Easy. It’s either my wedding ring… or the small (8mm) piece of amethyst crystal in my ear.
One is a promise. The other is a reminder.
The ring has survived years of work, weather, gardening, hard conversations, and ordinary Tuesdays. It carries scratches like tree rings carry seasons.
The amethyst is older in a completely different way. Millions of years old. Formed slowly underground under pressure and heat. long before any of us arrived here arguing about emails and algorithms. Amethyst has long been associated with calm, clarity, and protection across different cultures and traditions.
I like the contrast.
One object marks a human lifetime. The other measures geological time.
That’s one of those questions people love to throw around as though the world is neatly divided into wolves and sheep. As if every person must either stand at the front barking orders or trail behind blindly hoping someone else knows where they’re going.
Truth is, life doesn’t work like that.
Neither do people.
I was a soldier once, and the military teaches you something very quickly:
If you cannot follow, you should never lead.
A good soldier learns discipline. Learns trust. Learns when to listen, when to move, when to hold the line, and to put faith in the person beside them. Because in the real world, ego gets people hurt.
Far too many people think leadership means being loud.
Being in charge.
Being the one with the answers.
But some of the finest leaders I ever met were quiet professionals. The sort who didn’t need to remind everyone of their rank every five minutes. The sort who would never ask someone to do something they wouldn’t do themselves.
And strangely enough, nearly all of them were excellent followers too.
Because they understood something important:
Leadership is service.
Sometimes you lead from the front. Sometimes you support from the rear. Sometimes you carry the weight.
That isn’t weakness. That’s teamwork. That’s survival.
The world likes extremes these days. Everyone wants to be an “alpha,” whatever that means this week. Social media is full of self-proclaimed leaders, or influencers as they’re called now, shouting into cameras about dominance and success while treating basic kindness like some sort of character flaw, that needs to be erased.
But real leadership?
Real leadership is checking on the quiet member of the team. Taking responsibility when things go wrong. Remaining calm while everyone else loses their head. Making decisions that won’t make you popular, but are necessary.
And following well takes strength too.
It takes humility to admit someone else might know better. It takes trust to place yourself in another person’s hands. It takes discipline to work toward something bigger than your own ego.
So am I a leader or a follower?
Both.
Because life demands both.
Anyone can bark orders. Anyone can blindly follow a crowd.
But knowing when to do each? That takes experience.
And sometimes, the people best suited to lead are the ones who first learned how to follow with honour
Working on something a little darker than my usual scribbles lately, as I prepare for a possible upcoming competition.
Failing that, I’m thinking of gathering the whole collection together into a chapbook called Life Of Shadows — which, if I’m honest, feels like the perfect title for where my head’s been wandering creatively of late.
There’s something strangely cathartic about opening the door and letting the dark passenger stretch its legs for a while. Not in a destructive sense, more in the way storms clear the air. Poetry has always been part confession booth, part exorcism for me anyway.
Here’s one of the pieces from the series. It’s called The Garden Stirs, and I’m genuinely proud to say it was shortlisted for the Dark Poets Prize IV.
What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
Simple.
Before you lose your temper… stop and ask yourself:
“Will losing my temper actually change what’s already happened?”
Most of the time, the answer is no.
The tea’s already spilled. The words have already been said. The idiot driver has already cut you up. The bad news has already arrived.
And there you are — jaw clenched, heart racing, ready to launch yourself into orbit over something that reality has already signed off and delivered.
I know this because I used to do it far more than I care to admit. That red mist feeling. That desperate urge to react instantly, loudly, emotionally… as if volume somehow gives us control over chaos.
But anger is a very strange thing.
It tricks you into believing you’re taking charge, when in truth you’re usually handing control away. One angry moment can stain an entire day. Sometimes longer. And more often than not, the only person left exhausted by it… is you.
That doesn’t mean you become passive. It doesn’t mean you let people walk over you like a muddy welcome mat outside the village pub. It simply means learning the difference between reacting and responding.
There’s power in that pause.
That tiny moment where you breathe and think:
“Will this outburst improve the situation… or just add another problem to it?”
Because shouting at the rain doesn’t stop the storm.
And oddly enough, once you start practising that pause, life becomes a little quieter inside your own head. Not perfect — nothing ever is — but calmer. Lighter somehow.
You stop carrying every irritation like it’s a sacred burden personally delivered by the universe to ruin your Tuesday afternoon.
Some things deserve your energy.
Most things really don’t.
And that, I think, is one of the smallest improvements that can make the biggest difference.
Share a story about someone who had a positive impact on your life.
The people who had the biggest impact on my life?
Not the rich ones. Not the famous ones. Not the loudest in the room.
It was the quiet people.
My grandfather, teaching me that being a good man had nothing to do with muscles or money and everything to do with kindness, honesty, and turning up when it mattered.
My wife, who’s stood beside me through storms I wouldn’t have survived alone.
My children and grandchildren, who unknowingly taught me that love is measured in presence, not presents.
And strangely enough… a handful of poets on a screen late at night, showing me that words didn’t have to be polished to be powerful. That broken things could still speak.
Funny really.
Most people who shape us never realise they’re doing it.
People talk about it like it’s always something huge. Life-changing moments. Breaking chains. Standing on mountaintops shouting at the sky while dramatic music plays somewhere in the background.
But truthfully?
I think freedom is usually much smaller than that.
And far more important.
Because when someone asks me what freedom means, my mind doesn’t go to politics or grand speeches. It goes to ordinary moments most people barely notice anymore.
The little things.
Freedom is waking up naturally before the alarm and realising you’ve nowhere urgent to be for once.
It’s that first sip of coffee when the house is quiet and nobody wants anything from you yet.
