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A Re-appraisal of Boredom:
A Case Study in Second Wave Positive Psychology
Tim Lomas
Second wave positive psychology
Positive psychology has become increasingly amenable and open to critical perspectives,
including with respect to the very notions of “positive” and “negative.” This problematizing
of the “positive” has been referred to as “second wave” positive psychology (Lomas &
Ivtzan, 2015; (Ivtzan, Lomas, Hefferon, & Worth, 2015)—and previously as positive
psychology “2.0” (Wong, 2011)—as elucidated in the introduction to this section. The
rationale for these labels is that the initial “first wave” of the field was essentially founded on
a binary positive–negative construction: Certain phenomena were viewed as positive, and
hence desirable, with others therefore being negative, and hence undesirable. However, it is
increasingly clear that such categorical appraisals are far from straightforward: ostensibly
positive phenomena can be detrimental to wellbeing, while seemingly negative phenomena
may be conducive to it. To some extent, this critical appreciation was implicit within the field
from the beginning (e.g., Seligman, 1990). However, this more nuanced appreciation tended
to be missing from the overarching “message” of the field. Now, though, there is a growing
recognition of the complex “dialectics” of flourishing, involving an intricate interplay
between seemingly negative and positive phenomena (e.g., Kashdan & Biswas-Diener, 2014).
This chapter provides an illustration of this second wave approach in the form of a
case study on an emotion that is generally regarded as negative and undesirable, namely
boredom. This does not mean merely looking at boredom as an inherent fact of life that is
both universal and appropriate (e.g., as a response to an uninteresting situation). After all,
while such rationalisation may be helpful (e.g., in terms of fostering acceptance), it still lends
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the impression of boredom as an invidious state. Indeed, many phenomena might be
considered “natural”—from aggression to death—but this does not mean people would wish
these in their lives. Perhaps a more radical and transformative notion is that boredom may
have potential value, playing an important role in successful human functioning,
psychological development, and the attainment of flourishing.
The problem of boredom
Boredom is almost universally regarded as a negative, undesirable mental state. This
disparaging appraisal is reflected in Vogel-Walcutt, Fiorella, Carper, and Schatz’s (2012,
p. 90) definition of it as “temporary feelings of low-arousal and unpleasant emotions induced
by environmental factors, and likewise in Fisherl’s (1993, p. 396) depiction as an
“unpleasant, transient affective state, in which the individual feels a pervasive lack of
interest.” Indeed, boredom has been recognised as a problem throughout history (Toohey,
1988). Of course, the word “boredom” is itself relative new, having only entered the English
language in 1852 with Charles Dickens” (1853) novel Bleak House. In this, he used his
creative genius to adapt the verb “to bore”—to pierce or wear down—to articulate the extent
of Lady Dedlock’s desolation, repeatedly describing her as “bored to death” with life (p. 6).
However, despite the relative novelty of the term, Toohey suggests that translative
equivalents have been used throughout human history to depict states of malaise involving
some dispiriting combination of frustration, surfeit, depression, disgust, indifference, apathy,
and confinement. Moreover, each epoch has tended to emphasise particular elements of this
state, with shifting patterns of interpretation and meaning given to it.
One of the earliest literary works, the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh (transcribed circa
2000 BCE) describes the Mesopotamian King Uruk as being “oppressed by idleness” (as
cited in Maier, 1997, p. 314). In the narrative, this ennui is presented as the motivational
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premise for Uruk to embark on a quest to forge a sense of purpose and legacy. Boredom
returns as an issue in Homer’s Iliad (circa 850 BCE) when the Achaeans are waiting
restlessly to fight the Trojans. Here the emphasis is on frustration rather than idleness per se,
with the state taking on shades of vexation and impatience (Toohey, 1988). In later classical
philosophy, experiences comparable to boredom are weighted with heavy existential
overtones verging on despair. Indeed, in modern psychiatric terminology, such states might
well be regarded as forms of depression (Szasz, 2002). For instance, the Stoic philosopher
Seneca (4 BCE—65 CE) lamented the ubiquity of taedium vitae—roughly translatable as
“tiredness of life”—which he described, chillingly, as “the tumult of a soul fixated on
nothing” (cited in Hecht, 2013, p. 42). Indeed, taedium vitae was recognised by Roman law
as one of the few morally acceptable reasons for suicide (though Seneca did not himself
advocate this). In medieval times, there was consternation regarding spiritual listlessness and
melancholia, as captured by the Latin term acedia (Latin). Often known by Christians as the
“demon of noontide,” this malaise was described by St. Thomas Aquinas (1273/1981) as
“sorrow of the world,” and the “enemy of spiritual joy” (cited in Frevert, 2011, p. 31). In
more recent centuries, as the hegemonic power of the Christian worldview began to slowly
dissipate, there was a burgeoning existential sense of anomie, including a rootless sense of
life’s lack of inherent meaning. This melancholic Weltanschauung was recast in various
ways, including as the “English disease” of the 18th century, the mal de siècle of 19th century
Europe, and the “nausea” of continental existentialists in the 20th century (Toohey, 1988).
