Discovering Niksen, or the under-rated art of doing nothing
IHOPE you had a lovely Easter break, however you spent it. Mine was full of surprise and discovery. With a teenager studying for exams, I took myself off on a solo writing retreat in rural Monmouthshire. For this natural introvert, the prospect of a week alone to explore creativity was delicious. Having time to myself is rare; life just gets in the way of all my good intentions at home. You know how it goes.
So, arriving at a secluded wooden cabin surrounded by rolling hills and sheep, I was excited about what the week might hold.
I had big plans and an even bigger to-do list, but the first day unfolded unexpectedly. Climbing into my little cabin bed (to test it out), I was overcome by sleep, a sign of the deep exhaustion I carried to the hills. This unplanned rest day was probably my body telling me to pause. All I know is that I felt like I didn’t even have the energy to open my laptop.
Awakening from this day-long slumber, I felt rested but guilty at wasting an entire day. The self-flagellation was familiar – if there’s anything I was taught to hate wasting as much as food, it’s time. It’s our most precious currency, right? I’ve always felt that wasting it is a crime against something deep in my soul. Tomorrow’s another day, I told myself as I drifted off for a scheduled sleep.
I started the second day with a few laps of the cold-water pool (bracing!) before settling down to the business at hand. I wrote thousands of words that day, and some seemed to make sense. Slowly, I floated into the rhythm of birdsong and the countryside. My days began to weave together periods of focused writing and gentle explorations of the surrounding idyll.
I walked among the sheep and their baby lambs, their presence a soothing constant in the landscape, and braved the invigorating chill of the water every morning. Among these activities, though, the moments spent simply sitting and staring at the view became a habit. Moments of doing precisely nothing. This is not something I ever knowingly do at home. It felt strange and unsettling, but I just kept doing nothing.
It was here, amidst the tranquil expanse of the Monmouthshire hills, that I unknowingly embraced Niksen. What is Niksen? Clue: it isn’t a disgraced American president. It’s the Dutch practice of consciously doing nothing in order to relax and decompress. Or, put another way, it’s letting the mind wander without a specific purpose or focus. I didn’t know anything about this practice until the last day of the retreat when I stumbled across an article about the growing wellness trend on a news website. As I read, I realised that I had been living the essence of Niksen for six days without knowing its name.
For someone with an internal motor supercharged by ADHD, driving me to perpetually move, plan, and do, this experience was revelatory. Even when I’m doing ‘nothing’ at home, I’m doing something: meditating, listening to podcasts, and picking up random bits of carpet fluff. I measure my days in units of productivity and endless to-dos, ticked off on a deeply satisfying app called Sunsama.
In booking what I thought would be a week of unbridled productivity, I accidentally found myself stepping back to simply be, an act that contradicts the constant drive for productivity that both society and my inherent nature impose on me. The experience offered me an introduction to the therapeutic power of Niksen, teaching me the value of pausing life’s relentless pace.
As I learned, the practice of Niksen is a deliberate deceleration, a choice to find balance in moments of stillness. Its simplicity is its strength. It requires no specific setting or preparation, just a willingness to let go and allow the mind to wander, unburdened by the compulsion to be constantly DOING STUFF. It also aligns with findings from neuroscience suggesting that rest periods are crucial for cognitive processing and emotional well-being.
It’s no coincidence that I left that cabin having made significant progress on my writing project. I may have spent as much time staring into space as I did tapping out words, but by some alchemy and magic, it made me more productive than I’d hoped.
It makes sense if you think about it because the Dutch are a deeply creative bunch. Think artists like Rembrandt, Vermeer or Escher. And the way they keep dreaming up innovative solutions to battle the recurring threat of floods. I was also reminded of a huge shop in Amsterdam that sells rubber ducks dressed in every costume you can imagine (I bought a coal miner duck and one in a blue football strip. Bluebirds!). These are all things only a truly creative nation could be proud of.
I returned home to the bustle of the city, vowing to make Niksen a feature of everyday life. It will be a challenge, particularly given my ADHD brain.
Yet the clarity and tranquillity I found in that cabin, in my unintentional moments of stillness, felt like a torch guiding me towards a more balanced existence.
Perhaps you, like me, are wired for constant thought and action. Or maybe you’re overwhelmed by the demands of modern life (late capitalism, huh?). If so, I invite you to embrace Niksen this weekend. With all the irksome zeal of the newly converted, I’d encourage you to rediscover the joy of stillness wherever you are. And in the moments of doing nothing, may you also find a path to creativity, well-being, and a deeper connection to the world around you.
Niksen, with its radical simplicity, offers a reprieve from chaos and a way to reclaim our time and minds. Perhaps we find our most profound moments of connection, insight, and peace in doing absolutely nothing.
If you need me, I’ll be staring out the window for a long, lazy, gloriously unproductive moment (or 10). Proost!
Awakening from this day-long slumber, I felt rested but guilty at wasting an entire day