, trying to find my balance.

Through therapy and through long, honest talks with my daughter, I have begun to see this period not as an ending but as a beginning. It feels a little like standing on the bridge again, scanning the horizon for what comes next. Those weeks at sea loosened something in me. I care less about constantly doing and more about being present, about choosing how I spend my time and with whom. That might sound lofty, but I think it is simply age mixed with gratitude and perhaps a trace of sea air still lingering in the lungs.

The MV Roland Oldendorff, the ship I called home for two months, has just left Narvik and is bound for Hamburg. The captain has invited me to visit when they arrive, and I am really tempted. Most of the crew I knew are still on board. It is strange to think that their voyage continues while mine has paused. Part of me would love to stand again on that deck, to hear the deep hum of the engines and feel the ship’s steady motion underfoot. Another part of me knows that saying goodbye twice might be more difficult than once.

For now, I am content to sit here among the trees of Bonn, learning again what stillness feels like. The pull of daily life is strong but not unwelcome. There is comfort in the ordinary: a quiet breakfast, a familiar café, a walk through the city on a sunny autumn day. I am beginning to see that returning home is not a conclusion but another kind of voyage, slower perhaps, but no less interesting.

Over the coming months, I will continue to write here and occasionally record new podcasts. There are still stories to tell about the people I met, the lessons I learned, and the small yet persistent ways the sea has changed how I see the world. And, if all goes well, I will be sailing from Martinique to Grenada with dear friends early next year and there will be stuff to share.

Perhaps that is the rhythm I am meant to find now: not between sea and shore, or work and rest, but between movement and stillness, curiosity and calm. Wherever it leads, I am grateful to still be on the journey and to have you walking beside me for a while.