The Art of Doing Nothing

The Art of Doing Nothing… Let me paint you a picture: you’re perched on a sun-dappled terrace somewhere in southern Italy. There’s a gentle breeze teasing the edge of your newspaper, a lazy clink of espresso cups in the background, the faint murmur of a neighbour on the phone, probably talking about dinner plans, and a cat asleep in the shade of a lemon tree who hasn’t moved since breakfast. Not a single person in sight appears to be in any particular hurry. This is not a holiday snapshot. This is Tuesday. Welcome to the marvellous world of dolce far niente — the sweetness of doing absolutely nothing, perfected to an art form with a side of olives and maybe a little Aperol spritz.

While the rest of us are out here glorifying the grind, drinking productivity smoothies, setting alarms for 5am journalling, and measuring self-worth in completed tasks, metrics, heart rate data, and unread emails, there are entire cultures who have mastered the sacred, rebellious, deliciously unproductive act of chilling out like it’s a divine right handed down from the gods of hammocks and siestas. Italy’s not alone in this elegant refusal to hurry. Spain famously hits the pause button every afternoon with its sacred siesta, as if the whole country collectively decided that the post-lunch slump was not a bug but a feature. Thailand, meanwhile, lives by the gospel of sabai sabai — an expression so mellow it practically reclines into a hammock with sunglasses on and a coconut in hand. And let’s not forget the Caribbean’s liming, or the Norwegian concept of kos, which basically means cosiness with strong opinions on candles.

The Italians have a way of making idleness seem not only acceptable but aspirational. It’s not laziness, mind you. It’s appreciation. It’s lifestyle philosophy disguised as loafing. Taking a walk without destination. Sitting on a bench watching pigeons wage absurd territorial battles like they’re in a feathered soap opera. Slowly licking a gelato while staring at church architecture like it might reveal the meaning of life if you squint hard enough. Discussing lunch plans in exhaustive detail even while eating breakfast. Time, in this version of reality, is something to be tasted, rolled around the tongue, perhaps paired with a bit of local gossip and a breeze. There’s a kind of spiritual richness in choosing to do nothing and doing it well. That’s the art of doing nothing at it’s purest.

Spain takes a slightly more structured approach to its relaxation rituals. The siesta isn’t just a nap; it’s a protest against unreasonable productivity. It’s a national shrug that says, “Try again later.” Shops close. Streets empty. Curtains get drawn. A whole country collectively says, “You know what? Not now.” It’s institutionalised daydreaming. Imagine suggesting that at your next quarterly strategy meeting. “What if we just… shut everything down for a bit after lunch? Catch up on sleep, maybe dream about jamón?” Good luck getting that through HR.

And it’s not just about naps. In Spain, dinner is eaten at a time that, in other places, qualifies as a midnight snack. Conversations stretch past midnight, laughter echoing from balconies. No one’s in a rush to get home because home is wherever the wine and the company are. There’s a deep trust that life will happen, and you don’t need to force it. The clock ticks, but softly.

Then there’s Thailand, where sabai sabai isn’t just a phrase, it’s a way of life, a subtle code that governs everything from small talk to crisis management. The double use of the word isn’t a typo. It’s emphasis. It loosely translates to “chill chill” or “all good, don’t worry,” and it’s the reason why your Thai taxi driver isn’t fazed by the chaos of Bangkok traffic, your noodles took forever but taste like heaven itself opened a pop-up, and no one seems to break a sweat unless it’s for Muay Thai or dancing. Deadlines? Urgency? Never heard of them. Everything is done when it’s done, and not a moment sooner.

Even in the face of everyday chaos — honking tuk-tuks, busy street vendors, the occasional downpour that turns the streets into rivers — there’s a prevailing calm. A sense that it’s all part of the ride. What matters is how you ride it. With grace. With ease. With sandals.

So why are these cultures better at relaxing than, say, the average caffeine-fuelled city dweller who treats mindfulness like another task on the to-do list wedged between a performance review and a 5K training app? Part of it is climate, sure. When the sun is blazing and movement feels like effort, slowing down becomes not only pleasant but essential. But it’s more than that. It’s also about priorities. Relationships over results. Presence over productivity. Pleasure over pressure. Life as a series of moments, not milestones. The goal isn’t to win. It’s to enjoy the game. To linger. To savour. To nap under a tree without needing a productivity metric to justify it.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? We buy books on how to be more mindful, attend workshops on how to be less stressed, download apps that remind us to breathe, all while checking our calendars to see when we can fit in some relaxation between back-to-back Zoom meetings and the existential dread of inbox zero. We schedule our spontaneity, block out “me time,” and stress about how well we’re relaxing. Meanwhile, in some parts of the world, people are just… being. No schedule. No hustle. No pressure to optimise their sleep cycles or biohack their breakfast. Just the radical act of sitting still, eyes half-closed, breathing like it’s not a sport.

We talk about work-life balance as if it’s something you can buy on sale at a Scandinavian furniture shop. But maybe it’s more of a vibe. A rhythm. A way of inhabiting time instead of racing against it. Slowing down is not a failure to keep up — it’s an act of quiet rebellion. Of opting out. Of saying, “No thanks, I’d rather sit here with my espresso and listen to birds argue in the trees.”

Maybe it’s time to stop fetishising burnout and start glamorising boredom. To sit on a stoop and watch the world go by without feeling like we should be doing something more. To take our coffee breaks seriously. To reclaim the sofa from the tyranny of multitasking. To stare at clouds like they might be onto something. Maybe the real flex is doing nothing, and doing it well. Doing it with flair. With snacks. With the kind of unapologetic stillness that makes onlookers nervous. With a floppy sunhat, ideally.

So here’s to the art of doing nothing. To Spain, Italy, Thailand, and all the relaxed souls who are out there showing us what it really means to live a little. Not by speeding up. Not by squeezing in another goal. But by slowing way, way down. By napping with purpose. By strolling with conviction. By treating every pause as a portal to something deeper, we might just find the version of ourselves that isn’t trying to get ahead, but trying to enjoy exactly where we are. Right now. Preferably with a view. And maybe a second gelato. Just because.