In Praise of Boredom

Last Tuesday I found myself standing in a queue at the post office, and, out of sheer habit, I reached for my phone. It was not there. I had left it on the kitchen table. For a few minutes I experienced something that I could only describe as a mild panic, followed by a strange emptiness, and finally, rather to my surprise, a stream of ideas. By the time I reached the counter, I had solved a problem at work that had been bothering me for a fortnight.

Last Tuesday I found myself standing in a queue at the post office, and, out of sheer habit, I reached for my phone. It was not there. I had left it on the kitchen table. For a few minutes I experienced something that I could only describe as a mild panic, followed by a strange emptiness, and finally, rather to my surprise, a stream of ideas. By the time I reached the counter, I had solved a problem at work that had been bothering me for a fortnight.

I mention this not because I consider myself a genius, but because the episode crystallised something I had suspected for some time: that we are systematically eliminating boredom from our lives, and that we may be paying for it in ways we do not fully appreciate.

I mention this not because I consider myself a genius, but because the episode crystallised something I had suspected for some time: that we are systematically eliminating boredom from our lives, and that we may be paying for it in ways we do not fully appreciate.

Consider how rarely we are left alone with our thoughts. Waiting for a train, riding a lift, boiling a kettle — each of these once offered a brief interval of mental idleness. Now every gap is filled instantly with messages, videos and an endless supply of other people’s opinions. Our attention is never allowed to wander, and wandering, as psychologists have long observed, is precisely when the mind makes unexpected connections.

Consider how rarely we are left alone with our thoughts. Waiting for a train, riding a lift, boiling a kettle — each of these once offered a brief interval of mental idleness. Now every gap is filled instantly with messages, videos and an endless supply of other people’s opinions. Our attention is never allowed to wander, and wandering, as psychologists have long observed, is precisely when the mind makes unexpected connections.

There is a reason that so many people report their best ideas in the shower or on a long walk. These are activities that occupy the body just enough to leave the mind free. Boredom, understood properly, is not an absence of stimulation but an invitation to generate your own. It is the mental equivalent of fallow ground, which looks barren but is quietly restoring itself for the next harvest.

There is a reason that so many people report their best ideas in the shower or on a long walk. These are activities that occupy the body just enough to leave the mind free. Boredom, understood properly, is not an absence of stimulation but an invitation to generate your own. It is the mental equivalent of fallow ground, which looks barren but is quietly restoring itself for the next harvest.

I do not want to sound like a fierce opponent of technology. I rely on my devices daily, and I would be lost without a map application in an unfamiliar city. My argument is more modest: that we should treat empty time as something worth defending, rather than as a problem to be fixed at once.

I do not want to sound like a fierce opponent of technology. I rely on my devices daily, and I would be lost without a map application in an unfamiliar city. My argument is more modest: that we should treat empty time as something worth defending, rather than as a problem to be fixed at once.

Over the past three months I have experimented with a few small rules. First, my phone stays in another room during the first hour of the morning, which has transformed my breakfast from a scrolling session into an actual meal. Second, I no longer use headphones on short walks, and I am amazed at how much I had stopped hearing: the argument between two sparrows, the cough of an old engine, a neighbour’s piano. Third, once a week I schedule an hour with no purpose whatsoever, and I try to resist the urge to fill it with chores.

Over the past three months I have experimented with a few small rules. First, my phone stays in another room during the first hour of the morning, which has transformed my breakfast from a scrolling session into an actual meal. Second, I no longer use headphones on short walks, and I am amazed at how much I had stopped hearing: the argument between two sparrows, the cough of an old engine, a neighbour’s piano. Third, once a week I schedule an hour with no purpose whatsoever, and I try to resist the urge to fill it with chores.

The first few attempts were distinctly uncomfortable. Boredom has a sharp edge at the beginning, like cold water. But after twenty minutes or so, the discomfort softens and something else appears: curiosity, daydreams, the faint outline of projects I had forgotten I wanted to pursue.

The first few attempts were distinctly uncomfortable. Boredom has a sharp edge at the beginning, like cold water. But after twenty minutes or so, the discomfort softens and something else appears: curiosity, daydreams, the faint outline of projects I had forgotten I wanted to pursue.

I would never claim that boredom is pleasant. Nor do I suggest that everyone should abandon their screens. Yet I am convinced that a life with no dull moments is a poorer life, however entertaining it may be. So the next time you find yourself waiting for something, resist the reflex. Leave the phone in your pocket. Look out of the window. Let your mind wander off, and see what it brings back.

I would never claim that boredom is pleasant. Nor do I suggest that everyone should abandon their screens. Yet I am convinced that a life with no dull moments is a poorer life, however entertaining it may be. So the next time you find yourself waiting for something, resist the reflex. Leave the phone in your pocket. Look out of the window. Let your mind wander off, and see what it brings back.