Staycations don’t work for me. I’ve tried, usually at the end of the year when I need to use-or-lose accrued vacation time. I tell myself I’ll clean closets and organize my kitchen drawers, but it never happens. Stay-near-home vacations, however, are another story. We just returned from our annual vacation on Nantucket. A hop-skip-and-a-jump (or drive-ferry-and-drive) from home, the “faraway island” is almost in our back yard but a world away from routine. Sometime right around the middle of the two-hour ferry ride between Hyannis and Nantucket, I experience a psychological shift. My focus turns from what the world needs from me to what I need from the world. We rent a guesthouse on property owned by people (Kate and Colm) who have become our friends. Our “vacation dog,” the owners’ 100-pound bull mastiff who thinks she’s a lap dog, comes and goes as she pleases, snuggling with me on a random rainy day when I’m curled up on the bed reading a summer novel. I get up early to attend yoga classes at Bartlett’s Farm. Instead of driving to a pub for lunch, my husband and I hop on our bikes and enjoy the scenery along the ride to Millie’s. We wake to a basket of fresh strawberries and produce left by Kate on the guesthouse deck. We spend lazy mornings sipping coffee followed by lazier afternoons at the beach. We dine at the counter at Black-Eyed Susan’s where we watch Chef Todd Edwards preside over the kitchen in almost-choreographed precision as we chat with a fellow diner on island to oversee a few high-falutin’ interior design projects. A few nights later, we have our pick of tables at Oran Mor, but we opt again for the bar — and again we enjoy the camaraderie of our fellow diners. A casual dinner at Pi Pizza leads to a conversation with a young couple who share the story of their engagement, that very day. They ask us, married for almost 32 years, to share our secret. Amused but flattered, we consider three decades of ups and downs. We mull the enormity of their question and then agree on simplicity: Let it go. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Arguing the same point over and over again leads nowhere. In retrospect, I’d add: If it comes to a choice between organizing closets and spending lazy days at the beach, choose the beach. — Lisa Matte, editor in chief