On doing nothing

On most weekends, I have a laundry-list of things to do: obligations to my home, my studies, my family, and my community. Some months ago, I even started keeping appointments to myself, realizing that if I ever wanted to see certain exhibits, go out with friends, or visit certain places, those plans would have to get into the book.
In this instance, I had made no allusions about industry. The Great Three-Day Weekend was bearing down upon me, and there were no plans to paint, to cut the grass, to weed, or to study. In this, I was overwhelmingly successful.
Instead, my wife and I dined at Isabella’s Taverna; elsewhere we had caprese; I had a hefty bottle excellent beer at the tragically unflatteringly named (though altogether charming) Dogfish Head Alehouse; and had my melancholy bagel, much improved by the company of my wife. We slept-in and even managed to find time for a nap between outings to eat and walking the dogs around the city parks. Alas, we failed to find a much-admired Indian restaurant that recently relocated. A fool’s errand for another time.
I realized (or more correctly, remembered) that every now and then, I need to go off the grid, and leave my planner closed and out of sight. The lack of structure or hope of any accomplishment is an accomplishment in and of itself. My weekend is over, I have nothing to show for it, and I am the better for it.