You Could Have Today. Instead You Choose Tomorrow.

It’s time to stop living for the weekend

For me, the perfect Saturday involves getting up early. Not disgustingly early, just early enough that the morning is still fresh and young. I get my son dressed and we go for a long walk with the stroller while my wife gets much-deserved sleep.

Taking our time, we cover a few miles as the sun comes up, and then we come back home. I do a few pushups on the porch before coming back inside. (My son tries his best to do the same.) By now my wife is up, and we have a nice breakfast together as a family. Eggs from the chickens that graze on the grasses and grubs that grow around the coop behind the house, maybe some leftovers from the week thrown into something on the stove.

There’s nothing on the schedule or the calendar for the day. It’s Saturday, after all, and nobody else is working. The house is quiet. The phone hasn’t rung once. I head upstairs to my office and sit for a few minutes with my journal. And then, inspired by the stillness and the peace of the day, I usually do a little writing. Nothing super taxing, nothing that feels like hard work—something nice. Something like this piece. A riff on some topic that’s been bouncing around in my head during the week. Or maybe I just take notes on a book I read a while ago and wanted to review.

By the time I come downstairs an hour or two later, it’s just the best feeling. What I got done was a bonus. It didn’t feel forced, but it was still an accomplishment. And guess what? Now the whole rest of the day remains before me.

It’s our day. Not anyone else’s. There’s no purpose to it. No real structure.

Sometimes we go into town. Or we hang out around the house. We go shopping or we play in the yard. We get the satisfaction of checking off little projects we’ve been meaning to finish. We watch college football. Or a movie. We read books. We jump in the pool. We go to the zoo or the grocery store. We get hay for the cows or feed them cubes. We go to the gym or for a run in the park. Or we do what seems like nothing for quite a long time.

It’s our day. Not anyone else’s. There’s no purpose to it. No real structure. And everything we do is by choice. No frenzy. No rush. No imposition. Just presence and peace.

Anyway, that’s what my perfect Saturday looks like. Yours may look very different. Maybe yours has a more leisurely morning or brunch with friends. Maybe there’s a 40-mile bike ride or hundreds of pages of scientific papers to be read. Maybe the concept of a “perfect Saturday” has never occurred to you because you work on weekends. Maybe your Saturday is actually Wednesday, your only day off, I don’t know. But if you do have a day off, it’s yours. And it should be whatever you want.

Callie Oettinger put it well:

You don’t have to do a lot every day, but you have to do something. Something. Every day.

So what is that something?

When you know what that something is, suddenly you have power and clarity and control. You know what to say yes to. What to say no to. You know who you are and what your life needs to be built around.