writing – Page 2

The Watch That No longer Winds Itself:

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.

Trust,Verify and the Search for Truth:

I often hear the expression, “Trust, but verify,” and I find myself wondering whether it still makes sense in the world we inhabit today.

After all, why should one trust before verifying?

We live in an age where appearances are increasingly difficult to distinguish from reality. An hour spent watching what appears to be a legitimate video may later reveal itself to be entirely AI-generated. A compelling podcast host can speak confidently for ninety minutes while presenting little more than opinion dressed as fact. Politicians, influencers, commentators, and even well-meaning individuals often repeat information that is incomplete, distorted, or simply untrue.

Truth seems harder to find, yet opinions have never been more abundant.

Perhaps that is why I have become increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of trusting first and verifying later. By the time verification arrives, the falsehood may already have taken root. Reputations may have been damaged, investments made, votes cast, relationships strained, and decisions finalized.

I once read that truth has only one way of being.

There may be many perspectives, many interpretations, and many narratives, but reality itself remains singular. An event either happened or it did not. A statement is either accurate or inaccurate. A document is authentic or it is not. Human beings may disagree endlessly about meaning, but truth itself does not bend to our preferences.

Yet few of us encounter truth directly.

Most of what we know comes through intermediaries—journalists, scholars, friends, social media feeds, podcasts, television programs, and increasingly, algorithms designed not to inform us but to capture our attention.

Attention has become a commodity.

The modern economy rewards outrage, certainty, speed, and emotional reaction. Nuance is often discarded because it does not generate clicks. Humility is overlooked because it does not go viral. The careful admission of “I may be wrong” is drowned out by those who confidently proclaim certainty.

Perhaps that is why the old proverb deserves reconsideration.

When it comes to people, trust remains indispensable. Families cannot flourish without it. Friendships cannot deepen without it. Communities cannot survive without it. Much of life requires us to extend trust before we possess complete evidence.

But information is different.

Information should earn our confidence.

A headline should not be trusted because it confirms our beliefs. A podcast should not be trusted because we enjoy the host. A video should not be trusted because it appears authentic. A claim should not be trusted simply because thousands of others have shared it.

Information deserves verification before belief.

In such an environment, verification becomes an act of stewardship.

Stewardship of our minds.

Stewardship of our beliefs.

Stewardship of the decisions that shape our lives.

This does not mean becoming cynical. Cynicism is merely distrust elevated into a philosophy. Nor does it mean doubting everything. A life spent questioning every fact and every motive would be exhausting and ultimately impossible.

Rather, it means learning to distinguish between trust that is earned and trust that is assumed.

It means asking simple questions:

How do I know this is true?

What is the source?

What evidence supports the claim?

Who benefits if I believe it?

Have I heard the other side?

What if I am wrong?

The older I become, the more I appreciate that wisdom is not measured by how much information one consumes, but by how carefully one evaluates it.

Perhaps the modern version of the old proverb should be this:

Verify what matters. Then extend trust where it has been earned.

For trust remains essential. No family, friendship, institution, or society can function without it. But trust untethered from truth eventually collapses under the weight of reality.

Truth requires no defense from us. It simply is.

Long after opinions fade, narratives change, and headlines disappear, reality remains what it always was.

Our responsibility is not to manufacture truth but to seek it faithfully, test what we hear carefully, and remain humble enough to change our minds when the evidence demands it.

In an age overflowing with noise, that may be one of the most important forms of stewardship we can practice.

Simply O.

Shoes by the Danube:

There are monuments that command attention, and there are monuments that whisper.

The Shoes on the Danube whispered.

At first glance, they appear almost ordinary—pairs of worn shoes scattered along the riverbank. Some are work boots. Some are dress shoes. One looks small enough to belong to a child. They sit quietly facing the water as though their owners might return at any moment.

But they never will.

During the winter of 1944–1945, thousands of Hungarian Jews were brought to this very riverbank by members of the Arrow Cross militia. Before they were executed, they were ordered to remove their shoes. In a time of scarcity, shoes were valuable. The victims were lined up at the edge of the Danube, shot, and their bodies fell into the river.

The shoes remained.

Standing there in the evening light, with Budapest reflected in the water and the city carrying on around us, I found myself thinking about how easily human beings can become capable of extraordinary cruelty.