Moving into the present day, contemporary psychology has endeavoured to identify
and operationalise different forms of boredom. For instance, Toohey (2011) distinguished
between: (a) existential boredom; (b) situational boredom; and (c) boredom of surfeit. The
first encapsulates many of the historical constructs outlined above, such as taedium vitae.
However, as noted, this form of deep, existential melancholy is more likely to be viewed
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through the prism of modern psychiatry as “depression,” with its extreme versions treated as
a psychopathology (Szasz, 2002). In contrast, situational boredom—referred to by the
novelist Flaubert (1856) as “common boredom”—arises when a specific situation is judged to
lack interest or value. Finally, boredom of surfeit relates to a lack of constraining limits,
accompanied by the inability to make any value distinctions, with all options thereby judged
to be equally uninteresting.
Furthermore, from the perspective of psychometric personality theory, there have
been attempts to elucidate the differences between trait and state boredom. The former refers
to a general tendency towards experiencing boredom, as captured by the term “boredom
proneness” (Farmer & Sundberg, 1986). Although this was initially operationalised as a
single factor, subsequent analyses (e.g., Vodanovich, Wallace, & Kass, 2005) identified two
main factors in boredom proneness: a lack of external stimulation (reflecting the extent to
which one needs/desire variability and change), and a lack of internal stimulation (inability to
generate interest “internally”). Conversely, state boredom aligns with Toohey’s notion of
situational boredom, and comprises—according to Fahlman, Mercer-Lynn, Flora, and
Eastwood’s (2013) Multidimensional State Boredom Scale—five factors: disengagement,
high arousal, low arousal, inattentiveness, and (altered) time perception. Both trait and state
boredom have been linked to negative outcomes. It has been suggested that trait boredom is a
risk factor for anxiety and depression (LePera, 2011), negative social orientation, such as
alienation or paranoia (Leong & Schneller, 1993), impulsivity (Watt & Vodanovich, 1992),
and dysfunctional behaviours, e.g., pathological gambling (Blaszczynski, McConaghy, &
Frankova, 1990). Similarly, state boredom has been associated with numerous adverse
outcomes; for example, in the context of work, boredom has—perhaps unsurprisingly—been
connected to dissatisfaction with most aspects of work (Kass, Vodanovich, & Callender,
2001), as well as poorer performance as rated by managers (Watt & Hargis, 2010).
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Re-evaluating boredom
While there are many different ways of conceptualising boredom, it is generally regarded as a
problematic or dysphoric state, a “deficit in the quality of life,” as Klapp (1986, p. 127) puts
it. And yet . . . beneath the condemnatory clamour of this dominant perspective, it is possible
to faintly hear a somewhat different tune being quietly played by some contrarian thinkers.
For these people, not only does boredom potentially have value, it is an important existential
state. The problem is not so much boredom per se, but people’s inability to tolerate or engage
with it. And, to be sure, most people do find it intolerable; a recent study found that many
people would apparently rather voluntarily give themselves mild electric shocks than sit
inactive, deprived of external stimulation (Wilson et al., 2014). Indeed, one could view many
of the negative outcomes linked to boredom—e.g., the dysfunctional gambling behaviour
associated with boredom proneness (Blaszczynski et al., 1990)—as a result of a desperate
fleeing from boredom. It was this all-too-common intolerance of boredom, and the ways in
which this can easily lead to misdeeds, that led Kierkegaard (1843, p. 281) to argue forcefully
that “Boredom is the root of all evil.”
