Sitting Still, Five Minutes
This morning, after the alarm went off, I didn't reach for my phone right away. It wasn't discipline. I was dreaming of an old temple with its door shut, wondering whether to push it open. Then I woke up.
Sitting Still, Five Minutes
This morning, after the alarm went off, I didn't reach for my phone right away like I usually do.
It wasn't because I had great discipline. Honestly, it was because when the alarm rang I was in the middle of a dream. In the dream I was standing in front of an old temple. The doors were closed. I was wondering whether to push them open. Then I woke up.
After I woke up I just lay there in bed, looking at the ceiling. I did that for about five minutes.
Five minutes. Sounds short. But I noticed something — if you don't pick up your phone, don't check messages, don't scroll through anything — five minutes is actually quite long. Long enough to hear the birds outside the window. Long enough to feel the warmth of sunlight on the blanket. Long enough for all the messy thoughts in your head to settle down, one by one.
Later I wondered — how long has it been since I truly did nothing?
When I was little, I did this all the time.
Coming home from school, I'd toss my bag aside and sit in the yard, just spacing out. I could watch ants carry things for half an hour. I could watch clouds change shape until it got dark. I never thought of it as "wasting time," because I didn't even know what "wasting time" meant.
Then somewhere along the way, "doing nothing" became something that made me anxious.
Standing on the subway platform without checking my phone felt wrong. Eating without watching something felt like a waste. Even going to the bathroom, I had to bring my phone.
One time I paid attention to myself — from waking up to falling asleep, how much time did I spend not taking in any information at all? I did the math. Almost none. Audio, video, text, messages, one after another, like a conveyor belt, pouring in from the moment I opened my eyes until I closed them.
After that I decided to try something. Every day, sit for five minutes.
Not meditation. Not sitting zen. Just sitting.
Saying "sit five minutes" is easy. Doing it is genuinely hard.
The first few days, I sat on my cushion, closed my eyes, and my brain started holding a meeting — "Did that package arrive yet?" "What's for lunch?" "Isn't that article still missing a paragraph?" "Did I forget to reply to someone?"
One thought after another, like a spinning lantern.
I tried not to think these thoughts. The harder I tried, the more I thought.
Then I read something Thich Nhat Hanh said. The idea was: don't fight your thoughts. A thought comes, you see it come, and then you let it go. It's like watching someone walk past outside your window. You don't need to call out to them.
It sounds simple. But that day, sitting there, I really tried it. And it worked.
It's not "don't think." It's "see it, then leave it alone."
A thought comes — "Right, the milk in the fridge is about to expire" — I see it. Then I don't follow it any further. It stays there for a while, then leaves on its own.
Something wonderful in that. That space — that's the most precious part of those five minutes.
Later I made these "five minutes" less formal. No need to sit on a cushion. No need to close my eyes.
Sometimes it's when I'm making tea. Just making tea. Boiling water, listening to the kettle start to murmur, the sound growing from soft to loud, like someone approaching from far away. Then pouring the water, watching the tea leaves tumble and unfurl in the cup, the water turning from clear to pale yellow to amber. Not doing anything else. Just watching this.
Sometimes it's when I'm washing dishes. Hands covered in foam, water warm, the clink of plates and bowls. Before, I'd be thinking about other things while washing dishes, and when I finished I couldn't even remember how I washed them. Later I tried just washing the dishes. It turns out washing dishes is actually quite pleasant.
Sometimes I'm walking somewhere and I just stop. Stand there for a while. Look at the trees along the road, look at the sky. People passing by might think I'm lost. I don't care.
All these moments have one thing in common — I'm not "somewhere else." I'm here.
This feeling of "being here" — saying it out loud, it doesn't sound like much. But think about it. How much of our day are we not "here"? Body sitting here, mind at the office. Eating with a friend, heart running through tomorrow's work. Talking to someone, fingers typing a reply to someone else.
We seem to always live in the "next moment."
Once at a temple, the master took me to see the meditation hall.
It wasn't big. Several rows of cushions, neat and tidy. Windows half open, bamboo grove outside. When the wind blew, the bamboo leaves rustled like rain.
The master said, sitting zen is not about thinking something, and it's not about thinking nothing. Sitting zen is just sitting. You sit here, and the world is here. You're not somewhere else, not in some moment in the past, not in some moment in the future. You're here.
I asked the master, how long should I sit?
He smiled and said, sit as long as you can sit. Five minutes is enough. Five minutes is also zen.
Later I thought about this, and there's a deep kindness in those words.
He didn't say "you must sit for an hour" or "if you don't reach a certain standard it doesn't count." He said, what you can do is enough. Five minutes is five minutes. One minute is one minute. Even just lying in bed for thirty extra seconds after the alarm goes off, looking at the ceiling — that's thirty seconds you gave yourself.
We tend to be so hard on ourselves. Exercise only counts if it's half an hour. Reading only counts if you finish a chapter. Meditation only counts if you sit for twenty minutes. But maybe it's not like that.
Maybe five minutes is enough.
Now, my five minutes each day — sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. Sometimes I really am sitting on a cushion. Sometimes I'm just standing by the window, looking outside for a while.
Not doing anything "useful." Not producing, not consuming, not planning, not remembering.
Just being here.
These five minutes won't make me smarter. They won't help me finish any work. They won't make anyone think I've "improved."
But they remind me — I'm not just a machine that processes information. I'm a living, breathing person who can feel the warmth of the sun.
Five minutes. Just five minutes.
Maybe that's what I most want to say today.
Three Questions for You
- When was the last time you did nothing, thought about nothing?
- If I asked you to sit for five minutes right now — no phone, no thinking — could you do it?
- What do you think is the difference between "wasting time" and "giving yourself a little time"?
