The Quiet Place

We haven't been on vacation away from home since before the pandemic. The kid's university and high school break schedules didn't match. It's been a few years, but we finally made it happen.

We enjoy vacations where you rent a house in the woods with lake access. As a family, we prefer quiet places in nature with limited crowds. We've rented places in Michigan, Wisconsin, Hawaii, and Massachusetts, to mention a few.

What types of vacations do you prefer?

We've been visiting Door County, Wisconsin, since before the kids were born and decided it was this year's vacation destination based on their end-of-school and summer work schedules.

Imagine a log cabin surrounded by thick woods. The sounds are distinctly different than your suburban home—much quieter.

You relax more and more each day because you don't feel obligated to perform the same daily tasks you do at home—no work emails to manage or housework—no impulse to fix the broken anything. No worries about the village happenings. No thoughts about what needs to happen or when.

Just a lovely quiet space.

You sit, read, think, bike, walk, connect, and pause more frequently. You recognize the tension in your chest because you're not constantly moving. You notice the blood pumping in your veins. You rest because you need to, and you can.

How often do you take a vacation? If not, how often do you intentionally find a quiet space different enough to make you pause—and breathe deeply?

I haven't picked up my ukulele in months. Not sure why other than I didn't have the time or inclinations. I brought it on vacation. It fills the quiet space with a harmonic melody.

I'm rusty. My fingers pressing against the strings hurt after four songs. I play what I know I can manage, nothing complicated—feeling accomplished.

I brought my computer. I like to write. I love processing ideas as they surface, catching them before they fade. Ideas are like butterflies—flitting about with no particular pattern. Catching them requires focus. They're gone before I know if I don't act fast. 

11:00 AM: No sounds upstairs. The kids are still sleeping. Remember being in your late teens and early 20s? Getting to bed before midnight isn't a thing. Sleeping until midday is regular.

The cabin is rustic. The furniture gathered here and there over time—nothing matches. There's no particular aesthetic. An open floor plan connects the large kitchen, dining, and living area with a fireplace. The configuration of the downstairs floorplan is reminiscent of my childhood home.

In 1981, my Dad built a house on Oyster Bay in Charlevoix, Michigan. It had certain design features, such as a first-floor bedroom with an attached double entryway bath. You could enter from the bedroom or the hallway.

This rental cabin has the same odd design. Was this an 80s design concept? I've never seen this design concept anywhere other than in the 80s. The bathtub handles are the same too. Once the water shuts off, the showerhead knob clicks, shepherding water through the bathtub nozzle into the drain. I've heard that sound more times than I can count but not since the 80s.

The silence of the woods is the same no matter where you go. My window in the Charlevoix house overlooked Oyster Bay. The sound of water put me to sleep and woke me up from April-December.

I've never been able to live far from the water. I always suggest aqueous vacations. Living somewhere without access to a large body of water makes me anxious. Maybe it's neonatal. Maybe I'm just inventing the need to feel connected this way.

This Door County House is tranquil. I can feel myself here. It's an odd sensation, and sometimes I want to run from myself, but I remember this quiet level was my baseline growing up.

I'm so used to ambient noise now, living in the suburbs. There's always a car, neighbor, train, construction, airplane, or highway noise.

At the quiet place, it's quiet. I hear birds, trees rustling in the wind, the fire crackling, and my thoughts. I begin to notice: Is there always this underlying sense of agitation? Do I always feel like this but never notice due to the constant noise of my typical environment? Shouldn't I be doing something?

The quiet place invites you to acknowledge the malaise you're feeling. In the 80s, we didn't have the option to lose ourselves to technology. Growing up in the woods on Oyster Bay, I regularly sat and listened to the ambient woodland noises. I wasn't unnerved by the quiet space then, but I am (a little) now.

What's changed in me that I feel agitated sitting with my thoughts? The comforting susurrus of birch tree leaves helps somewhat.

Where is your quiet space? How often do you visit? How does your Quiet Place make you feel? Do you learn things about yourself you weren't aware of before? What do you learn that makes you happy, sad, or curious?

—Images from Door County, Wisconsin, June of 2023. We visited a farm we've gone to several times, took walks in the woods, and walked on the beach a few times. The weather was between 50 and 60 degrees Fahrenheit and overcast.