“That, I thought to myself, is the opposite of Facebook—standing perfectly still,
looking out toward the ocean, with your palms open.”
–Johann Hari, Stolen Focus
Paula Scher tells you to sit in any waiting room. You are on the hunt for boredom. Yes, boredom. Every maker should crave boredom, yet you run from it. Boredom is the amuse bouche before inspiration. It is a gift from the universe.
Perhaps you perceive boredom as a void to avoid. A cavity to be filled. Don’t be a dentist. Boredom is not a vacuum, it is space to think. Fresh air for an active mind. The literal meaning of “inspiration” is “breath in.”
And yet you scroll to clatter the silence. Like snacking forever for fear of going hungry. A mind, like a stomach, needs time to rest and digest.
Oliver Burkeman calls boredom is a “painful encounter with our finitude.”1 An obligation to deal with this moment, this now. But (spoiler alert) these infinite smear of nows we call time all lead to your certain death. Boredom is an entreaty from your consciousness to face this doom.
Boredom is the invitation to do something, make something, or be at peace.
Learn to savor boredom. It may not be easy. You are surrounded by daggers that deflate this gift. There is one in your pocket right now. My friends wonder out loud what to replace their moldering feeds with. How about no.
Might I suggest boredom instead?
Walk amongst trees without music
Look at the actual blue sky
Read something long and dull
Sit zazen and breathe like you’re learning how
Perhaps this sounds radical. Perhaps you hear a voice that says, “I couldn't possibly give away so much time.” Consider that you already are.
Trade-in your bovine existence of endlessly chewing algorithmic cud. Learn to relish the space between the notes. The internet is dead anyway, now (and now, and now) is your chance to live.
Burkeman, Oliver. Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for mortals. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2021.