And what we lose when there's nothing left to wait for…

I recently spent time with family, specifically staying at the newly completed Grand Designs-style house of my husband's brother and partner. Like many people who have designed their kitchen in the last five years, they have installed an instant hot water tap. It's slick, it's quick and it's a godsend when you have a house full of people constantly wanting some kind of refreshment.

After a long day of celebrations, I started the slow ritual of getting ready for bed by slipping into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. I carefully picked a mug (they have an excellent selection and it somehow feels imperative to choose the perfect one), popped in my teabag and performed a speedy double-pump, flick-of-the-wrist action on the magic tap. In less than a minute of entering the kitchen, I had a cup full of steaming hot tea.

It sounds wonderful, and yet I found myself standing dumbfounded, staring into my mug. It had all happened so fast. I wasn't ready to rejoin the group, nor did I want to drink my tea in isolation. In that moment I realised that I'd lost the thing I'd actually come in for. It was never about wanting tea, but rather the time to idle while making it that I'd been craving.

The Pause I Didn't Know I Needed

Waiting for the kettle to boil is part of the process of making tea. Sometimes I'll use this time productively, putting away dishes from the draining board or wiping down the counter. But mostly, this time is spent staring out of the kitchen window. Watching the cats play or noticing the weather. Sometimes there's a new flower that's bloomed or a bird brave enough to land on the lawn. Other times, I don't notice anything at all and I'm simply there, being.

At any other moment, staring blankly out of a window would be met with concerned questions. An assumption that something must be wrong. But when the kettle is on, there's an unspoken agreement that this is a sacred moment of stillness, because making a cup of tea is an acceptable answer to the question, "What are you doing?"

Why We're So Uncomfortable Doing Nothing

An unacceptable answer to that same question is "nothing". If anything, that quick reply brings to mind the auto-response of someone who is, in fact, up to something. Suspicion and nothingness are highly correlated. We grow suspicious of quiet rooms, empty public spaces and we are especially suspicious of a human who is not engaged in something.

Must we assume that the person on the train with no phone, laptop or book is merely biding their time before hijacking the carriage? Or are we simply uncomfortable with the idea that not everyone needs to be constantly doing?

The Silence Before the Answer

I remember watching an interview with Eckhart Tolle, the author of The Power of Now. If you've ever heard him speak, you'll know that he talks very slowly (and in a rather monotone voice!). The interviewer asked him a question and he took something like thirty seconds to reply. That half minute felt like an eternity. Even through a screen, you could sense the agitation of the audience from the shuffling in seats and the clearing of throats. But Tolle was unperturbed. When he was ready, he answered and continued to talk normally. No apologies, no justifications. For him, nothing unusual had occurred.

My reaction to this was a mix of envy and terror. Envious of Tolle's unhurried freedom to move at his own pace, but terrified at the prospect of being on a stage with hundreds of expectant people waiting for me to speak. As I am not a public speaker, this specific situation is unlikely to occur, but like many people, I do feel the need to fill pauses in conversation with some kind of chatter or distraction.

The Lost Art of Waiting

Which is why these collective moments of unselfconscious nothingness matter. They remind us that we are allowed to simply exist, without needing to justify our every action - or lack thereof. In a world that celebrates busyness, productivity and efficiency, something as simple as waiting for the kettle to boil reminds us that not every moment needs to be filled.