For years, I wore the same automatic watch.
It accompanied me through hospital corridors, clinic rooms, board meetings, airport terminals, and journeys across continents. I rarely thought about it. It simply worked. As long as it remained on my wrist, it remained alive.
Recently, however, I noticed something had changed.
Despite being worn every day, the watch would gradually lose power unless I wound it manually every few days. Assuming something was wrong, I had it serviced. Yet the problem persisted.
Eventually, I arrived at an unexpected conclusion.
Perhaps nothing was wrong with the watch.
Perhaps what had changed was me.
An automatic watch draws its energy from motion. Not dramatic motion, but the countless small movements of ordinary life—the swing of an arm while walking, the gesture of a hand while speaking, the rhythm of a busy day. For decades, my life supplied that energy without effort. Medicine demanded movement. Responsibility demanded movement. Ambition demanded movement.
Then retirement arrived.
The days became quieter. There was more reading and less rushing. More reflection and fewer deadlines. More time spent sitting with thoughts, family, books, and memories. The watch remained on my wrist, but the life that once powered it had changed.
And so the watch began asking something of me.
A few turns of the crown every now and then.
At first I saw it as an inconvenience. Now I see it differently.
There is wisdom in a machine that reminds us of the relationship between movement and vitality.
Not all movement is physical. The body may slow, but the spirit must continue to move. Curiosity must continue to move. Love must continue to move. Purpose must continue to move. Faith must continue to move.
A life without motion eventually winds down, whether measured by a watch or by the heart.
Yet there is another lesson.
The watch no longer sustains itself from the unconscious momentum of a busy life. It now requires intentional energy. In that respect, it mirrors retirement perfectly. The structures that once provided purpose automatically are gone. What remains is the invitation to choose purpose deliberately.
The winding of the watch has become a small ritual.
A reminder that life is not sustained merely by being alive, but by engaging with life itself.
Perhaps that is why I no longer mind winding it.
Each turn of the crown is a quiet acknowledgment that while one season has ended, another has begun. The pace may be slower, but the need for movement remains.
After all, even a watch knows that time alone is not enough.
Something must keep it going.
Simply O.
Simply O 