The Productive Art of Doing Nothing with Bernard Michael Rochford

There’s a special kind of magic in doing nothing. Not scrolling.

Not half-watching television. Not checking the weather app for the third time in an hour. I mean properly, unapologetically, deliciously doing nothing. I didn’t always know how to do this. Back when I was running my osteopathy clinic in Brisbane, “nothing” was a luxury I didn’t understand. Every minute had to serve a purpose. If I sat still, it was to plan, to respond, to squeeze in another appointment or return a phone call I didn’t have time for in the first place.

My days were carved up like a school timetable—useful, efficient, predictable. But now that I’ve retired, I’ve discovered a new kind of schedule. One with long, open spaces. Blank pages. Hours that don’t rush toward a deadline. And in that space, I’ve met a long-lost part of myself: the man who can sit with a cup of tea and stare out the window for forty-five minutes without a single urge to do anything. It didn’t happen overnight. At first, I felt the itch. I’d sit down, hands twitching like they were missing a clipboard.

I’d reach for a list, a phone, anything to fill the moment. But slowly, the silence got less sharp. The stillness felt less foreign. And now? I look forward to it. There’s a certain pleasure in watching the morning unfold without an agenda. The sunlight stretches across the floorboards like it’s got all day—which, incidentally, it does. I sit on the porch with my second coffee and just listen. Not to music.

Not to a podcast promising to improve my brain. Just to birds, bin trucks, breeze. Once, my neighbour asked me what I was thinking about while I sat there looking “very serious.” I told him honestly: “Nothing. Isn’t it great?” Doing nothing has become my quiet rebellion. A protest against the productivity-obsessed world that turns every hobby into a side hustle and every spare moment into an opportunity to “get ahead.” I’m not ahead. I’m beside. Or beneath. Or somewhere parallel. And I’m completely fine with that. Some days, I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling fan. I time its rotations.

I try to guess which blade is wobbling more than the others. Other days, I lie in the hammock under my lemon tree and just exist. I feel the breeze shift. I notice the sound of a neighbour’s wind chime that I swear changes key when the mailman walks past. I don’t record any of this. I don’t turn it into a post. I don’t explain it to anyone. It’s not content. It’s just mine. And in that slowness, I’ve started noticing things. I’ve noticed my breathing. I’ve noticed how the light changes in my living room at exactly 3:47pm.

I’ve noticed that my mind, once full of to-dos and should-haves, now wanders off into softer territories—memories, ideas, nonsense. Sometimes I imagine what my lemon tree might say if it could talk. (Usually something sassy about me forgetting to water it.) Of course, doing nothing comes with the occasional guilt pang. We live in a world where rest is suspicious. If you’re not busy, people assume something’s wrong. But here’s what I’ve learned: rest is not laziness. It’s maintenance. It’s presence. It’s how you stay connected to yourself when the noise fades. I’ve had to remind myself that I’ve earned this stillness. I spent decades being useful. Showing up. Fixing other people’s pain with my hands and my ears. And now, it’s enough just to be. Not as a role. Not as a service. Just as Bernard Michael Rochford, sitting on a bench, existing. The thing is, doing nothing doesn’t mean nothing happens. Quite the opposite. That’s when the good stuff shows up. I’ve had some of my best ideas—not that I write them down—in the middle of doing nothing. I’ve remembered old friends. I’ve solved crossword clues from three days earlier. I’ve figured out where I left the good garden shears. All while watching clouds pass like lazy ships across the sky.

If you haven’t tried it yet, I recommend it. Start small. Five minutes with no phone. No talking. No purpose. Just sit somewhere and let the moment arrive. At first, it’ll feel weird. That’s okay. Weird is just the body adjusting to a pace it forgot was possible. And who knows? You might find, like I did, that doing nothing is actually doing something after all. Something sacred. Something human. Something that’s yours alone. So if you ever call and I don’t answer right away, don’t worry. I’m probably lying in the backyard, watching a bird try to land on a fence post that’s just slightly too narrow. And loving every second of it.

— Bernard Michael Rochford Unapologetic Idler | Backyard Philosopher | Brisbane’s Premier Ceiling Fan Observer