The morning I stopped rushing

6:30.

I wake up.

My wife wakes up Bánh Mì.

Another day begins.

I used to wake up with so many things to do.

Meetings.

Phone calls.

Plans still unfinished from yesterday.

Things not yet done, and already I was thinking about tomorrow.

I used to think twenty-four hours was far too short.

There were mornings when I opened my eyes and already wanted to run.

Run after work.

Run after the things I wanted to own.

Run after a life that, back then, I believed would leave me behind if I did not run fast enough.

Now I still wake at 6:30.

But it seems I no longer run.

My wife wakes up Bánh Mì.

He is still half asleep.

Eyes opening and closing.

Then she washes his face, gets the diapers, the milk, the clothes, and puts everything into his small bag.

I sit there and watch the two of them.

Very small things.

So small that written down, there is nothing worth telling.

And yet perhaps a life is made precisely of those things that are not worth telling.

A little bag.

A carton of milk.

A set of clothes.

A child not quite awake.

A mother bent over, getting her son ready.

And a father sitting, waiting for the hour to take him to school.

7:20.

I take Bánh Mì out of the house.

The wheels roll along the familiar road.

Some mornings the sky is clear.

Some mornings still hold a trace of cold.

People are heading to work.

The traffic thickens.

The city starts to sound.

Whoosh… whoosh…

Once, those sounds told me the day had to be fast.

Now I hear them as a city waking up.

I take my son into his classroom.

I watch him walk inside.

Then I turn around.

Alone.

I roll my chair to the market.

The first thing is breakfast.

Then the flower and fruit stall.

A few flowers to bring home for the altar.

Then back into the market.

Food for lunch.

Some days I think that if I told this schedule to the man I was years ago, he would laugh.

A man who once spun through work, through meetings, through grand intentions…

now begins his morning by going to the market.

And yet, strangely.

My heart feels light.

Perhaps when a person has passed through enough noisy days, he begins to treasure the quiet ones.

A bunch of flowers.

A meal.

A home.

Someone waiting for him to come back.

8:30.

I get home.

On my desk there is already an iced cold brew.

My wife made it.

No note.

Nothing special.

Just a cold coffee, set down there.

I eat breakfast.

I drink the coffee.

I open the laptop.

I look through the day's work.

The ice in the cold brew slowly melts.

The work piles up.

The phone lights.

Messages arrive.

The things to handle are still there.

I still do them.

Still busy.

Still tired some days.

But I no longer feel I must run the way I used to.

Perhaps I am beginning to understand:

Being busy and being in a hurry are not the same thing.

A person can have a great deal to do and still be calm.

A person can do almost nothing and still be frantic inside.

I used to think that to go far you had to go fast.

Later I learned that what matters more is knowing where you are going.

16:30.

I go to pick up Bánh Mì.

One day apart and it seems he has grown a little more.

The two of us take a loop again.

No destination.

Nowhere we need to be.

I buy him a small cake.

A yoghurt he likes.

He eats.

I watch.

There are moments so ordinary that if you are not paying attention they pass as though they never were.

But I know now.

Those moments are his childhood.

And a part of mine too.

Because one day Bánh Mì will grow up.

He will no longer sit behind his father's wheelchair.

No longer light up over a little cake.

No longer need his father to take him around the block just to look at the street.

Perhaps then I will miss these afternoons.

Miss a child sitting behind me.

Miss the sound of him laughing.

Miss the roads that led nowhere.

17:00.

The two of us reach home.

I start work at Anh Ngữ Con Ơi.

Hand the lesson plans to the teachers.

Welcome the children into class.

Voices.

Laughter.

Running feet.

Small backpacks.

Faces still perfectly innocent.

I sit in a room full of children and sometimes time feels very strange.

This morning Bánh Mì was still sitting behind my wheelchair.

By afternoon he is running after other children.

A child's day is so long.

An adult's day is so short.

20:30.

The children finish class.

I see them off.

Then I go back to Bánh Mì.

Give him his milk.

Get him ready for bed.

The house grows quiet.

Voices soften.

The lights go low.

Outside, the city is not asleep.

But here, a child's day is coming to an end.

I look at my son.

And suddenly I think…

Is this not how we tend to live?

Always waiting for some day.

A day with more money.

A day when work is steadier.

A day when we are more successful.

A day when we have everything and then we will slow down.

But that day stays forever ahead.

While the days we already have quietly go.

22:30.

Only now do I sit down to dinner.

The rice has gone cold.

Never mind.

Eating is enough.

After eating, I open the laptop again.

The unfinished work is waiting.

I work until there is none left.

Then I rest.

Tomorrow it begins again.

6:30.

Wake again.

Wake my son again.

Pack the bag again.

Take him to school again.

Go to the market again.

A cold brew on the desk again.

Work again.

Pick him up again.

The laughter of children again.

A late dinner again.

A night again.

A day again.

I am still busy.

Truthfully, very busy.

But I think I have stopped hurrying.

Not because life became lighter.

But because I am beginning to understand that a day is not measured only by what I got done.

A day is also measured by what I managed to notice.

A child growing up.

A wife setting a coffee on the desk.

A bunch of flowers brought home for the altar.

A meal.

One loop of a wheelchair around the neighbourhood.

A little cake.

One small voice calling "ba".

None of it makes me more successful.

But it makes my day fuller.

Perhaps I once drank coffee to stay alert enough to work.

Now, sometimes I drink a cold brew and simply sit still for a few minutes.

Not to rest.

Only to notice that the morning is here.

The light is here.

The people I love are here.

And I…

still have a day to live.

I no longer wish for a longer day.

I only wish to be present in it long enough not to overlook the people growing up beside me.

Because Bánh Mì will not be small forever.

My parents will not be young forever.

My wife will not wait for me forever at the age she is today.

And I have no second life to live.

Time keeps going.

Tick… tock…

Softly.

But never back.

So tomorrow morning, if someone asks me:

"Are you busy?"

I will probably still smile.

Yes.

Busy, of course.

There is still so much to do.

But I do not want to run anymore.

I want to go a little slower.

Slow enough to hear the wheels on the morning road.

Slow enough to see Bánh Mì, sitting behind me, growing up day by day.

Slow enough to notice the cold brew my wife made is still cold.

Slow enough to buy a bunch of flowers.

Slow enough to eat a meal.

Slow enough to sit beside the people I love.

And slow enough that when the day closes, I can say to myself:

"Today, I lived."

No more.

No less.

Only…

a very ordinary day.

But perhaps, after all those years of running fast,

an ordinary day like that is already something very beautiful.