At my advanced age, one might assume that unqualified leisure is both a welcome respite and an earned entitlement. In truth, it is neither. It is not readily embraced, nor is it a given right, for I find myself without any apparent resource upon which to claim such a privilege. The two—leisure and entitlement—are inextricably linked, each dependent on the other. This is not a limitation of my own making, nor one I have willingly accepted. And yet, its resolution (or at least its alleviation) is as self-evident as it is fundamental. Like so many advantages in life, even those as seemingly innocuous as leisure, one must earn it.

Why this constraint exists is an intriguing question. Perhaps the notion of doing anything without justification offends the deeply ingrained Protestant work ethic, with its relentless emphasis on productivity and self-expression. Admittedly, this veers perilously close to Puritanism and self-denial. Or perhaps the perceived incompatibility of leisure and entitlement stems from flawed reasoning—though I lack the cleverness to articulate precisely what that flaw might be. Or is it simply a matter of psychological conditioning?

Whatever the nature of this internal debate, I have spent many hours wrestling with strategies to overcome the unsettling contradiction. Yet I have never succeeded in silencing the persistent voice of duty. Inevitably, I yield to its imperative: I rise and commence my morning rituals.

Once engaged in this habitual choreography of preparation, I find myself drawn into the machinery of the day. The prelude to engagement often involves an exchange—a balance of giving and taking—setting the day’s rhythm in motion. Whether dictated by personal inclination or mere tradition, the rituals of morning are not to be dismissed. The essentials—appropriate attire, the cleansing ritual of water, soap, and shampoo—are deceptively simple yet vital. These seemingly mundane acts shape the course and tone of the day.

Emerging from this necessary preparation—teeth cleansed, perhaps a bracing antiseptic gargle for good measure—I am finally poised to confront the enterprise of the day. So it was this morning. Having fortified myself with two acetaminophen, I mounted my tricycle, stationed at the front of our cottage along Braddock Cove on Hilton Head Island. Setting my watch timer, I pushed off into the brilliant sunshine, the salt air filling my lungs. I rode 10.04 kilometers.

Upon my return, I transitioned seamlessly into the next purposeful outing: a visit to the car wash. The automobile, as expected, bore the seasonal patina of yellow pollen. The excursion had both purpose and satisfaction. With the windows down and the wind recklessly tousling my hair, I reveled in the precision of the machine beneath me. Through tunnels of Spanish moss and arching live oaks, I sailed, quietly savoring the moment, pleased with myself, and wondering what dénouement might follow the quiet magnificence of this small but gratifying venture.