At this point, you might be thinking: “Sure, it’s one’s inability to tolerate boredom
that’s the issue, rather than boredom per, but that’s just splitting semantic hairs. This doesn’t
mean that boredom necessarily has value. After all, surely the reason that many people cannot
tolerate it is because it’s unpleasant.” If so, you may have a point: One might readily agree
that boredom can feel unpleasant, at least initially. But, the crucial question is: Is boredom
necessarily unpleasant? What if there were circumstances in which it wasn’t? Going further,
what if there were ways of engaging with boredom that not only alleviated its unpleasantness,
but actually lent it value? I was stirred into considering this possibility by a curious and
provocative question in Robert M. Pirsig’s (1974) classic philosophical novel Zen and the Art
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of Motorcycle Maintenance. Among the countless intriguing passages in this epochal book,
there is one in which he is musing on the nature of meditation. This is a topic that is close to
my heart, being someone who not only meditates myself (though not as frequently as I would
like or feel I should!), but also conduct research into the topic. As such, I’ve long been
convinced of the value of meditation, based both on the weight of personal experience and
the steadily accumulating empirical evidence base showing it can be highly beneficial for
wellbeing, from alleviating mental illness (Zindel, Segal, Williams, & Teasdale, 2002) to
helping people function better at work (Shapiro, Astin, Bishop, & Cordova, 2005). However,
despite being sure of the worth of meditation, I found that Pirsig’s comments took me aback,
and yet also strangely resonated with me. Rreflecting on the nature of boredom, he wrote:
Zen has something to say about boredom. Its main practice of “just sitting” has got to
be the world’s most boring activity. . . . You don’t do anything much: not move, not
think, not care. What could be more boring? Yet in the very center of this boredom is
the very thing Zen Buddhism seeks to teach. What is it? What is it at the very center
of boredom that you’re not seeing? (Pirsig, 1974, p. 317)
This passage immediately struck me as both very true and yet very mysterious. On the
one hand, I immediately agreed with it: Meditation can be very boring! I’ve certainly
experienced it as such on many occasions. Likewise, in qualitative interviews I’ve conducted
with meditators, many described the same issue: that, for all that meditation can involve
interesting, meaning or pleasant experiences, it can also feature many moments of tedium and
dullness (Lomas, Cartwright, Edginton, & Ridge, 2015). But, on the other hand, Pirsig’s
questions perplexed and intrigued me hugely. What if these experiences of boredom in
meditation were not some aberration of the practice, a sign that I was meditating badly or
incorrectly, but were in fact of great and indeed central importance—the “very thing” that
Buddhism aims to teach? This possibility was completely opaque and mysterious. I didn’t
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know the answer. What is it at the very centre of boredom that I wasn’t (yet) seeing? I found
myself preoccupied with this maddening question.
Enquiring into boredom
I began delving into the academic and spiritual literature around boredom, looking for
alternative voices—alternative to the mainstream perception of it as an unpleasant and
invidious state—who had found some merit in it. I also conducted my own personal empirical
study into boredom, involving introspective phenomenology, which was recently published in
Qualitative Research in Psychology (Lomas, 2016). Introspective phenomenology essentially
involves observing and reporting on one’s own subjectivity with as much accuracy as
possible. As Sinnott-Armstrong (2008, p. 85) puts it, “The method is simple: describe the
phenomena. More precisely: introspect on your own experience and then describe what it is
like to have certain kinds of experience.” In the early years of psychology, introspection was
a much valued methodology, valorised by such influential scholars as William James (1890)
and Edmund Husserl (1931). Indeed, James went so far as to state that “Introspective
Observation is what we have to rely on first and foremost and always” (p. 185). It then fell
out of favour due to a range of factors. On one hand, it was undermined in the first half of the
20th century by the dominance of Skinner’s behaviorism paradigm (1938). Then, more
recently, it was challenged by critiques of self-knowledge and agency provided by post-
constructionist theories of identity (e.g., Gergen, 1985). However, in recent years, the value
of introspective phenomenology has once again been recognised—even while its limitations
are also acknowledged, most prominently within consciousness studies (see, e.g., Varela,
1996; Varela & Shear, 1999).
Being appreciative of the merits of introspective phenomenology, I sought to apply
this to boredom. So, I created conditions in which I would be bored—specifically, in the
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middle of a long-haul airplane flight—and endeavoured to reflect in real-time on what I was
experiencing. I adapted Csikszentmihalyi and Larson’s (1987) Experience-Sampling Method
to create what could be labelled the “Micro-Experience Auto-Sampling Method” (MEASM).
