Most mornings, I have an espresso and sit on the porch—sometimes for one minute, sometimes for twenty. I close my eyes (or don’t), place my hands on my knees, and breathe. Sometimes I follow the breath. Sometimes I don’t.

Because while most meditation advice insists that we gently “return to the breath” when the mind wanders, I’ve found that language misleading. It makes the breath feel like a moral imperative. Like, “Uh oh, you’re thinking again—better get back to your breath or else.”

But what exactly happens when the mind wanders?

Advice tends to lump it all into one vague warning: worry, distraction, anxiety. As if all thinking during meditation is a problem to be corrected. But in my experience, thoughts don’t just “wander.” They go somewhere. And where they go matters.

I’ve noticed three distinct paths my mind tends to follow when it drifts from the breath:

1. The Rumination Path – replaying conversations, regrets, fears.
2. The To-Do Path – organizing errands, sorting priorities, making lists.
3. The Creative Path – forming ideas, shaping plans, birthing insight.

Now, rumination might need some gentle redirection. But the other two? They’re often beautiful, helpful, even generative. Why should I treat them as intrusions?

This is where I part ways with the standard playbook. For me, the point of meditation isn’t just to return to the breath. It’s to notice where I go. And sometimes, to stay there for a while.

If my mind begins arranging the day’s tasks while I sit in stillness, that’s not noise—it’s clarity. If a creative idea appears, or the kernel of one, why abandon it in the name of discipline? Why not stay a while, flesh it out, enjoy the view?

Yeah, I come back to the breath. But not because I have to. Because I want to. Like returning to a quiet home after wandering in the woods.

Think of the breath as basecamp. But from there, there are paths worth exploring. Some lead to memory, some to planning, some to creativity. They’re not detours. They’re part of the terrain.

So no, I’m not always meditating to quiet the mind. I’m meditating to listen to it. To appreciate its movements. To follow it into places I wouldn’t otherwise notice in the noise of the day – and to, often times, stay there and hang for a bit. Because when the porch is cold and the world is still, those wanderings become the beginnings of something real. An idea. A project. A way forward.

In the end, meditation isn’t a battle to tame the mind. It’s an invitation to spend time with it. To trust that wherever it goes, there’s something worth seeing. And to return to the breath not because we failed—but because we’re home.

JM.