By Mike Johnson
Now I get Howard Hughes.
He earned his gazillions in the midst of crowds. But after a plane crash in 1946, he became a recluse until his death in 1976.
I donít have his germaphobia (or his gazillions), but I can relate to his preference for solitude. Make the world come to me. Use the wife and answering machine as my frontmen.
Itís a jungle out there. People are wild cards.
Think back to elementary school. Do you remember the elation of the radio gifting you an unexpected snow day?
Now you got to stay home with the dog, daytime TV, books and board games.
You got to experience the warmth and novelty of your own home during school hours.
It was a surprise holiday of temporary freedom from institutional imprisonment.
Thatís what it feels like to be a retired recluse. Every single day.
Youíre done with the chase for money. Free from schedules. Full of the perspective that keeps you detached from societyís insanities.
You watch the school bus cross the valley below. Watch the neighbors depart for work. Snuggle in with the dog.
And deeply appreciate it all.
From your own fortress of solitude.
You can nap. Read a book. Feed the chipmunks. Walk in the woods. Sit on the porch in a rocker. Investigate a new rabbit hole. Watch a favorite movie. Write a post. Cue your music.
All during daytime hours.
I knew this is what I wanted by the time I was 12. What I didnít know was how to get here.
Now I do.
But all that trial and error took too long. I made it too hard. I want it to be easier for you.
Which is why I post so much free ďhow-toĒ content today. Gratitude makes me want to give back.
But on my own reclusive terms.
I can tell you that the journey is definitely worth it.
When I Was Your Age
The Study Carrel
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