What Suffices

As I grow older, I am learning—quietly—
to tell the difference
between what holds real power
and what is merely performative.

I hear the striving of the privileged few,
their hunger for more—
while just beyond the frame
someone quietly weighs
bread or medicine.

And something in me grows quieter.

As I grow older, my grip loosens.
Ambition, once loud,
has softened.

Desire still visits—
but it no longer runs the house.
And so I am less persuaded
by the whisper
that I am not enough.

As I grow older, I begin to see
I was never the voice in my head.

What I need now feels simpler.

a friend’s presence.
a loving partner.
the quiet pride of being a father.
unhurried mornings.

A poem by Robert Lax.
A photograph by Minor White.

These are enough.

A friend’s voice.
A lingering lunch
where conversation turns toward what is tender.

A glass of red wine on the porch.
A journal page filled with gratitude.

As I grow older,
I ask less of life—
and receive more than I imagined.

And so I turn again
to the ordinary moment—

to be totally here
and nowhere else.

to notice
and feel everything—
everything.