I spend a considerable amount of my time searching for moments of peace. This is partly the result of the world we live in: we’re locked into a 24/7 society, where being overstimulated is the norm. But it also speaks to personal contradictions: I have a never-ending to-do list that propels me through each day, every action a task to be ticked off, from eating lunch to walking to the shop. For someone who desires tranquillity so much, I don’t leave much room for it.
Clearly, I’m not alone in this quest. Much has been made of the relentless cultural march of “mindfulness”, a concept originating as a meditative practice but now seemingly used to refer to anything from paying nearly £70 annually for an app to wild swimming. Too many column inches have already been devoted to dissecting the prevalence of mindfulness, but suffice to say I see its elevation into a mainstream fixture (and its subsequent commodification) as one symptom of a mass search for a little pocket of peace.
Last year I worked on a podcast episode for the Wellcome Collection to go with an exhibition it was presenting that was partly devoted to the concept of tranquillity. Chatting with a contributor, the environmental psychologist Dr Eleanor Ratcliffe, I reeled off a list of places in my adopted home, London, where I’d experienced the feeling of transcending my grubby little self and being flooded with utter peace: the tippy-top of St Paul’s cathedral; the Watts Memorial in Postman’s Park; a medieval church tucked away on Ely Place, one of the city’s last privately managed roads. There was a common thread there, Ratcliffe told me, citing the work of her PhD student Ruairi Patterson: awe, that transcendent feeling of reverence and wonder that might be sparked by a particularly fiery sunset, or watching your friend stuff four hotdogs in her mouth at once.
I was intrigued by this and reached out to Patterson. Yes, he told me, there is growing evidence that experiencing awe can reduce stress and improve wellbeing.
Patterson pointed me to a paper published last year, led by a researcher at Peking University, which found that experiencing “awe-inspiring phenomena” could lead to greater life satisfaction and less stress. Previous work has also suggested that experiencing awe is a key part of nature’s ability to decrease stress levels and improve wellbeing. “These effects,” says Patterson, “result at least in part from the ability of awe-inspiring experiences to ‘put things in perspective’ by making oneself and one’s personal concerns seem small in comparison to the perceived vastness of awe-inspiring phenomena.”
A beautiful idea, isn’t it? Yes, I thought, awe certainly plays a central role in when I feel most serene. But giving it some thought, I’m sure it’s not the only factor; there are plenty of times I have felt awe and yet not quite achieved that state of peace. After consideration, I’ve come up with an alternate thesis: it’s about being out of context.
The occasions I feel most peaceful is when I have stepped out of the normal flow of my daily life and into someone else’s timeline. Like heading into a church as a non-believer, with no religious tradition in my past. Cycling through a park I never usually visit. Eating lunch in the cafe of a museum instead of reheating my salmon and veg at home. When I am out of context, my problems are unable to find me until I’ve slipped back into the rhythms of my normal existence. The more I’ve thought about this, the more it feels correct. I remember the great sense of peace that would wash over me as a child when I was taken out of school in the middle of the day for a doctor’s appointment. Sitting on the hard, plastic, waiting-room chairs, I would hear the shouts of my peers in the nearby school playground and feel utterly calm that I was not there with them, in my proper place. It’s a comforting mix of quasi-anonymity, novelty, and escape from the flotsam that accrues by simply existing.
By its nature, finding tranquillity by stepping out of myself isn’t a lasting way of being. It is a state that can be snatched at; at some point I have to snap back into place. I suspect being constantly at peace would breed complacency. Having to strive for something, even if it’s inner calm, sadly means I value it more. At least armed with the knowledge of exactly what conditions create that sense of serenity means it feels within reach. That alone is soothing. And I did it without the help of a mindfulness app. Saving £70 on self-knowledge: now that’s peace.
Moya Lothian-McLean is a journalist who writes about politics and digital culture