It is “micro” in the sense that it covers a relatively short period of time, which in my study
was one hour. It is auto, in that it is: (a) autonomous (the data were elicited and recorded by
myself, rather than at the prompting of an independent researcher), and (b) automatic (my
reflections were regulated by a timer on my phone, which prompted me every 60 seconds to
make a brief written note of what I was thinking/feeling at that moment). At the end of the
data collection hour, I explored the data for thematic content, using an adaptation of Smith’s
(1996) Interpretative Phenomenological Analysis.
And, what a surprising hour it was! As I delved into the boredom, I found it to be a
rich and dynamic state, full of value and possibility. Of course, this immediately raises the
question of whether I truly was bored! This is an important question, and in fact goes right to
the heart of this chapter. And, I find it nearly impossible to answer. On the one hand, I would
not be lying if I said that I was indeed bored throughout the hour, experiencing “situational”
(Toohey, 2011) or “state” boredom (Fahlman et al., 2013). There was certainly a lack of
interest in my environment—at least initially—together with inattentiveness, and restlessness
combined with tiredness, all of which are factors of Fahlman et al.’s (2013) Multidimensional
State Boredom Scale. However, as these unpleasant reactions arose, I called to mind the
advice of Joseph Brodsky, the Russian poet who was awarded the Nobel prize for literature in
1987. It was Brodsky whose seminal essay, In Praise of Boredom (1997), provided much of
the inspiration for my study. His advice was that, rather than seeking to escape or distract
oneself from boredom—as we are normally liable to do—we should try to enter deep into it,
to really probe and explore it. And as I did so, the experience started to change. I might still
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have plausibly and legitimately have described the hour as “boring,” yet at the same time it
began to become vibrant and interesting, full of mystery and depth.
Thus, it seems that, if boredom is engaged with in a certain spirit, it has the potential
to be a positive and rewarding experience. With that in mind, we turn to the specifics of how
this might be the case. In exploring the literature, and in my own phenomenological study, I
identified five main ways in which boredom can potentially be of value: (a) altered time
perceptions; (b) curiosity towards the external world; (c) creativity; (d) freedom from choice;
and (e) exploration of “the self.” Let’s explore each of these in turn.
Altered time perception
Boredom invariably affects time perception, seeming to slow down the subjective passing of
time. Of course, this is a familiar and even banal point, observed in nearly every study on this
topic. For instance, it has been found that people who are high in boredom proneness
experience time as subjectively passing more slowly, (although they can often still accurately
judge the objective passing of chronometric time; Watt, 1991). However, what is particularly
intriguing here is that a number of eminent thinkers have suggested that there is great value in
entering into this altered mode of time perception. Martin Heidegger (1938/2001), for
example, wrote extensively on the importance of boredom—which he referred to as an
“existential orientation” rather than a mood (Slaby, 2010)—arguing that it constituted a
physical experience of time itself (and of our existence through time). Similarly, Brodsky
(1997) argued that boredom “represents pure, undiluted time in all its repetitive, redundant,
monotonous splendour” (p. 109). Crucially, both emphasised the importance of experiencing
the visceral reality of time in this way, for reasons that were slightly different, though
related. For Brodsky, boredom is our “window on time’s infinity.” It may enable us to see our
lives sub species aeternitatis—from the “perspective of eternity”—thus prompting a re-
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assessment of our place in the cosmos. Compared to the vastness of time’s eternity, our own
fleeting lives become utterly relativized, and our worries likewise. While this perspective can
be troubling in some ways, it can also be liberating: If my individual life is ultimately without
much significance or consequence, then so too are my troubles, at least to an extent.
Heidegger put the matter slightly differently. He argued that the glimpse of time’s eternity
can be a powerful reminder to embrace what little time we do have. He exhorted people to
use boredom to help them “wake up,” not because it reveals that our lives don’t matter, but
because it reminds us forcefully how valuable they are—given that our time on earth is
limited, we need to make every moment count. Thus, for Heidegger and Brodsky, boredom
creates a clearing space in which one gains insights into the nature of reality, including the
urgent imperative to live meaningfully and authentically (Slaby, 2010).
