(Mostly dreamed up during daily rambles with by my spirit animal guide, partner in mischief & adventure, certified therapy dog, best pal, champion daddy and effortless master of living in the moment, Albionspitz ‘gentle breeze’ Zephyr).
When I was a kid we did a lot of loitering. Banished from the house till dark we’d hang around the flats or the stream or the park, knee-deep in frogspawn, idling up a tree, kicking a ball till nighttime crept around us or we were chased off by the parkie. And there was plenty of intent in our loitering: flirting, showing off, escaping. Being a witch or pterodactyl or George Best weaving through the trees. Crushing roses and leaves between our hands and smearing our necks to make our own pubescent perfume. Staring at the moon, luminous, the grass frosted by its glow. Most of the time we had no idea what we were doing, we just wanted to be out there, part of what was happening, be one of one of the gangs. There was no conscious intention but just to be.
In Britain Loitering with Intent means up to no good. Hanging out on street corners with a Mohican (or hood up, these days); being black, or a woman her skirt ‘too short’. Kids in groups larger than three or out ‘too late’ by some unwritten rule. It means the cops or the wag man can pick you up or move you along; you can be pushed around ‘cos what happens in the space that you live is somehow controlled by somebody else. But loitering – doing jack shit, as Ross Gay (great name, no relation) describes it – has a bad rep for all kinds of unexamined reasons. It’s unproductive, in terms of work (yay!); it’s nonconsumptive (yay even more); it has no purpose or destination and, once you’ve dug beneath the subversive, criminal connotations it’s a source of delight, bliss, even freedom… No wonder Walt Whitman was a fan, untamed, as he was; loafing, afoot and lighthearted.
But many of us are uncomfortable with doing ‘nothing’. It’s a common experience when people first take to the cushion, to sit. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ they say. ‘Am I doing this right?’ A friend of mine was horrified that she couldn’t stay still at first ‘not even for fifteen minutes.’ Westerners have had this problem for a long time – in the 1600s French mathematician and theologian Blaise Pascal argued that, ‘all of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.’ And meditation, like loitering, suffers from other people’s interpretations of a body, in a space. For years I thought I couldn’t even circle in on Buddhism, not seriously… I’m too scattered, emotional, opinionated, arsy. But guess what? I discovered that I absolutely love being silent, sinking my mind down into my body, staying low… Somehow I’d convinced myself that meditators are born calm and equanimous and that all Buddhists are unequivocally pure, which is as wonky as thinking all priests are born sober, saintly, free from temptation, and naturally wise.
Think of yourself loitering. Still yourself in that moment. Breathe and feel the wind or the sunshine or the rain. Smell those roses and let the perfume fill you from inside. Hold your attention there. You are meditating. Whenever you remember, pause in your day and take another conscious breath, tell yourself you want to do this, that you wish to be aware of your presence in the moment. Now you’re loitering with intent.
Intention is important in Buddhism. As one of the practices of the Noble Eightfold Path, Right Intention is the repeated reset of the heart towards simple kindnesses and secret beauty. It’s the expression of the desire to stop acting out of fear or habit, to make space for an alternative response. Such beautiful words, such purity of concept: be kind, be calm, be present. This is our true nature, Buddhists believe; with which everyone is born. ‘Namaste,’ they say. I salute the divine within you.
While part of me is dazzled and excited by this, part of me shrivels out of fear and habit. That I’ll never be adequate; that I’m tainted, hapless. Too lazy. Too lost. So I decided to write this blog: for all the inadequates, the lollygaggers. The rambunctious and excitable, who never imagined in a million years that they could sit, and be silent. It’s Buddhism for the unentitled, the rough-around-the-edges. Meditation for the not-quite-right, who struggle with the ‘not-quite-rightness’ of life, as Sharon Salzberg puts it. Dhukka: the things that are hard to bear.
Let’s have a look together. Let’s explore. Anyone can do it. Anyone can sit.