History often records numbers.

Six million.

Hundreds of thousands.

Millions more displaced, imprisoned, or forgotten.

But numbers can create distance.

Shoes do not.

Shoes remind us that every number was a person.

Someone who laughed.

Someone who worried about their children.

Someone who planned for tomorrow.

Someone who believed they would see another sunrise.

And yet, as I looked across the Danube toward the beauty of Budapest, another thought emerged.

Human history is not only the story of cruelty.

It is also the story of remembrance.

Someone chose to build this memorial.

Someone decided that these lives would not disappear into the current of history.

Someone believed memory matters.

Throughout our travels, I was struck by how often this tension appeared. Again and again we encountered evidence of humanity at its worst—and evidence of humanity at its best. Tyranny and courage. Hatred and sacrifice. Destruction and rebuilding.

The same species capable of creating death camps is capable of creating memorials.

The same hands that once pulled triggers can, generations later, place flowers.

The same world that wounds can also heal.

Perhaps that is why places like this matter.

They remind us that civilization is more fragile than we like to believe and more resilient than we sometimes fear.

As the sun settled over the Danube, the empty shoes cast long shadows across the stone.

The river kept moving, as rivers always do.

But memory remained.

And perhaps that is redemption—not the erasure of evil, but the refusal to forget those who suffered because of it.

For as long as the shoes remain on the riverbank, their owners are not entirely gone.

And as long as we remember, history still has something to teach us.

Simply O.

The Question of if:

People often ask about the “why” behind a decision.

Why retire?

Why travel?

Why write?

Why change course after decades of following a familiar path?

For much of my life, I believed that “why” was the most important question. It seemed to hold the key to purpose, motivation, and meaning. Leaders ask it. Coaches ask it. Authors write entire books around it.

But lately, I have begun to wonder if the more important question is not why, but if.

The truth is that most of us can construct a compelling “why.”

We can explain our motivations. We can articulate our dreams. We can tell ourselves stories about what we hope to accomplish or who we hope to become.

The “why” often lives in the realm of aspiration.

The “if” lives in the realm of reality.

If I make this decision, what becomes possible?

If I take this path, what are the consequences?

If I step away from what is familiar, will I be okay?

If I pursue this opportunity, does it align with the life I want to create?

The more I reflect on major decisions in my own life, the more I realize that the most consequential moments were not resolved by answering “why.”

They were resolved by answering “if.”

Retirement was not simply a question of why I wanted to retire. The reasons were obvious: more time with family, freedom to travel, opportunities to write, photograph, and explore the world.

The deeper question was:

If I retire now, will my family be secure?

If I retire now, can we sustain the life we have built?

If I retire now, what opportunities might emerge that are unavailable while I am working?

Only after those questions were answered did clarity emerge.

I have come to believe that an affirmative answer to “if” is what I often call alignment.

Alignment occurs when aspiration and reality shake hands.

When values, resources, timing, and opportunity all point in the same direction.

When the answer is no longer merely desirable, but workable.

Not perfect.

Not risk-free.

Not guaranteed.

But aligned.

Perhaps that is why the question of “if” feels so grounding.

It forces us to gather many threads together—our finances, our relationships, our health, our obligations, our dreams, and our fears.

The “why” can sometimes be driven by emotion.

The “if” demands examination.

The “why” can be imagined.

The “if” must be tested.

And when the answer comes back yes, something remarkable happens.

The internal debate begins to quiet.

The need for justification fades.

There is a sense that the pieces fit.

Not because the future is certain, but because the direction is clear.

I am increasingly convinced that this is where wisdom resides.

Not in finding better reasons.

But in asking better questions.

And perhaps the most important question is this:

If this path is aligned with my values, my responsibilities, and my vision for the future—what am I waiting for?

For me, the answer to that question has opened doors to retirement, travel, writing, family, and a life that continues to unfold in unexpected ways.

The older I get, the less interested I become in explaining why.

And the more interested I become in discovering what becomes possible when the answer to “if” is yes.

— Simply O.

Somewhere Between Leaving and Arriving

One year after retirement, I realized the journey was never about escape. It was about alignment—found somewhere between airports, oceans, memory, and becoming.

One year into the Journey

Somewhere between the leaving…
and the arriving…
I found something I wasn’t looking for.