I myself encountered an altered experience of time during my phenomenological
study, giving rise to the kind of existential thoughts outlined above. Strangely though, I had
an odd feeling of time both slowing and quickening. At certain points, time felt almost static,
and yet at other moments, I was surprised and indeed troubled by how swiftly it was slipping
away. Then again, perhaps these juxtapositions are not so unfamiliar. The elusive,
paradoxical nature of time has been recognised at least as far back as Zeno of Elea, the Greek
philosopher who lived circa 490-430 BCE (Roeckelein, 2008). It has been suggested that
eventful or interesting experiences pass quickly at the time, but seem lengthy in retrospect
(due to the formation of substantive and varied memories); conversely, uneventful (i.e.,
boring) experiences pass slowly, but seem short afterwards (due to a lack of discrete
memorable components) (Hammond, 2012). However, in my study, sensations of time
quickening and slowing appeared to alternate and even co-exist, generating an overriding
sense of the strangeness of time. Above all, there was a strong, melancholic awareness of
time as a precious resource that was fast depleting. This evoked a range of emotions, from
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nostalgia for time gone by, to an urgent wish to “make the most” of future time. This would
seem to corroborate the point about boredom offering a valuable embodied experience of
time, with the potential to generate useful existential insights, such as the need to “seize the
day” (Slaby, 2010).
Curiosity
Just as boredom has the potential to alter one’s perceptions of time, so too can it shift our
perceptions of—and relation to—our surroundings. Usually, lack of interest in one’s
environment is a defining feature of boredom as conventionally understood (Fisherl, 1993).
Indeed, in my own study, I felt rather disengaged and inattentive at the beginning of the
introspective hour. However, as the hour proceeded, I noticed an unusual phenomenon. I had
previously judged my surroundings as devoid of interest, and hence deemed it to be “boring.”
Under normal circumstances, this negative appraisal would have prompted me to seek
alternative surroundings, or at least to distract myself. By removing these options though, I
began to discover things of interest around me, and to find value in stimuli that I had
previously judged as lacking. Stimuli I had become habituated to became “de-familiarised,”
seeming new and strange. My environment remained exactly the same, but my attitude
towards it, my experience of it, started to become transformed.
This transformation brought to mind something John Cage (1939), the experimental
musician, once said: “If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring,
then eight. Then sixteen. Then thirty-two. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all”
(p. 93). We arguably see something similar happening in meditation. For instance, a common
practice is the “mindfulness of breathing,” in which meditators attend to the act of breathing,
seeking to be aware of how the process feels. Under normal (i.e., non-meditation)
circumstances, one might not usually regard the act of breathing as being particularly
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interesting or worthy of attention. However, meditators report that, once this act is engaged
with in a curious and open spirit, it can become a source of great fascination, featuring subtle
depths and nuances that one might not have previously realised were there (Lomas, Edginton,
Cartwright, & Ridge, 2014). It may even lead to significant insights, for instance into the
nature of the self, which may be revealed to be as dynamic and fluid as the breath itself.
As for the mechanics of how this process of transformation might work—with
phenomena that were previously judged to lack interest/value now being found to possess
it—we might look to the attention system of the mind. In cognitive/epistemic terms, attention
is often drawn to phenomena that are novel, salient, or urgent (Posner & Petersen, 1990).
Phenomena that lack these qualities are thus often judged as lacking interest. However, if
attention is compelled to stay with such phenomena, it is as if the mind finds ways to make
these novel or salient. The mind now has the time and space to notice quieter aspects that
might previously have gone unnoticed or overlooked. This point is reflected in another
passage in Pirsig’s (1974) book, in which he dwelt on the mysterious power of the great
prairies of North America. To outsiders, these immense plains can seem almost suffocatingly
monotonous and featureless. However, Pirsig pointed out that in these places, one might
become sensitized to the existence of phenomena that “can be noticed because other things
are absent” (p. 24). For instance, one might notice quiet moments of beauty—a small flower
in the dirt, perhaps, or a shifting pattern in the cloudscape—that would most likely be
overlooked by people caught up in the sensory overload of a busy city.
