For most of my 20s, I couldn’t brush my teeth, ride public transit, or take a walk without listening to a podcast or audiobook. Silence, I thought, was a waste of time.

But since reading All the Beauty in the World (2023), I’ve been reconsidering my relationship to dull, seemingly empty moments. In the book, Patrick Bringley recounts his decade among the watchful guards of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Standing in the Met’s echoic halls for hours on end, day after predictable day, he found that, over time, his relationship to the work slowly changed. Initial enchantment with the art gave way to boredom – and then, enlightenment. He surrendered to the ‘turtleish movement of a watchman’s time’, stopped thinking about how much of his shift was left, and let the hours drift.

I think about Bringley’s experience when I have to engage in any long, monotonous task. It might be waiting in line or on hold, vacuuming, folding laundry, or chopping vegetables for dinner. I resist the urge to fill the time with music or podcasts and strive instead for what Bringley calls a ‘princely detachment’ from time, finding the luxury and nuance in the moment.

Bringley noticed patterns in the different kinds of Met visitors. Hanging up my laundry, I notice patterns in how different articles of clothing tend to wrinkle in the wash. Bringley developed an appreciation for artworks that he initially ignored. I pay finer attention to the unique composition of facial features on the faces of people I stand in line with. I am learning, I think, to appreciate the little things.

Of course, it requires constant practice to find the peace and richness in these stretches of time. But your reward comes, Bringley says, when an hour no longer feels an hour long, and you ‘hardly remember how to be bored’.

Often, forgetfulness is a mere inconvenience: that name, date or task that simply slipped through the cracks. But, sometimes, it’s downright unsettling to forget something. A friend asked me the other day: ‘Remember that hilarious dinner we had there a few years ago?’ And when for the life of me I couldn’t, I felt as if a slice of my existence had been cast into oblivion.

The ancient Greeks harbored a similar, if more pronounced, terror of forgetting. Plato associates forgetting with ‘non-being’, nothingness. Homer’s heroes do heroic things in order to achieve kleos (fame), and thereby defeat the destruction that comes with being forgotten. (As one of the Seven Wise Men said: ‘You will obtain memory through deed.’) Perhaps as a kind of buttress against the fear of forgetting, they anointed Mnemosyne, memory, the mother of the nine muses.

But I enjoyed learning the other day that this negative view of forgetting wasn’t shared by all ancient peoples. Daoism positively celebrates forgetting, indeed raises it to the status of an art. Zhuangzi, a founder of the tradition, urges people to master this art in order to gain a glimpse of Dao (the way), the eternal substratum of our passing world. As the philosopher Xia Chen writes, Zhuangzi’s idea is that the more of the world we’re able to forget – be it morality, history, the arts – the more we’re able to discover our true self, shaving off all that’s inessential to get down to the pith that we ultimately are.

Now, I don’t know if that will be of help when I inevitably confront the next lost memory, but it’s good to remember, if possible, that there’s a certain, subtle benefit in forgetting. ‘Only by forgetting,’ wrote the German philosopher Hans-Georg Gadamer, ‘does the mind have the possibility of total renewal.’

Browsing Spotify for music to pull me through the slog of a grey February in New York, I came across the work of Labi Siffre, a 1970s artist I had never heard of. I was immediately taken with his delicate voice and simple, intimate musical arrangements.

Shortly after my precious discovery, Labi Siffre turned up in random places. I heard his crooning in coffee shops, a friend put him on at karaoke, and the singer-songwriter Lucy Dacus mentioned him as an artist who epitomised yearning. Labi Siffre was following me. Or at least that’s how I’d think about it if I didn’t know better. Instead, I thought: Baader-Meinhof.

The Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, also known as the frequency illusion, is a type of cognitive bias where, once you learn about something – such as a word, person or concept – you start to notice it more frequently. Your best friend clues you in on a slang term, and suddenly you see it endlessly in your feed. Your brother recommends a supplement, and you start repeatedly hearing ads for it. It feels eerie, especially if you don’t have a name for what’s happening.

Terry Mullen recalled feeling similarly when, after learning about a 1970s terrorist group called the Baader-Meinhof Gang, he encountered another mention of them the next day. He wrote to a newspaper about it in 1994. About a decade later, a Stanford professor proposed that a mix of selective attention and confirmation bias explains why something you are newly aware of might seem to happen all the time.

I first learned about this phenomenon in a psychology class at university. Today, when I feel it in action, I mutter ‘Baader-Meinhof’ under my breath. It helps me notice what I’m noticing, and the knowledge that my brain is primed for recognition dispels the feeling that I’m being sent some coded, mystical message – musical or otherwise.