Not in one place.
Not in one moment.
But scattered—across cities, coastlines, quiet streets, and long flights between them.

A year ago, I stepped away from a life that had long defined me. For decades, my days were structured—measured in decisions, responsibilities, and outcomes. It was meaningful, deeply so. But it was also constant.

And then, one day, it wasn’t.

I remember reading something at 30,000 feet—somewhere between continents, suspended between what was and what was next. It said most of us are moving through life somewhere between shining and just getting by.

And for the first time, I had the distance to ask:

Where was I, really?

Retirement didn’t answer that question.

It created the space for it.

At first, the absence of structure feels unsettling. You reach for the familiar rhythms—deadlines, meetings, the quiet validation of productivity. But slowly, something shifts.

The absence becomes space.
And the space becomes possibility.

Over the past year, I’ve stood on coastlines where the only clock was the tide. I’ve walked through cities where getting lost felt more meaningful than arriving. I returned to Lagos and found memory waiting for me there. I sat in cafés and airport lounges where time slowed just enough for reflection to finally catch up.

And in those moments, something began to change.

Not suddenly.
But steadily.

The things I once thought defined me—titles, roles, expectations—started to fade into the background. Not gone, but no longer in control.

In their place, something quieter emerged.

A different way of living.

One not driven by urgency, but by presence.

Every destination has left something with me. Not simply memories, but clarity. A realization that the life I had built was only one expression of who I am—not the entirety of it.

And perhaps the most unexpected truth of all:

What I thought I had to be… was never the full story.

The noise that once filled my days has softened. The constant internal dialogue of responsibility and expectation has given way to something more measured, more intentional.

More… mine.

I spent years working to feel alive.

Now, I’m learning what it means to simply live.

Not defined by a title.
Not anchored to a place.
Not measured by output.

Just present.
Just aware.
Just open to whatever comes next.

One year into this journey, I wouldn’t say I’ve arrived.

But I’ve stopped trying to.

Because somewhere along the way—between airports and oceans, between familiar beginnings and unknown horizons—

I found something better than certainty.

I found a life that felt less constructed… and more true.

I found alignment.

The journey, I’m learning, is not about finding where you are going.

It is about discovering who has been traveling with you all along.

Yourself.

Because distance does not merely separate you from places—it reveals you to yourself.

And when the noise fades, truth does not rush in.

It waits patiently to be noticed.

Simply O.

The Contradictions of Europe

Bridges and Brokenness

Europe revealed itself not through monuments alone, but through contradictions. Through bridges built after wars, beauty rising from ruins, and stories of people carrying both scars and hope. I arrived expecting landscapes and history; I left having found something deeper — reminders that nations, like people, are often held together by what has broken them.

Europe revealed itself slowly.

Not merely through castles rising above rivers, cathedrals reaching toward heaven, or cobblestone streets worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. It revealed itself through layers of memory carried almost like sediment along the rivers we followed. Layer upon layer deposited over centuries: triumph and tragedy, brilliance and brutality, faith and conflict, destruction and renewal.

Everywhere there seemed to be bridges.

Bridges spanning the Danube and connecting cities once divided. Bridges joining East and West after walls and iron curtains had fallen. Bridges between strangers who sat beside us at dinner and somehow became companions. Bridges between who we once were and who we are becoming.

But I also found brokenness.

Europe remembers its wounds openly. Memorials stand where suffering occurred. Plaques sit quietly on walls. Churches rise beside reminders of war. Cities rebuilt after destruction still speak of what came before. There seems to be little attempt to erase pain; instead, there is an understanding that remembering itself is an act of healing.

Again and again, I found myself standing in beautiful places while hearing stories of occupation, persecution, world wars, and lives interrupted. It felt almost impossible to separate beauty from sorrow because Europe itself seems unwilling to separate them.

And perhaps people are not so different.

As a physician, I found myself noticing my fellow travelers almost as much as the monuments. Some moved with ease; others moved with deliberate care. Some carried visible limitations while others carried burdens that could not be seen. I recognized in them what I also recognize in myself: scars carried quietly beneath the surface.

We all arrive with them.

Some physical. Some emotional. Some spoken of freely and others carefully guarded.

And yet we continue.

We climb hills despite aching feet. We walk ancient streets despite tired legs. We pursue beauty despite loss. We continue crossing bridges.