Creativity
A third great potential virtue of boredom is the facilitation of creativity. Indeed, throughout
history, one can find testimonials to the generative power of boredom. Nietzsche (1974/1887,
p. 108) wrote that creative people “require a lot of boredom if their work is to succeed.” As
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he explained, “For thinkers and all sensitive spirits, boredom is that disagreeable ‘windless
calm’ of the soul that precedes a happy voyage and cheerful winds. They have to bear it and
must wait for its effect on them.” Indeed, Kets de Vries (2014) argued that boredom has
played a crucial role in many great artistic and scientific breakthroughs. For instance,
Descartes is alleged to have “discovered” the mathematical concept of x and y—the basis of
every graph—while lying in bed staring idly at a fly crawling around the corner of the
ceiling. Similarly, Einstein is reported to have achieved his initial pivotal insight into the
nature of relativity while boredly daydreaming about riding a sunbeam to the edge of the
universe. It is often considered merely a historical curiosity that many of Einstein’s
revolutionary insights were delivered to him while he was still working as a lowly patent
clerk (a position he held for seven long years). However, it could be argued that the repetitive
dullness of the work provided opportune conditions for his restless mind to wander, thereby
leading directly to his preternatural insights (Miller, 1996). Moreover, it is not only great
geniuses who are able to transform experiences of boredom into moments of creative insight.
The potential for boredom to engender creativity has been corroborated in a more prosaic
way in the research laboratory. For instance, both Gasper and Middlewood (2014) and Mann
and Cadman (2014) found that participants induced into a state of boredom performed far
better on creativity tests—such as thinking of novel uses for plastic cups—than people who
were either elated, relaxed or distressed.
As to why boredom may be so germane to creativity, theorists have sought an
explanation in the nature of the creative act. Firstly, it has been noted that creativity cannot
simply be willed or forced into being by the rational, conscious mind. As such, scholars like
Dijksterhuis and Nordgren (2006) have suggested that creativity requires a process of
“incubation,” in which the subconscious mind is able to forge new and unexpected
connections (e.g., combining ideas in a novel way). And, it seems the inactivity provided by
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boredom provides an ideal gestational space for such incubation to occur—allowing attention
to wander, and thoughts to free-associate, thus enabling creative insights to “percolate” up
through the mind. From a neurophysiological perspective, this process may involve the
activation of the “default mode network” (DMN; Raichle et al., 2001), a circuit of
interconnected brain regions that is active when the mind is not engaged in a specific mental
task. Researchers are beginning to understand the pivotal role that the DMN plays in a host of
high-level creative cognitive acts, including artistic creation (Takeuchi et al., 2012), self-
generated thought (Andrews-Hanna, Smallwood, & Spreng, 2014), the creation of our sense
of self (Abraham, 2013), and consciousness itself (Greicius, Krasnow, Reiss, & Menon,
2003). And, it would appear that boredom—defined as it is by a lack of external
stimulation—can be particularly germane to the activation of the DMN (Takeuchi et al.,
2012). Thus, as Stern (1988) put it, the “heavy-gaited time” (p. 5) of boredom offers a
“reluctant but nevertheless urgent passageway to creativity” (p. 11). As a final point, I myself
didn’t experience any substantive creative insights during my study (unless you count some
unusual thought patterns). However, this is not especially surprising: in the literature,
boredom is often understood as a prelude to creativity, a germinal state in which new
associations are perhaps being made below the surface of awareness, which then bud forth
after the period of boredom (Mann & Cadman, 2014).
Freedom from choice
A fourth notable positive outcome associated with boredom is a paradoxical sense of
freedom. This specifically relates to one particular aspect of boredom, namely, the perceived
dullness associated with routine and lack of choice. It is conventional to associate boredom
with predictability, with a lack of variation, with a restricted set of options. Imagine someone
who, every single day, wears the same clothes, eats the same food, speaks to the same people,
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does the same chores, and generally does the same set of actions at the same time every day.
Most of us would surely have little hesitation in pronouncing their existence as being
fundamentally boring. However, consider the fact that this is close to the type of lifestyle that
is cultivated in monastic settings, in which religious practitioners live within the strictures of
a highly rigid set of routines. Why would they voluntarily assent to this? In most other
settings, such inflexible uniformity might be seen—and indeed perceived—as highly boring.
And, for the monks, perhaps on one level it is. However, one explanation for these kind of
rigid routines in monastic settings is that they are designed to alleviate the burden of the
many inconsequential but incessant choices that dominate daily life (e.g., around what to eat
or wear). As such, the monastic’s mind is free to engage in the type of “non-conceptual and
focused” attention that is so valued by meditators (Wright, 2008, p. 14).
