"Monday Mornings in Retirement"

Maybe that’s the secret to Mondays in retirement: letting the past of an old photo surprise you just enough to pull you into the day.

Adjusting to a New Rhythm
​Even after reminding myself—sometimes out loud—that I am retired and no longer expected to show up in the Financial District by 9 a.m., Mondays still arrive with their old weight. The body remembers what the mind tries to forget. I wake up groggy, disoriented, tempted to stay under the covers as if the commute still waits for me somewhere out there. It’s funny how deeply routine burrows into us, how long it lingers even after the job is gone.

An Unexpected Lift
This morning, in that half-awake haze, I opened my laptop with reluctance, hoping to find the file I needed. Instead, I stumbled onto something else—an old photograph buried deep in my archives. A saxophone player I met in the West Village nearly twenty years ago.

The moment I saw it, something shifted. New York stopped feeling like a distant craving or a place I used to dream about. That photo reminded me of the exact moment I realized I wanted to belong to this city, to its pulse, its improvisations, its late-night corners where strangers become part of your story.

The memories came rushing back—bright, warm, unashamedly joyful. And just like that, the heaviness of the morning loosened its grip. Nostalgia can be a kind of medicine when it arrives at the right time.