Here’s to the simple joy of time alone in one’s own home. Having just dropped my husband and daughter at the airport, I find myself surrounded by a peace and stillness that is most definitely not the norm around here. This day feels like a gift, and instead of doing all the things I should be doing, I decide to allow myself to do what I want to do—which on this day is not very much at all. The decision feels like a courageous act, a direct rebellion against a life I typically measure by the number of check marks made on a “to do” list that never seems to end.

我的前老板是哈佛商学院的一个杰出，职业的女教授，曾经谈过关心和意图，因为什么区分了家庭作业的麻木劳动的自我保守的乐趣。两者都涉及琐事，需要重复完成。但这是一种方法，其中一种核心使得所有差异。

Mostly, my family and I do housework—the everyday tasks required to keep the chaos at bay: dishes get loaded into the dishwasher and then unloaded in endless succession; laundry is washed, dried, folded, and (on good days) put away in drawers; weeds are pulled; bills are paid; papers are tidied. It’s exhausting and endless. Let me be clear here: I am not a fan of housework.

But I am a fan of the house. Specifically, this house, a sweet little 1930s center-entrance colonial set on a rise, overlooking a modest park. This is no trophy house, mansion, or even “McMansion,” but over the years we have added on, refinished, replaced, and revamped, until the end product is what it is today—a sun-filled place that welcomes and nurtures and feels like home.

所以在此，我的“休息日”，我陶醉于这里的简单乐趣。我像一个蜜蜂从一个地方掠过的地方，而不是授粉我正在矫直，抛光，倾斜。从忽视现在闷闷不乐的银色框架，从他们微笑的脸上笑着似乎很幸福。白雪皑皑的餐巾纸，长期皱巴巴的洗衣房中的柳条筐中的球，现在折叠在三分之一，并在厨房的抽屉里夹在一个整洁的堆栈中，等待下一个庆祝活动。棕色的叶子被拆除了室内植物，现在新鲜浇水。这样的任务看起来像苦差事，但今天我只是因为我已经赐给自己的时间和许可而善待所有人。

Samuel Johnson, the 18th-century writer, is not someone most of us think of as a homebody, but I pulled a quote of his from a newspaper years ago and tacked to my bulletin board, where it remains today. The esteemed Dr. Johnson said: “To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition.”

So with Dr. Johnson’s blessing there in black and white, on this day I resist the urge to do something or be something in favor of just being. I write in my journal. I pull old books off the shelves and delight in their contents anew. I walk from room to room and straighten paintings and plump pillows. I tidy and repeat. It is in these rare times of puttering about, when we take the time to care for our surroundings in ways beyond everyday housework, that our houses and apartments truly become our homes. Part of the joy of puttering is in the rarity of being able to do it; we are not often handed days when appointment books can be emptied without consequences.

Happily, today is one such day, and I am taking full advantage of it. Doing nothing feels like ambition enough.