However, the value of reducing choice in this way is not limited to esoteric monastic
settings. A more mundane, but no less interesting, example is provided by Iyengar and
Lepper (1999) in the context of consumer choice in a supermarket. They compared the effect
of offering consumers a vast array of choice in relation to a specific product (featuring 30
different varieties), verses a restricted choice set (featuring just six varieties). Not only were
consumers more likely to buy a product in the latter scenario; they were also subsequently
more likely to be happy with their purchase, perhaps in part as a result of having less scope
for regret over the unselected options. Reviewing this and similar studies, Schwartz (2000)
offered a trenchant critique of rational-choice economic theory—the basis of consumer-
capitalism—which is predicated on the notion that choice is good and more choice is better.
Instead, Schwartz argues that suggesting that “excessive” freedom or choice can be
experienced “as a kind of tyranny” (p. 79). In a similar fashion, the political theorist Cass
Sunstein (2015) wrote of the value of “choosing not to choose.” Indeed, this line of thought
has a long and distinguished pedigree, as philosophers have often argued that freedom and
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choice can be problematic. Of course, it is not disputed that an external denial of freedom and
choice—as in the case of slavery, say—is abhorrent and invidious. However, it has been
suggested that an excess of freedom, a life untrammelled by restrictions, can be troubling
(Yalom, 1980). For instance, Kierkegaard (1834) felt that a sense of unlimited life
possibilities – open-ended choices of partners, friends, past-times, careers, ways of being –
could evoke a “dizzying” feeling of ontological “dread,” since we must continually make
choices that irrevocably shape our lives, and moreover assume responsibility for the
consequences. It was for this reason that Sartre (1952) provocatively wrote that people are
“condemned to be free” (p. 399).
Thus, while we are often led to regard reduced choice as dull and boring, there may be
unforeseen benefits to it. It may free the mind to focus on deeper and more important
concerns, as in our monastic example. It may be less cognitively demanding and stressful,
and subsequently reduce “buyer’s remorse,” as in Iyengar and Lepper’s (1999) supermarket
study. There may be benefits, too, in terms of the maintenance of an adaptive lifestyle. For
instance, regular exercise depends upon people committing to a pattern of activity, even—or
especially—in the face of occasional disinclination (Aarts, Paulussen, & Schaalma, 1997). As
Mischel, Shoda, and Rodriguez (1989) showed, wellbeing depends on creating strategies to
help override short-sighted desires; only then can one pursue longer-term goals that may be
boring in the short term but which are ultimately more beneficial. Finally, a routine that is
experienced as dull may not merely have positive instrumental consequences, but may itself
be experienced in positive ways. I’m thinking here of Csikszentmihalyi’s (1990) concept of
flow. He found that this state of absorption tended to arise during activities in which the
difficulty of the task was perfectly matched to a person’s ability to execute it well.
Personally, I’ve often found that to be the case; however, I’ve also experienced flow in
activities that are very repetitive, such as swimming, where one is literally repeating the same
17
set of body movements over and over. While these activities initially feel boring, at some
point, I usually enter “the zone” (Young & Pain, 1999), in which the experience turns into
one of flow. There is perhaps a parallel here with the theme above of curiosity in the external
world; an activity that is initially appraised as boring may, if engaged and persisted with,
become transmuted into an experience that is highly rewarding
1
.
Self-exploration
The final overarching theme is perhaps the most important, and yet possibly also the most
daunting. This is that, ultimately, boredom can be a means of self-exploration, of coming
face-to-face with oneself. This brings us back to Pirsig’s (1974) point that “in the very center
of this boredom is the very thing Zen Buddhism seeks to teach” (p. 317). It could be argued
that the central “point” of meditation is to encounter one’s “true” self. Interestingly, some
ideas from Buddhism suggest that meditation may be experienced as boring for precisely that
reason. At its core, boredom could be regarded as a form of psychological tension that arises
if we feel uncomfortable being alone with ourselves. As such, it is possible that many people
seek company or distraction to avoid this type of uncomfortable self-encounter (Pezeu-
Massabuau, 2013). However, Buddhist theory holds that if one can tolerate and push on
through this boredom and discomfort, one may be able to gain vital insights into one’s mind
and self-identity (Biceaga, 2006). As Stern (1988, p. 5) put it, boredom is a “void [that]
becomes a vital capability, [one that] confronts the question of “Who am I?” Similarly, in the
words of the contemporary meditation teacher Osho (2015), in prolonged meditation,
1
Editor’s note: Checking the formatting and compatibility with the APA Publication Manual
of well over 1,000 references in a large academic manuscript would appear to fall into this
category.