It’s putting your phone on do not disturb and not feeling guilty about disappearing from the world for an hour or two.
It’s laughing loudly in your own home without worrying what the neighbours think.
It’s driving with no destination because your head needs clearing more than your shopping needs doing.
Funny enough, the older I get, the more I realise freedom has very little to do with having everything.
It’s more about not feeling trapped by everything.
Not trapped by expectations. Not trapped by appearances. Not trapped by trying to please people who would never be pleased anyway.
That sort of freedom changes you.
You stop apologising for needing rest. You stop explaining yourself to everyone. You stop carrying every argument around like it’s your responsibility to fix the world.
And there’s peace in that.
Real peace.
I think many of us spend years chasing some imaginary version of happiness without noticing life has already been quietly offering it to us in tiny pieces.
A walk in fresh air. Rain against the windows. The smell of proper coffee. Music that takes you backwards in time. The sound of people you love laughing in another room.
Those moments matter.
More than the expensive stuff. More than the online nonsense. More than keeping up appearances for people who barely know us.
That, to me, is freedom.
Being able to breathe properly in your own life.
To feel calm in your own skin.
To stop performing for the world and simply exist as yourself without constantly feeling like you’re falling behind at something.
Maybe freedom isn’t loud after all.
Maybe it’s quiet.
Maybe it’s simply reaching a point in life where peace means more to you than proving anything to anyone.
Not because of party politics, but because of character, leadership, and the damage I believe he has done to ordinary Americans.
In my view, he has deepened division, openly enriched himself and the wealthy elite, and shown very little regard for the hard working people who actually build and sustain America.
As a veteran, I also find his comments about fallen soldiers being “suckers and losers” deeply offensive and impossible to ignore. Especially from someone whose family wealth helped him avoid military service himself. That speaks volumes to me about respect, sacrifice, patriotism, and integrity.
Then there’s the long-documented association with Jeffrey Epstein and the infamous “grab them by the pussy” remarks about women — comments that revealed a level of arrogance, misogyny and disrespect I simply cannot support from any public figure, let alone a president.
Leadership should unite, serve, and elevate people. I believe America deserves far better.
People ask this question as if life comes with a neat little ordnance survey map.
Five-year plan. Ten-year projection. Colour-coded ambition. A LinkedIn post with a sunrise photo and the words “grind now, shine later.”
But if there’s one thing fifty years on this spinning blue green space marble has taught me, it’s this:
Life rarely sticks to the plan.
And honestly? I’m alright with that now.
The 9–5 Plan? Retirement.
Simple as that.
Not because I hate work. Not because I’ve suddenly developed dreams of becoming one of those people who drinks wine at noon and talks about property prices.
But because after decades of alarms, routines, deadlines, and dragging yourself through days even when your head or body isn’t entirely on board…
You start to realise peace has value too.
At fifty, my career plan for the day job is retirement somewhere on the horizon. Not a dramatic exit. No fireworks. No emotional farewell montage.
Just quietly stepping away from the grind and finally exhaling properly.
I think there comes a point where you stop measuring success by productivity and start measuring it by time.
Time to think. Time to breathe. Time to notice things again.
And I’d quite like a bit more of that.
But Here’s The Important Part…
Retirement isn’t the end of anything for me.
It’s the beginning of focusing on the things that actually make me feel alive.
The scribbles. The photography. The side hustle that never really felt like work in the first place.
Poetry has been with me for over twenty years now — helping me process the noise in my head, the chaos of life, and all the things that are easier written than spoken.
And photography?
That’s become another way of slowing the world down long enough to really see it.
A bird balanced on a branch. Morning light through the trees. A face caught in an honest moment.
Tiny fragments of life most people rush straight past.
So What’s The Plan?
The plan is simple.
Work less. Create more.
I want the poetry and photography to become the thing I pour myself into once the 9–5 finally fades into the background.
Not because I’m chasing fame. Not because I expect to become some millionaire artist living in a converted lighthouse drinking artisanal coffee.
But because creativity gives me purpose.
And purpose matters.
Especially as you get older.
I don’t think people talk enough about that part of retirement — the need to still be something beyond your former job title.
Some people garden. Some travel. Some spend their days playing bowls, or bingo in the village hall.
Me?
I’ll probably still be scribbling in notebooks and crouching awkwardly in bushes trying to photograph birds that absolutely refuse to stay still long enough for a decent shot.
And honestly… that sounds pretty perfect to me.
Success Looks Different Now
When I was younger, career plans sounded bigger.
More ambitious. More impressive.
Now?
Success looks quieter.
A peaceful morning. A camera in hand. Words flowing onto a page. Enough time to enjoy the people I love. Enough headspace to appreciate ordinary days.
That’s the goal.
Not endless hustle. Not climbing another ladder just to discover it’s leaning against the wrong wall.
Just a life with a little more meaning… and a little less noise.
So what’s my career plan?
Retire from the job.
Lean fully into the art.
Keep writing. Keep photographing. Keep finding beauty in ordinary moments.
And if I’m lucky…
Spend the next chapter of life doing the things that made surviving the earlier chapters worthwhile.
The last live performance I saw was Judge Jules at The Foundry — and what a night that was.
There’s something magical about live music when the bass kicks in, the lights blur, and for a few hours the outside world fades into obscurity.
Judge Jules absolutely owned the room; the energy was relentless, nostalgic, and uplifting all at once, and the atmosphere was pure electric. It’s like you were among old friends (that you’d only just met) who like you were just there for the music.
As someone who spends most of his time buried in poetry, photography, and thought, it was great to step into pure noise, rhythm, movement and a state of musically induced euphoria for a change.
Sometimes the soul needs a poem… and sometimes it just needs a dance floor.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 