I must say that a week of doing nothing in the wilds of Maine has left me thoroughly refreshed. You know those vacations where you come home and think, “Damn, I need a vacation after my vacation”? Yeah, I didn’t have one of those vacations. It was nice to come home with nothing, having done nothing. Even better, I had no stories to tell of my encounter with a bear or the myriad sites I saw, no photos to press on you.
Mostly, I sat by the water and read, which is the ideal, indulgent respite if you’re like me; if you’re not, then you’re likely thinking that sounds pretty lame and should probably stop reading. We wouldn’t get each other. There’s bliss in solitude and nothingness and I luxuriated in every minute of it.
Typical day: wake up whenever, and stumble out in pajamas to munch on cereal at the picnic table overlooking the lake. Then come the big decisions: shower? Take a walk? Read? In what order? These questions of minutiae were taxing. By then, I’d need a nap. I don’t nap, but if I did, this would have been the perfect time for one. Time to eat again. Should I make lunch so I could remain sloth-like or drive into town? Town was reached via a long dirt road that made me wonder if this were Maine or an undeveloped area of Turkey. Searsport was small—only a couple of restaurants—so it was generally seafood or seafood. Exhausted by the 20-minute drive and the mechanics of eating, I’d wander back along the scenic route by the ocean or get lost on the farm roads that led back to the lake.
Dinner played out much the same way; then back to the cottage, more reading, snacking, listening to the loons, and bed at 9:00 or midnight, depending on my mood and the book. The next day, I’d do it all again. I can’t recommend it enough: you should totally go away and do nothing. Nothing is worse than going away and doing something. Trust me.