In the Spaces Between
In August, we explore idleness as a radical act of leisure. This letter is the third and final chapter of the month’s series. You can delve deeper into the introductory piece Idleness as Resistance, and the follow-up The Alchemy of Wandering Minds to uncover lesser-known aspects and interpretations of this multifaceted topic.
I’ve often found myself drawn to the lives of women geniuses—those who dared to step beyond the rigid lines of expectation, who lived in the spaces between action and stillness, moving through the world with an aura of quietude that belied the extraordinary impact of their work. These women saw the world not just as it was, but as it could be. What did their days look like? How did they nurture their minds, their spirits, their creativity? The more I’ve delved into their stories, the more I’ve come to appreciate a seemingly paradoxical truth: these women often found their genius not in relentless activity, but in moments of stillness, of idleness. It’s a revelation that feels both intimate and empowering, as though we’ve been let in on a sacred secret.
Simone de Beauvoir once wrote that true existential introspection could only occur in moments of quiet reflection
This idea has stayed with me—a whispered truth that cuts through the noise of modern life. De Beauvoir’s notion of authenticity wasn’t a rigid adherence to an ideal self but rather an ongoing process of becoming, one that required time to simply be—to sit with oneself, to let thoughts percolate, to allow the mind to wander aimlessly. In the bustling streets of Paris, where every corner seemed to demand attention, de Beauvoir carved out spaces of stillness in her day. I imagine her sitting by a window in Paris, the city’s hum muted by the glass, lost in thought.
In her diaries, Virginia Woolf wrote of "moments of being.” Woolf knew that these fleeting, quiet moments—where the world seems to stand still—were the birthplace of her most profound ideas. The flashes of profound clarity that she described in her writing often came when she was alone, walking, daydreaming, letting her thoughts wander without purpose. These instances, when life breaks through the monotony of daily existence, were not planned or forced; they arose naturally, like bubbles surfacing in still water. Woolf’s essays and novels are infused with these flashes of insight, where time seems to stop, and the characters are suddenly, achingly aware of the beauty and fragility of life.
Similarly, Hilma af Klint, a visionary artist whose work predated and arguably anticipated abstract expressionism, would sit quietly in silence before ever touching a brush to canvas, letting her mind drift and her spirit open to whatever visions might come. It was in these moments of stillness that her abstract works began to form—not in the act of painting, but in the silence that preceded it.
And then there’s Agnes Martin, the minimalist painter who would sit in her studio staring at a blank canvas before beginning to paint. Living in the New Mexico desert, Martin often spent days in silence, letting the vast emptiness of her surroundings imprint on her psyche. It was in the expansive, empty spaces of her mind—spaces she cultivated through silent reflection—that she discovered the precise forms that would come to define her art: minimalist, grid-like paintings with subtle, meditative lines that echo with quietude.
When I think of Frida Kahlo, I see another kind of idleness—her idleness was an act of defiance, a refusal to be reduced by her circumstances. Confined to her bed for long stretches due to illness, unable to move, she painted herself into the world and turned her enforced idleness into a crucible of creativity. For Kahlo, her pain and immobility became a canvas for her imagination, a space where she could conjure the vibrant, surreal images that would define her visceral art.
In a similar manner, George Sand, the French novelist, embraced periods of idleness and found that idleness allowed her to transcend the rigid gender roles of her time. She would retreat into the countryside, where she could walk and think, free from the constraints of societal expectations. These periods of solitude were essential for her writing, providing the mental space she needed to explore ideas and emotions that were often at odds with the norms of her society.
Georgia O’Keeffe often wandered the vast landscapes of New Mexico, letting the aimlessness of her walks fuel her artistic vision. In these moments of desert wandering, O’Keeffe wasn’t merely passing time; she was communing with the land, allowing its forms and colors to seep into her consciousness and later emerge on her canvases.
Many female wanderers throughout history, like Sand and O’Keeffe, have found wisdom in these non-linear physical journeys
This idea finds resonance in the practice of flânerie, a term coined in 19th-century Paris to describe the act of wandering the city with no particular destination. Modern female flâneurs like Rebecca Solnit have redefined this practice, showing how physical and mental wandering are intertwined. Solnit’s walks are not just physical journeys but mental wanderings, a way to connect with the landscape of her own thoughts. Even the notion of reverie, so often dismissed as daydreaming, is an essential part of our mental and emotional well-being. It’s a mental wandering which, when combined with flânerie, allows us to reconnect with the world in a way that is both intimate and expansive.
There is also something to be said for the correlation between idleness and those slow, languid days where nothing much happens and feelings like nostalgia and lethargy arise
There’s a particular beauty in nostalgia, a sense of wistfulness that emerges when we reflect on the past. It’s often dismissed as unproductive, but in reality, it is a profound way of connecting with our own histories. Nostalgia, as social psychologist Constantine Sedikides suggests, is not just an indulgence but a way to enhance our sense of meaning and continuity in life. It connects us to our past selves, sometimes offering resilience in the face of present challenges. Even lethargy, that slow and heavy feeling we sometimes dread, has its place. Bertrand Russell, the philosopher, argued for its value, seeing it as a necessary counterbalance to the constant drive for productivity.
No wonder, then, that idleness is a state that resonates deeply with ancient traditions
The Greeks had their scholê—leisure not as mere rest, but as time set aside for thought and philosophy. Unlike our modern understanding of leisure as mere entertainment, scholê was seen as a time for contemplation, for nurturing the mind and spirit.
The Japanese concept of Ma—the space between things—offers another perspective on idleness. It is in this space, this pause, that meaning is created. Without Ma, life would be a relentless stream of action, without rhythm, without reflection.
Similarly, the Taoist concept of Wu Wei, or effortless action, teaches us that non-action is not the absence of action, but a form of wisdom, an understanding that sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is nothing at all, a way of aligning with the natural flow of life. In idleness, we’re connecting with the beauty in stillness, with the mono no aware—the pathos of things—that heightens our awareness of the world around us.
So, what do we do with all of this?
Perhaps it’s not about embracing idleness as a trendy new habit, or as a self-help mantra, but about recognizing it as a necessary, even sacred, part of our lives. It’s not about doing nothing; it’s about doing nothing of urgency with the grace of unstructured time. There's something profoundly comforting in the idea that idleness can be a form of wisdom in a world that often devalues it.
In writing this, I find myself pausing, reflecting on the value of these moments, and I hope that you, too, find a sense of connection and inspiration here.
August Conversations
If you are in the mood for some self-discovery time and inspiring exchange, head to August Conversations. You can keep the answers for your introspective self or share them with others looking for solace in relating.
August Gatherings
This month, as many of us are (hopefully) embracing idleness and enjoying the wind in our hair, we will pause our Tuesday morning journaling sessions. Let’s reconnect in September.