The unexpected blessing of retirement has been the largeness of the world.

This may not seem much of a topic, but it came to me in the delicately gray pre-dawn, shily inviting, so I figured what the hell, why not browse here a bit.

The world, that spinning planet, does not change size, not at least at a pace we might notice. Its diameter has remained 7,926.2 miles for a good long while. (The things busy AI will research and report!) Our world, on the other hand, the one each individual inhabits, expands or shrinks as violently as a balloon. That’s because existence is only in the mind. Dog-pal Henry doesn’t consider the world – or universe – or stars – or yesterday – or tomorrow – therefore these notions, so familiar to humans, seem to him fantasies, delusions even. His world is amply sized for his purposes: it hasn’t grown or shrunk markedly in his species’ forty thousand years. (Oh, AI! Humans have been around three hundred thousand years, for comparison.)

My world – and, I suspect, yours – expands overnight and contracts during daylight like an unknotted balloon, squiggling and farting across the emptiness, propelled by the force of dream. I am giant when I wake – imposing as Michelangelo’s David – behold me here! – until the exhaustion and inspection of day reduce me to disappointed dust.

During my career years my world was small because my thoughts were necessarily narrow, confined to my assignment. Paring expenses to below one’s revenues is hardly high-minded, but it can be hard. Business concentrates attention like a magnifying glass the sun into an inflammatory pinprick of light (if you’re lucky).

Freed from worldly concerns I discovered the world. When these daily missives commenced more than a decade ago, they mused about managerial concerns: how humans might be made to make money (as if money could be “made”). Any existential speculations would have struck me as a reckless waste of mind. Nose to the grindstone was how guys got rich.

These days I don’t care about rich and my nose crinkles at grindstones. I pass my hours pondering the stars and meaning and our particular planet. I focus on politics because I believe the threat they pose is existential. The MAGA crowd may be maggots but they’re gnawing the beams of my house.

Pondering enlarges the world to unimaginable dimensions. Every exploration leads to another – and another – pressing deeper into the dark. In uniform I hadn’t time for wonder. Wonder, too, takes time.

Ambitious capitalism discourages pointless speculation. Thinking should be directed by ROI. Shareholder value is the summum bonum. Unprofitable thinking’s profligate, if not treacherous.

These days I cudgel my brain to make meaning, not money. Meaning is not a remunerative product. No sane entrepreneur would invest in its manufacture. It’s a drug on the market. Warehouses of meaning gather dust undisturbed. Visit any library if you doubt it.

A dizzying emporium of ideas has been the unexpected largesse – or largeness – of retirement. Every dawn’s a wow. I dig in my brain as Henry for his bone to discover what deliciousness might be buried there. My work doesn’t “pay” except in companionship, the most precious currency. A friend asked how I might “monetize” my readers. I cringed, aghast. Who knew monetize and euthanize were synonyms!