Are You Holding On Too Tight?

The high-pitched clanging of the flagpole cuts through the morning air like a metallic rooster, beating out a rhythm that echoes off the distant Adirondack shore. I’m wrapped in that perfect combination of pine-scented air and the kind of silence that only exists when you’re far enough from civilization that your phone has given up trying to find a signal.

My morning tea steams in the cool breeze — tea is a habit I picked up in China last week, though I’m pretty sure the monks who taught me didn’t intend for it to be consumed while wearing swim trunks in an Adirondack chair. The sun is already making promises about another scorcher, and I can feel my bare arms getting that familiar tingle that says, “You’re going to be diving into that lake by noon.”

This is where the magic happens — not in boardrooms or conference calls, but in these stolen moments when you’re forced to sit still and let your brain catch up with your life. It’s here, listening to the water lap against the dock, that I always have the same predictable post-vacation revelation: “I want fewer meetings, fewer commitments, and I want to think about my business, not run it.”

My assistant back home probably has this speech memorized by now. She knows that within a week, I’ll be right back on the merry-go-round, gripping those painted horses for dear life, convinced that if I let go, I’ll be flung into professional oblivion.

The Advisor’s Curse

My business advisor keeps telling me, “You do too much. Do less. Go deeper.” He’s absolutely right, of course. I’d probably be more successful if I just laser-focused on one thing. But here’s what he doesn’t understand — I’d rather be a scattered genius than a bored specialist. It might be all about the money for him, but it’s not for me. Adventure is my currency.

The thought of retirement makes me break out in hives. Picture this: All these brilliant ideas keep bubbling up in your brain, but instead of acting on them, you’re supposed to … what? Take up pottery? Learn to play shuffleboard? Watch Netflix until your eyes bleed? That’s not retirement, that’s intellectual purgatory.

I can’t imagine telling my brain, “Hey, thanks for all the creativity and ambition, but we’re done here. Time to focus on perfecting your golf swing and arguing about the weather.” My idea-energy would turn into frustrated energy, and frustrated energy in a retirement home is how you end up being that person who complains about the temperature of the pudding.

Chinese Wisdom Applied

Here’s something fascinating: In China, everyone retires at 60. Yet the elderly are revered as the wise ones. The great artists and professors I met don’t just disappear into some retirement-adjacent void. They become valued advisors, hanging around campus like intellectual emeritus ghosts, finally getting to work on the things they never had time for.

Meanwhile, in America, we’ve somehow convinced ourselves that 65 is the magic number when your brain expires and you’re supposed to hand over the keys to productivity. It’s like we’ve collectively agreed that wisdom and experience are cute but ultimately useless compared to the raw energy of youth.

But here’s the plot twist nobody talks about: While the young workforce has speed and stamina, the seasoned folks have something infinitely more valuable — the ability to spot patterns, avoid landmines, and understand that not every hill is worth dying on. You have to pick your battles. 

The Longevity Game

I know a guy — John Kluge, once the richest man in the world — who told me he didn’t really get rich until he was 70. His secret? “When my friends all retired and got bored playing tennis and golf, then died too young, I kept pitching.”

I kept pitching. Three words that should be tattooed on every eyelid.

Think about it: We spend decades accumulating knowledge, building relationships, and learning from our mistakes, only to voluntarily bench ourselves right when we’re hitting our intellectual prime. It’s like training for a marathon your entire life and then deciding to take a nap at mile 20.

The math is brutal — every decision I make now could result in a decade-long pursuit. I can’t afford to waste time on useless endeavors, but I also can’t afford to waste time sitting still. The window is closing, but it’s not closed yet.

The Retirement Conspiracy

Here’s where I put on my tinfoil hat for a second: What if retirement is just a cleverly disguised way to ensure that experienced, potentially disruptive voices are quietly shuffled off the playing field? Think about it. If you’re bored, disengaged, and focused on your lawn care, you’re not exactly going to be challenging the status quo or competing for resources.

I’m not saying there’s a secret cabal plotting to neutralize senior citizens through forced leisure (though that would make an excellent Netflix series). But I am saying that a society that encourages its most experienced members to become professionally irrelevant might be missing out on some serious wisdom.

To my younger friends: That slower-moving person in your meeting might not have your energy, but they probably have pattern recognition that would make AI jealous. To my older friends: Your rocking chair is not a throne, and your TV remote is not a scepter. Try staying relevant so you can keep up with the 30-year-olds.

The Spectacle Factor

Life is supposed to be spectacular. Not spectacular in the Instagram-worthy, look-at-my-avocado-toast way, but spectacular in the holy-cow-I-can’t-believe-I-get-to-exist-in-this-universe way.

We’ve somehow convinced ourselves that the natural progression is: work hard, achieve some stuff, then gracefully fade into comfortable irrelevance. But what if that’s completely backward? What if the real adventure begins when you finally have enough wisdom to know what’s actually worth pursuing?

I’m not advocating for becoming a workaholic septuagenarian (though if that’s your thing, more power to you). I’m advocating for rejecting the notion that your best days are behind you just because your knees creak a little more than they used to.

The Final Pitch

Too many young lives end too early. The time you waste might be the only time you get. And I refuse to believe that the grand plan involves us slowly transitioning from dynamic humans to furniture that occasionally comments on the weather. When you were young, did you actually dream about growing up, working for a while, then sitting in an overstuffed recliner all day watching the news for 10 years till they carry you out?

So here’s my challenge: Instead of asking, “When can I retire?” ask, “What impossible thing do I want to accomplish next?” Instead of planning your exit strategy, plan your next adventure. Instead of winding down, what if you wound up? Maybe you’re only telling yourself you’re tired because you’re bored and depressed (there, I said it, now I’ll get angry emails).

The flagpole is still clanging as I write this from the dock. It’s a rhythm that echoes off distant shores, a beat that suggests movement, persistence, and the refusal to stand still just because the wind is blowing.

The question isn’t whether you’ll eventually have to let go of the merry-go-round. The question is: What will you do with all that momentum when you finally decide to jump off?

Eric Rhoads

PS #2: Picture this: You’re standing in a grove of golden maples, paintbrush in hand, surrounded by the most spectacular fall colors nature has to offer. The air is crisp, your canvas is alive with autumn’s fire, and you’re sharing this magical moment with fellow artists who quickly become lifelong friends. This isn’t just a dream — it’s my Fall Color Week retreat in the Midwest’s premier autumn destination on Lake Michigan. For one incredible week, we’ll paint together from sunrise to sunset, explore hidden scenic gems, and create art that captures the fleeting beauty of fall. After hosting dozens of these retreats, I can promise you this: The memories, friendships, and artistic growth you’ll experience will last far beyond the changing leaves. Join us at www.FallColorWeek.com