Forty-Three Candles Not Lit, But Carried

 
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.
— Seneca

Entry No.
Dear Faithful Companion,

The morning met me not with the clink of glasses or the rustle of wrapping paper, but with silence—the kind that invites reflection more than revelry. Today, I turn forty-three. But there were no balloons, no indulgences, no grand declarations. Instead, there was duty, ceremony, and a handwritten card placed with care atop my desk—a message not of festivity, but of measure.

Affixed below is that very message, penned on the eve of the day:

 

"The turning of another year arrives not as an event, but as a pause. A moment to steady the step, square the shoulders, and reflect—not on celebration, but on course and character. Only the question asked in still moments: Have I lived this year with discipline, honour, and purpose?
Some days, yes. Others, not as I had hoped. But each one has shaped me, sharpened me, and brought its lesson. And so, I do not count the years. I weigh them.

The year behind me held its share of questions and quiet trials. Yet in its passing, it refined more than it removed. It reminded me that strength is found in the patient march, not the sprint. That purpose is something we affirm daily. And that growth is often less about change, and more about becoming more fully who we are meant to be.

What gives this day its quiet distinction is not the age it marks, but the company it keeps. This morning, I will stand in the presence of service, tradition, and quiet duty—witness to the accomplishment of those being invested into the Order of St. John—an honour grounded not in title, but in service.

To act rightly, give quietly, and leave no virtue unpractised. That is celebration enough."

This, I believe, captures the essence of the day—and, if I may say so, the shape of the man I continue to forge.

The morning was spent in the company of some truly remarkable friends and volunteers. Amidst the bustle of investitures and ceremony, I was deeply touched by the warm birthday wishes extended by Adam, Nancy, Tony, and others. Their kindness did not go unnoticed, and it reminded me that the finest honours we receive are often the quiet gestures shared in passing.

The day was also a reminder to take stock—not just of time, but of where I place my energy. This past year has asked me to take a hard look at the networks and commitments I’ve aligned myself with—and to ask whether they are sustainable, meaningful, and in step with the life I aim to lead. In truth, I’ve overextended. What began as service gradually became obligation, and it has been a year of remapping: clarifying what I want to achieve, and more importantly, how I wish to achieve it. My commitment to lead remains unchanged, but the direction of that leadership now calls for greater precision—and perhaps, fewer fronts, more meaningful campaigns.

Following the morning’s formalities, Jesse and I slipped into the rhythm of the city. We spent a few unhurried hours walking Toronto’s early summer streets, sharing lunch, a couple of well-earned cocktails, and a moment to mark the occasion away from ceremony. His presence this afternoon was more than company—it was the quiet reassurance of a partner who knows not just the man I am, but the one I strive to become. On a day that weighed legacy and direction, he brought with him not just warmth and companionship, but grounding. The kind of presence that steadies you, without needing to speak a word.
And to those who sent kind words from afar, you too are part of this day’s quiet joy.

Seneca reminds us that a life is not measured by its length, but by its quality. This year has reaffirmed that truth. My path has not always been smooth, but it has been deliberate. And in each deliberate step—in each moment weighted with purpose—I find the measure of a year well lived.

A Note to Readers

If you’ve read this far, you are part of the journey—even in silence. These pages are not written to impress, but to record the moments that form the quiet architecture of a life. Your time, your thoughts, and your presence—near or far—are felt and appreciated.

May we all strive to live deliberately, serve quietly, and weigh our years with wisdom.

Verbum Ultimum

Some birthdays arrive with celebration. Others arrive with questions. This one brought both—and more importantly, it brought clarity. I began the day with medals pinned, traditions upheld, and words unwritten yet deeply felt. I stood not as one being honoured, but as one bearing witness—to service, to legacy, to the quiet passing of torches between hands that carry more than rank. And later, I walked through the city not as a guest, but as a man reclaiming pace and purpose in his own rhythm.

This day has reminded me that age is not a tally of time, but a test of how we carry it. The calendar may say “forty-three,” but I am not defined by years alone—I am defined by what those years have taught me, what burdens they’ve forged into strength, and what values I’ve refused to put down. Leadership—true leadership—is not measured by how far one can stretch, but by how deliberately one stands. And so, I find myself returning to centre: fewer fronts, more meaningful campaigns.

To those who paused to walk beside me today—whether through ceremony, kindness, or shared silence—know that your presence gave this day its depth.

I do not count the years. I weigh them. And in the ledger of a life in progress, this day will carry weight well worth its mark.

If I am remembered, let it be for how I stood—when it was easier to bend,
and how I gave—when there was nothing owed.
JCB

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The Colours I Will Stand Behind

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A Gentleman and His Creami: Indulgence Reforged