The art of waiting in line

Begin with the breath.

This is the secret that monks have known for centuries but that somehow eludes us when we find ourselves behind seven people at the post office, each one clutching parcels like life rafts. The line—that most mortal of inventions—stretches before you.

A pilgrimage in miniature.

Let us acknowledge the truth that no amount of philosophical reframing can disguise. Waiting in line is excruciating. Your lower back begins to ache precisely seven minutes in, a dull throb that radiates outward like ripples in a stagnant pond. Your feet, imprisoned in shoes not designed for stationary torture, begin to whisper complaints that grow steadily louder. Time itself seems to congeal around you, thick as cooling wax.

The boredom arrives next, an unwelcome guest hovering inside your skull. Your mind—that miraculous instrument capable of contemplating the birth of stars—finds itself reduced to counting tiles or the nutritional information on a candy bar wrapper for the third time. You begin to envy the potted plant in the corner, which at least has the dignity of not knowing that it is waiting.

But you need to transcend. To survive. To do that you must abandon the notion that waiting is a theft of your time. Such thinking poisons the well before you've drawn any water. Shift your weight from one foot to the other, not frantically as though standing on hot coals, but slowly, deliberately—a private waltz in a public space. Roll your shoulders backward in luxurious circles, feeling the tension releasing. Curl your toes inside your shoes, then spread them wide, a secret stretching no one else can see.

Notice how your fellow "linesmen" approach this shared journey. Most stand with their spines curved into question marks, faces illuminated by the blue glow of mobile screens—minds lost in endless scrolling of social feeds offering temporary escape from the drudgery of reality.

You could join them in this exodus from the now—and sometimes, when the line stretches toward infinity and your reserves of mindfulness have been depleted, you should. There is no shame in losing yourself . But when you emerge from these temporary shelters, try something different. Plant your feet , shoulder-width apart, as if you are preparing to receive a gentle push from behind. Feel the floor beneath you—tile, perhaps, or concrete worn smooth by countless shuffling feet. This ground has supported millions before you and will cradle millions after.

You are part of a great lineage. Of "waiters".

Hunger will find you eventually—as it always does in lines of significant duration. When you discover that mangled granola bar, forgotten and crushed in the bottom of your bag, it is a feast worthy of kings. Eat slowly. Notice how each bite has its own texture, its own particular sweetness.

The very act of chewing becomes a meditation when you have nowhere else to be.

Now, lift your gaze. Marvel at the human theatre arranged around you. Each person in the line carries an entire universe within them. The elderly woman with arthritic hands clutching her purse which contains eighty years of laughter, heartbreak, Tuesday afternoons, and morning coffees. The businessman in the pressed suit who has just learned that he's going to be a grandfather. The teenager with headphones who is nursing a heartbreak from the night before.

When the line moves, move with it. Not with the hurried shuffle of obligation, but with the deliberate steps of someone with purpose. One step closer. There is a rhythm to a good line, a pulse that beats. Find it. Join it. Let your body absorb the rhythm.

When fatigue comes—that leaden sensation that seems to pull downward on every atom of your being—do not fight it directly. Give in. Fatigue is part of the discovery that the longer you wait, the deeper your roots grow.

If someone cuts in front of you—and invariably, someone will—resist the urge to clutch your indignation. Consider that perhaps they are carrying a burden you cannot see. Maybe their haste is born of necessity rather than entitlement. And even if it is the latter, letting go has a sense of freedom where the delay of another extra minute is an added minute of practising grace.

When that irritation hits like bile in your throat—when the child behind you kicks your ankle for the third time, when the person ahead smells of cigarettes and something indefinably sour and when the cashier seems to be moving with the deliberate slowness of a sloth on sedatives—this is when you are at peak performance.

Where your practice is at its most potent.

Breathe into the irritation. Feel its texture, its temperature. It is as transient as the line itself.

When conversations bloom around you—as they sometimes do in situations of shared waiting—listen. Not with the half-ear of someone cataloging the faults in a stranger's logic, but with the full-bodied attention of someone receiving a rare gift. These ephemeral connections between isolated islands of consciousness, are what our ancestors knew as community before we walled ourselves away in digital fortresses.

Perhaps you'll feel compelled to join in. If so, speak not from habit or obligation, but from that quiet place beneath your sternum where honesty resides. A true word exchanged in a line might be remembered long after whatever you're waiting to purchase has been consumed, used, and forgotten.

When the numbness comes—that peculiar absence of sensation that follows prolonged standing—wiggle your toes with the concentrated focus of a piano student at their first recital. Bend your knees slightly, then straighten. Roll your ankles in small circles. These tiny movements are acts of rebellion against the stasis imposed on you, reminders that even in stillness, life pulses through your veins.

When at last you reach the front—that sacred threshold where waiting transmutes into receiving—look the person serving you in the eyes. Really look. Remember that they have been standing while you've been moving, that they have witnessed the same drama repeat itself hundreds of times today. Offer them the gift of your full presence, even if just for the brief transaction.

And then, when you turn to leave, carrying whatever it was you came for, pause for one moment at the threshold. Feel the weight of the object in your hands, the air stirring differently around you now that you've completed this small pilgrimage. Notice how your body, released from its linear confinement, expands outward into space with something akin to joy.

Most will leave immediately, already thinking of the next task, the next line, the next wait. They will pass the time warp having spent years of their life in lines without ever having truly waited in one. But you—you've found a way to reclaim the in-between spaces, those parentheses in the text of your life that most people skip over in their rush to reach the next chapter. And in doing so, you've discovered that life is not a series of destinations interrupted by inconvenient journeys, but rather a single, continuous unfolding in which every moment—even those spent in line at the DMV—contains the possibility of wonder.

So wait well, my friend. The line is long, and none of us knows how much time we have left in it.

I write ‘cos words are fun. More about me here. Follow @hackrlife on X or subscribe to my blog