You bump into a friend on the street and you ask them what they’re up to, where they’re going, and they reply, “I don’t know. I have no idea.”
Now, you are worried. Perhaps they’re lost or aimless or ill. And after all, who wants to be aimless? Every moment in life must have purpose; every step must be in a forward direction, toward what we want or need or what is expected of us. But what if your friend’s aim is to be aimless, to have no set purpose or direction?
If that’s the case, they’ve become a flâneur, defined by the American Heritage Dictionary (a little harshly) as “an aimless idler,” or (more appreciatively) in the Paris Review as a “stroller, a passionate wanderer.” The poet Baudelaire praised the flâneur as someone who, by strolling about amid the kaleidoscope of daily life, finds “the timeless within the transitory.” Tied to no purpose, what passes before their eyes—and enters through their other senses—can be appreciated on the spot for simply being there.
I love to do this kind of strolling, with no aim in mind, and it never fails to yield small, and sometimes big, surprises and delights. The other day I was wandering in my neighborhood and I came upon a small table blocking the sidewalk. Behind the table was an equally small chair, and behind the chair was a path leading up a small hill through some bushes into someone’s backyard with children’s things strewn about. On the little table was a very ordinary rock, or maybe two. The young proprietor of this little stand was not there at the time, but next to the table was a multi-colored sign in chalk: Free Rocks.
That image has stuck with me now for a while. And it never fails to make me laugh, and smile in appreciation for the child who concocted the idea. When you wander, the spring you tighten inside in order to secure your purpose and direction can unwind. And that’s why “aimless wandering” has long been a mindfulness practice. It relaxes. Yes, we generally think of mindfulness as counteracting our wandering mind, and it does, but it can be larger than that. It can include the practice of just noticing one thing after another as we let ourselves out to play. We don’t have to take things too seriously. We are amused.
Here are five ways to aimlessly wander, to enjoy just being yourself wherever your feet, and your fertile brain, take you.
In the neighborhood
You don’t have to go far to wander. You can just set out from your own front door. We’ve all gone for a stroll or taken our dog for a walk. To turn it into aimless wandering involves mainly a slight shift in attitude. You commit to having no plan and importantly no set route. The highest and most enjoyable form of wandering is also as free as possible from time constraints. Of course, there’s usually someone in your life who needs you to be someplace at some point, but until that appointed time, you can wander. And if you can fit in more wandering time, so much the better. I’m not advocating exclusively wandering through life. Eventually, when we’re old enough that will become the norm, but in the meantime, it helps to have some aims in life—if only because when you go wandering, the contrast adds to the enjoyment.
At first, your mind may begin to seize on plans and looming problems to be solved. You may think if you don’t mentally address them, they won’t be taken care of, or if you think about them enough, you can make them go away. Instead, just as in a regular meditation session you would come back to your breath or the feeling of your backside on a chair or cushion, here you come back to whatever next catches your eye or ear or nose. It might even be a person. It’s fine if they engage you in a chat, but if it veers toward the serious, it may be time for you to pretend you have somewhere you absolutely must get to.
Recently, strolling in my neighborhood, my attention was drawn to the unbelievable din that comes from kids playing in a schoolyard. At the playground’s edge, I noticed two small girls huddled under a bush. They were giggling and obviously hiding from their playmates. I only eyed them long enough to take a mental snapshot, but it reminded me of how my own daughters did that decades ago and how my granddaughters do it now and how I did it as a child. And what joy there is in hiding. I saw “the timeless in the transitory.” Everything changes, but not much changes at all.
When you wander, the spring you tighten inside in order to secure your purpose and direction can unwind.
In an unfamiliar place
One of the best ways to wander is to do it in a place you’re visiting. If it’s a city you’re familiar with, it might be best to pick an area you haven’t been to yet, or at least are less familiar with. If you’re going to get off the beaten path, where tourists don’t venture, it may help you to have a local guide. They can show you things they like and answer questions you might have—so long as you enlist them in the spirit of not having too many aims.
One of the keys to wandering is to be driven by unending curiosity. Since you don’t have a plan, it’s the questions that emerge from your mind that drive you onward: “What’s that? Where does that lead? What’s that in the window?” Of course, streets with little stores can be endlessly intriguing. Old junk shops and used book and record stores—stores of all kinds can draw you in—and it’s great to go inside and browse and meet the owners and workers, but it’s good to avoid turning it into a shopping spree. Once money’s involved, things start to get a little serious.
Wandering in residential streets holds charms as well. It’s like being dropped into SimCity. You can see all the different ways we create nests and lives for ourselves, including also sadly those people whose very home is the streets. And streets also give way to parks and squares and plazas, and thankfully benches. One time in Toronto, when my feet were about to give out from beneath me, a park appeared, with plenty of benches and some very interesting winding walls and irregular mounds. As I ventured in, I noticed a bust of a man on a pedestal. As it turns out I’d wandered into Jean Sibelius Square, a tidy greenspace and playground dedicated to the Finnish composer. How odd, I thought. I was aware that Toronto is famously multicultural. My granddaughters who live there attend a school that is a virtual United Nations, and yet I was unaware of the Finnish community, who in the fifties persuaded city council to dedicate this park. I’ve since taken to listening to his dramatic tone poem Finlandia, and I am transported back to the little park.
Since you don’t have a plan, it’s the questions that emerge from your mind that drive you onward: “What’s that? Where does that lead? What’s that in the window?”
In the wild
Aimless wandering is not only about streets and cities. In fact, I’ve done considerable wandering in meadows and forests during retreats held in the countryside. In the wild, it’s important to ensure you’re not going to get lost, necessitating the formation of a search party. Wild ramblings are best done using some form of buddy system and establishing boundaries. Aimless wandering is not an extreme sport. It’s about leisure, not pushing the envelope. (That’s what base jumping and wingsuit flying are for.)
If you do it in a group, you can choose a pretty well-defined open area to let everyone roam in. (I’ve usually done it in mountain meadows, with the guideline that you may venture a little bit into the woods, but not far enough to get lost.) You choose a designated timer, and everyone surrenders anything that tells time. It’s good to choose a lengthy stretch of time, like two hours, so it’s long enough for a little boredom to set in. On the other side of boredom lies wonder and awe, but it can take a little while to sneak up on you.
As you wander, you begin to see and hear in a way we don’t usually find in everyday life, tethered as we are to our Global Positioning Systems. You start noticing, for example, that rocks are free, along with air and trees