Recently while visiting a family member in the hospital my relative’s physician paid him an unexpected visit. I use the word “unexpected” because a) it was quite late in the evening and b) the day that the physician was usually off duty. His off-duty time heretofore had been sacred: no patients, no calls, no appointments. And we had respected that. Upon questioning the nature of this call, the doctor’s reply was astounding to both of us.

“This is my aloof day, and I do exactly what I want to do. Sometimes I play catch-up on my records, sometimes I do a lot of filing, sometimes I grab all the new medical reports I’ve missed. It’s my day.”

As you might expect, my relative and I were touched that he dropped by Room 702 for a late night call and chat. But more to the point, I was struck by the wisdom this young doctor exhibited in taking an “aloof day” for himself. He was, by definition, keeping a distance from his profession but within view, a little bit apart. And in so doing, probably keeping his sanity.

I’ve thought about that visit often and asked myself why I didn’t start taking an “aloof day.” Why doesn’t everyone take one? As long as I can remember I’ve hit the floor running nearly every day of the week, working out a to-do list in my sleep and consulting a written one upon awakening. I guess I’m a compulsive doer, a Type-A personality. No apologies, it’s just the way I’m made. Time is painting my hair gray and wrinkling both my cheeks but I’m not about to concede to the tethers of Old Age. A day apart might be just the thing to restoke my engine.

Focusing on this prospect has thrown me into a fervor of fantasizing. Our physician friend is more conscientious than I. My idea of being aloof is sort of a free-floating condition, where a newly-released self would hover or flit from goal to goal. No files or paperwork, not even the computer on my aloof day. I would move soundlessly, lightly from place to place, visible, but not recognizable.

Reserved and remote — two adjectives that have never been used to describe my natural self — that’s me on my aloof day. What should or would, or better still, could I do with a day of my own?

Walk. I’d leave my beloved Scottie (who strolls, ambles, sniffs) at home and set out briskly on a crisp, clear glorious morning. And then sag with guilt for not taking the dog. OK, I can vow to take her on an extra-long stroll the next morning.

Visit. I’d call up a friend, or two, and see if either would join me on a walk, or lunch, a cup of coffee, a long chat.

Stop. I’d stop at every house undergoing renovation or construction that I’ve admired in the past six months and tell the owners what a terrific job they’re doing. I’ve seriously thought of starting a personal Blue Ribbon Committee (of one) and go around pinning blue ribbons on houses that have been spruced up conspicuously and well.

Paint. How many weeks have my oil paints languished on the shelf? Didn’t I intend to finish that landscape three weeks ago? Do I even like what I started back in the summer? Definitely, time to get the painting jump-started.

Sit. I would just sit, perhaps on the bench in my garden that I have never even tested. I would sit and meditate, sniff the clear air, watch the clouds and the birds and do absolutely nothing.

This would bring me back to real life, end my aloofness and make me realize once again what deep joy and abundant blessings lie at my fingertips. Good health, good friends, good environment: I don’t want to be aloof from this for too long.

Freelance writer Barbara Dickinson will let readers know when she has taken an “aloof day.”

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