Travel has a strange way of removing noise from life. Somewhere between riverbanks and railway stations, between museums and meals, between conversations and long walks, unnecessary things begin to fall away.

Clarity appears.

I began this journey believing it would be about discovery — discovering places, cultures, histories, landscapes.

Increasingly, I realized it had become something else.

It became something quieter.

It became about being.

About understanding the human spirit.

About realizing that we are all travelers of one sort or another, moving through seasons of strength and weakness, trying to make sense of the limited time we have been given.

I met an eighty-six-year-old traveler still seeing the world with curiosity and wonder. I watched fellow travelers persevere through aching knees, canes, fatigue, and age. I listened to stories of transition, loss, and hope. And somewhere in all of it, I found myself reflecting on the truth that time eventually humbles us all.

But perhaps that is also the gift.

Because once we recognize that our days are finite, beauty becomes more precious, conversations become richer, and experiences become less about checking destinations from a list and more about receiving them fully.

Perhaps that is Europe’s deepest contradiction:

Among reminders of humanity at its worst, one also encounters humanity at its best.

Beauty rising from ruins.

Bridges rising from brokenness.

And somewhere between them, perhaps finding pieces of ourselves.

Fuller details of this journey available under Europe Unfolds under Europe.

Some journeys move us across rivers and borders; the deeper ones carry us through memory, beauty, grief, gratitude, and the sacred work of becoming whole.

— Simply O.

A Broken World, A living Hope.

Another Easter Reflection

There is so much turmoil in the world today. Much of it, at least on the surface, appears to be driven by religion. Conflicts rooted in belief systems, identities shaped by faith, divisions that seem irreconcilable.
And yet, when you step back, a different truth begins to emerge. We are more alike than we are different.

Science tells us that all humans share a common genetic origin. Faith traditions, in their own ways, trace humanity back to a shared beginning—a family, not fragments.

So the question becomes unavoidable:

If we are, in essence, one family… why so much hate?

An Old Problem, Not a New One

It is tempting to think this is a modern crisis. But history tells us otherwise.

Even in the time of Jesus Christ, the world was deeply divided.

Truth was not universally embraced—it was challenged.

Love was not always received—it was rejected.

And those who carried the message forward paid a heavy price.

With the exception of one, His disciples were martyred.

This is not a new story.

Where the Tension Lies

Perhaps the issue is not religion itself—but what we, as humans, do with it.

At its core, faith calls us to:

Love one another
Show mercy
Walk in humility
Seek peace

And yet, in practice, we often:

Defend identity over truth
Choose tribe over unity
React in fear rather than understanding

The tension lies in the gap between what we believe… and how we live.

A Broken World

It may simply be that the world has always been broken.

Not irredeemable—but fractured.

Capable of great compassion… and great division.

Capable of grace… and of harm.

And perhaps the discomfort we feel when we observe this is not a weakness—but an awareness. A recognition that something is not as it should be.

The Easter Perspective

And this is where Easter speaks most clearly.

Easter does not pretend the world is whole.

It acknowledges betrayal.

It confronts suffering.

It does not deny injustice.

But it does something else—it introduces hope into brokenness.

It reminds us that even in a fractured world, redemption is possible.

A Personal Responsibility

We may not be able to fix the world.

But we are not without influence.

In our words.

In our actions.

In how we choose to see others.

We can either contribute to division… or to healing.

Final Reflection

If we are all part of the same human family, then perhaps the question is not why the world is broken—

but what each of us chooses to do within it.

Closing Thought

In a world that has been broken for centuries, choosing love is not weakness… it is resistance.

—Simply O

The Skin We Live In.

An Easter Reflection

From a biological standpoint, there is something quietly profound about the human body.

Our skin—the part of us most visible to the world—is composed of layers. The dermis beneath, and the epidermis above. And at the very surface lies what is known as the stratum corneum—a layer made up almost entirely of dead cells.

Cells that have fulfilled their purpose.

Cells that no longer live… yet still cover us.

They protect us.

They define our outward appearance.

And they are constantly being shed, replaced, renewed.

In a sense, we are all walking around covered in what is no longer alive.

The Illusion of Permanence

And yet, despite this remarkable process of renewal, we age.

The body changes.

Time leaves its imprint.

And slowly, unmistakably, we are reminded of a truth that no advancement in science has been able to reverse:

This body was never designed to last forever.