18
eventually, “slowly, slowly thoughts disappear, thinking stops, mind evaporates and what is
left is your authentic reality” (p. 486).
Such experiential insights can be liberating and transformative. For instance, from a
Buddhist perspective, experiencing “authentic reality” means realising that one’s “ego” (i.e.,
one’s conventional identity) is an “illusion” (i.e., an on-going project of construction)
(Kapleau, 1965). As Buddhism regards attachment to the ego as the source of suffering, this
realisation is therefore seen to result in the alleviation of suffering. It might be argued that
such insights are only possible with extensive, long-term meditation practice, and indeed that
may be the case. However, there are recorded instances of people having more “immediate”
insights, such as relatively sudden experiences of the self ‘dropping away’ (Austin, 1998).
Moreover, in my own study, while I cannot claim to have “realised” the illusory nature of the
self, I did gain a glimpse into the nature of my mental dynamics. I was struck, for instance, by
the way that my thoughts seemed to emerge unbidden (i.e., without me volitionally
“thinking” them). While such observations are common currency in Buddhism—a prominent
book on the implications of Buddhism on psychotherapy is entitled Thoughts without a
Thinker (Epstein, 2004)—it was interesting to notice this for myself. Indeed, I was generally
intrigued by how slippery, elusive and strange the mind was, a bubbling river of fleeting
ephemera, vividly confirming William James’s (1890) famous metaphor of consciousness
being a “stream.” Thus, even in a minor, time-limited way, my own phenomenological
investigation of boredom did seem to afford the occasion for interesting and useful self-
observations.
Conclusion
This chapter has suggested that, if boredom is engaged with in a certain spirit, it has the
potential to be a positive and rewarding experience. In particular, we saw five main ways in
19
which boredom can potentially be of value: (a) altered time perceptions; (b) curiosity towards
the external world; (c) creativity; (d) freedom from choice; and (e) exploration of “the self.”
Of course, if, in the process of engaging with boredom, it becomes interesting and valuable,
one might wonder whether this still truly “counts” as boredom. This is a fascinating question,
and indeed goes to the very heart of this chapter. It highlights the shape-shifting nature of
emotional and experiential categories (Brockmeier, 2002), showing that if an experience such
as boredom is fully embraced, it may no longer be boring per se. In fact, this possibility is
part of the rationale behind the burgeoning array of contemporary mindfulness-based
interventions. These are founded on the premise that if dysphoric states like anxiety are
engaged with in a particular spirit—open, curious, kind, non-judgmental—they become
somehow transmuted into less noxious or threatening versions, or may dissipate entirely, or
may even become interested and valued (Kabat-Zinn, 2003).
I personally found this to be the case with boredom in my own study. As I engaged
with it in an inquisitive spirit, I stopped experiencing it as unpleasant, and instead it became
full of interest and value. Of course, given that I was attending to my experience of boredom
in this way, it could be suggested that I was actually meditating. However, this is precisely
the point of this chapter, with its aim of “reappraising” boredom. As Biceaga (2006) argues,
perhaps meditation is boredom, and boredom is meditation? The only difference between the
two is that boredom is conventionally appraised as negative—and, hence, we tend to
denigrate or devalue it—whereas meditation is usually construed as a worthwhile activity—
and, hence, lauded and encouraged (Kabat-Zinn, 2003). Consequently, if people were able to
regard their boredom as a meditative experience, it might no longer be appraised as negative;
indeed, it might no longer even be boring at all—as I found during the hour, boredom can
become interesting! With this latter point, we can clearly see the dynamics of “second wave”
positive psychology at play. It is difficult to categorically state that boredom is a negative
20
state; and, even if it is ostensibly “negative,” it may still turn into an activity that is conducive
to flourishing. It is possible that such counterintuitive benefits will likewise apply to other
“negative” emotions, and indeed this is something that “second wave” positive psychology
will hopefully be able to explore over the years ahead.
21
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