Before the pandemic, like most people, I used to go into work every day. Before the advent of smart phones, commuting meant reading a free newspaper, or a book, on the rare occasion I remembered it. Now, it means swiping through newspaper articles on the various news apps on my phone, listening to a podcast, or scrolling through social media.
The commute, for all it was tiring and time consuming, broke up the day. It marked a transition between one part of the day and the next. The walk to and from the bus/tram/train, even through the rain, wind, hail, and occasionally sun, was a chance for thoughts to flow. A chance for the quick-witted words I should have said in response to someone to come to me five hours later. Without being conscious of doing it, it was a chance to let my mind process the day.
Prior to smart phones, there were many opportunities for this – cooking dinner each night, long train journeys between cities, hanging up the washing, doing the dishes. Periods of time when the mind could wander around, or where I could look up from what I was engaged in and observe the world around me. There were chances to be bored.
Boredom
I have no idea how many times I complained to my mum as a child that I was bored. Thousands, most likely. As an adult in 2023, I am rarely bored. Yet, I think I’d quite like to be.
Great novels and works of art come from being bored. Born out of looking around and finding nothing to do so having to make your own entertainment. Creativity isn’t born out of being distracted on a smart phone. It’s born out of empty moments. Quiet times when the mind can roam freely.
Connected
Now, though, I live my life connected. Constantly consuming content. In the morning, when I get up I check my phone and if the radio goes on while I’m making my first cup of tea, I’m doomed. That’s me connected; sucked into what they are talking about and the news cycle of the day. I say to myself that I’ll just have my shower and get dressed and then I’ll disconnect and do my meditation and my writing for the day but that time to disconnect only comes when I start work. And work is another form of connection because my mind is switched on and submerged in what I am doing.
Whole days can go by in a connected, semi-conscious state. I say “connected” because my mind pays enough attention to the people talking in my ear to mean that I’m not really present where my body is. Commuting now means moving through train stations in a semi-conscious state with half of me connected to what I’m listening to while my body moves on auto-pilot through train stations and along pavements.
Bed becomes the place for my mind to be free to process and think and wander and be bored. But by then I’m falling asleep and my mind hasn’t had a chance to roam freely all day, and the next day begins with me cramming it full of yet more people talking. Yet more people deciding what I put into my mind.
Consumption
It’s a problem of consumption. Constantly filling the mind up with things doesn’t give it a chance to process all those things that are going in. It also doesn’t give the mind a chance to rest. And it doesn’t give me a chance to work things out for myself.
I used to consume and take in enough that it would stimulate me to analyse it and process it myself and make sense of it through writing, which meant there was an outlet. This outlet matters. It’s a way to get back out what is going in and with all the constant connection the two can get far out of balance. Too much going in and not enough going out stifles creativity and creativity is essential to human happiness – seeing something go out into the world that only existed because you put it there.
Carving out quiet moments
I now have to consciously carve out quiet moments. I have to consciously create chances to be bored. Consciously not pick up my phone to fill the downtime or the quiet.
The more I do it, the more it becomes a habit until, the other day, I found myself alone cooking dinner in the silence. No accompanying news, or YouTube, or podcast. Just me, making dinner, alone with my thoughts. And in that moment of noticing, a funny thing happened – I desperately wanted to fill this millisecond of quiet with some chatter. I didn’t. And it was fine.
Now, in the mornings when I work from home, the radio cannot go on until 8am. That’s the rule and I’m doing my best to stick to it. Pre-8am is my time. Time for letting my mind wake up and wander. Time for meditation, for writing and for sitting, drinking tea in the quiet as the sun rises in the sky.