What We See… and What We Are

There is something humbling in realizing that our most outward expression—our skin, our appearance—is, in large part, composed of what has already passed.

What the world sees first… is not the essence of who we are.

It is a covering.

A temporary layer.

A reflection, not the core.

A Quiet Message Over Time

Perhaps this is why aging brings with it a different kind of clarity.

The things we once held tightly—appearance, perception, external identity—begin to loosen their grip.

And in their place, something deeper emerges:

Character.

Wisdom.

Faith.

Grace.

Things that do not shed.

Things that do not fade in the same way.

The Easter Connection

And in this, Easter offers a profound reminder:

That life is not defined by what is outward and temporary…

but by what is enduring and unseen.

That what fades is not the final story.

And what is renewed is not always visible to the eye.

Final Reflection

We spend much of our lives tending to what is seen…

yet the deeper work is always within.

Closing Thought

The body may age, the surface may fade, but the essence of who we are was never meant to be confined to what is visible.

— Simply O

The Mirror We Fight

The Story I read somewhere and my reflection.

The dog wandered into a strange museum.

Every wall was a mirror.

The ceiling, the floor—even the doors.

The moment he stepped inside, he froze.

Everywhere he looked, dogs stared back at him—

in front, behind, above, below.

A whole pack surrounding him.

Fear took over.

He bared his teeth.

They did the same.

He barked.

They barked back—louder, sharper, multiplied.

Panic exploded.

He lunged left, then right.

They lunged too.

He snapped his teeth—

thousands of teeth snapped back.

The more he fought, the more enemies appeared.

The more afraid he became, the more terrifying the world looked.

He never realized the truth.

There was no pack.

No threat.

No enemy.

Only himself.

The next morning, the guards found him lifeless—

lying alone in the mirror hall,

surrounded by thousands of reflections of his own body.

No one attacked him.

No one harmed him.

He died fighting what he believed was the world…

but was only his own reflection.

Reflection

Life has a way of placing us in rooms like this.

Not always made of glass—

but of perception.

There are moments when everything feels adversarial:

the market, the workplace, even relationships.

And in those moments, something subtle happens.

Fear sharpens.

Assumptions harden.

Reactions escalate.

What we see begins to reflect what we feel.

Not every challenge is imagined.

The world is not always kind, and it is not always fair.

But often—more often than we admit—

our response amplifies our reality.

Fear can turn uncertainty into threat.

Anger can turn difference into opposition.

Defensiveness can turn silence into hostility.

And before long, we find ourselves surrounded—

not by enemies,

but by echoes.

Closing Thought

The world is not always a mirror…

but it often echoes what we bring into it.

Before assuming the world is against you, pause.

Sometimes the noise you hear

is your own reflection speaking back.

“We see the world not as it is, but as we are.”

— Anaïs Nin

Simply O

The Illusion of Flight

“Not everything that feels like ascent is progress. Sometimes, we are simply falling—with confidence.”

There is a quiet illusion that often accompanies success.

A sense of lift. Of movement. Of ascent.

We mistake motion for direction.

We mistake speed for purpose.

And sometimes… we mistake falling for flying.

There is a moment—early on—when everything feels right.

The wind rushes past.

The world expands beneath you.

You feel elevated… chosen… unstoppable.

In that moment, there is no fear.

Only the intoxicating belief that you are rising.

But perception is not truth.

And elevation is not always ascent.

Then something shifts—subtly at first.

The ground, once distant, begins to take shape.

Clarity replaces illusion.

What felt like control begins to feel uncertain.

What felt like progress begins to feel… fast.

Too fast.

But by then, momentum has taken over.

And momentum does not ask for permission.

And then—the truth arrives.

Not gradually.

Not gently.

But all at once.

The realization that what felt like flight…

was never flight at all.

It was descent—misunderstood.

And in that final moment, clarity comes—

but too late to change direction.

Closing Reflection

We all have seasons like this.

In our careers.

In our finances.

In our decisions.

Even in our convictions.

Moments when everything feels like upward movement—

until reality reminds us otherwise.

Wisdom is not just in rising.

It is in discerning.

Are we truly flying…

or simply falling with confidence?

“True elevation is not measured by how high we feel, but by how firmly we are grounded in truth.”

Simply O.