Leisure used to mean escape. Time off. A break from responsibility. These days, I’ve come to realize that what I enjoy most in my leisure time isn’t escape at all—it’s connection.
At the top of that list is time with Lizzi and Sully. There’s a sacred simplicity to it. Sitting on the floor. Building something that will immediately be knocked over. Listening to a story I’ve already heard—twice—told again with fresh enthusiasm. In those moments, the world slows to a pace that feels far more human. No notifications. No schedules. Just presence. And presence, I’ve learned, is a rare and undervalued luxury.
Writing comes next, especially when it’s unburdened by expectation. Not lesson plans. Not emails. Just words for their own sake—blog posts that meander, book ideas that may never fully materialize, sentences written simply because they want to exist. Writing in leisure feels different. It breathes. It listens. It doesn’t rush toward a conclusion.
There’s also the quiet ritual of bourbon—never about quantity, always about attention. Reading the label. Letting the glass rest. Taking time to notice what’s there instead of gulping it down. It’s less a drink than a practice in slowing myself to the moment, something our culture rarely encourages us to do.
And then there’s silence. The kind that arrives right after the classroom empties, when the last footsteps fade and the room exhales. Chairs slightly askew. The board still full. That brief window—before the next obligation—has become one of my favorite parts of the day. It’s not dramatic. It’s not productive. But it’s restorative in a way few things are.
So what do I enjoy most in my leisure time? Being where I am. With who I’m with. Doing things that don’t need to justify themselves. In a loud, hurried world, that feels like a quiet rebellion—and one worth practicing.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
