Disconnected

I love this meme. It makes me laugh. I wish I knew who to credit for it. If you do, please let me know.

My phone and laptop are near constant companions. (Phone, everywhere. Laptop, at home.) There are a million reasons to open either one. When I have a question, I ask google. I check the weather. Or the time. I peruse my calendar. I write or respond to messages. I read and watch the news. Get directions. Pay bills. Type a poem or an essay or ideas that may coalesce into one.

I do chess puzzles and Duolingo lessons (Spanish, math, and music). I take photos. Answer emails. Listen to music or podcasts. Research subjects that interest me.

I’m on my laptop more than I’m on my phone these days. Mostly, because I don’t like typing on my phone. It’s too small. (I have the last mini that Apple made.)

In my early years, I managed without a phone or a laptop. I didn’t know what time it was unless I wore a watch. I had to keep lists on paper. Stories, too. I took photos with a real camera that had just one purpose.

My first phone, a flip phone, lived in the glove box of my car. I didn’t even want one. My husband wanted me to have it in case of “emergency.” Which, granted, was a wise precaution. (I never used it.)

Eventually, I graduated to a smart phone. Then, a laptop. And, wow, the gravitational pull of technology is fierce.

I love my phone and laptop. I’m grateful. Tiny computers in our pockets. Who’d have imagined?

It’s a vast library that reminds me of “the rings” in the 1960 movie version of The Time Machine. Whatever question you ask, spin the rings and there’s an answer. History. Science. Geography. Encyclopedia Brittanica in sleek miniature form.

I’ve never used any of the apps or functions that track time spent online and I don’t want to. I’m pretty sure I’d be horrified. It’s too much. Whatever the amount is, it’s too much.

I made a “joy bingo” card last month. Little squares with drawings and suggestions to make my life more fun. More present. One goal was to spend a day “disconnected.” No phone. No laptop. So I did it.

This may not sound like a big deal to many of you (and if so, I salute you), but it was to me.

I had to decide how tempted I’d be to abandon my plan and stash my devices accordingly. The hardest part was in the morning. I love to lie in bed, do Wordle (I broke my Wordle streak!), read an essay, check the news. Maybe send a few short messages. Still, I kept the phone next to me, on the nightstand. In case of emergency. I thought I had enough self control not to grab it. (I did.)

I also felt flexible about the experiment. If I chose to use my phone, I’d start again on another day. No shaming. No failure. Just something I wanted to do. For me.

The laptop stayed downstairs, but out in the open, in its usual spot. I carried the phone down, careful not to lift it face up (I didn’t even want to see the time!) and placed it next to the laptop, where it remained all day.

Morning is when I check Substack (my only social media) and read and answer messages. So. None of that. And I felt a little lonely. Untethered. Strange how you get used to a community. Or routine.

But. With that vacuum was also openness. Possibility. Time. I ate, watched a little TV, and then I wanted to paint. Hmmm. I use my laptop for reference photos. Ok. I can pivot. I have books. I cracked one open. Here’s something dorky to admit—I absentmindedly reached over to tap the trackpad. Only there was no trackpad. IT’S A BOOK. MADE OF PAPER. That’s how powerful habit is.

I watched more TV. Which was fun. And with no interruptions! (I often reach for my phone while watching something. Why? Lack of attention span? Fidgeting? Checking one thing invariably leads to 3 more, and 20 minutes pass in a blink.) Without the option, my focus was undivided. What else was there to do?

Nothing. Which had its own peace.

The rest of the day was easier. Morning was a transitional phase.

I didn’t know what time it was unless I walked by the microwave.

My husband came home at around 11am, and told me he’d texted me 3 times (about the grocery list). (He figured it out.) He assumed I might be taking my phone break because I’d mentioned it (while not committing to a specific plan regarding when).

We had lunch together. I read for a while. Went for a walk. I always take my phone on walks. You never know what you might see. But I had to accept that my eyes and memory alone would have to be sufficient. (Thankfully, no earth-shattering event occurred that I’d have been upset not to have documented…)

My phone isn’t next to me 24/7. If I’m visiting with a loved one, I don’t check it in the middle of a conversation. It’s not beside me on the table when I’m eating. I keep the sound turned off, so it isn’t binging at me incessantly. (Which really would drive me batty.) Those ordinary limitations made it easier to put it aside for a little while.

Being fully disconnected created space.

All in all, it was 36 hours without my phone or computer. The next morning, was I dying to check in? No. I was glad to, but also a little sad. I spent hours online the following day, catching up. The contrast alone was illuminating.

Which day felt more peaceful? The one without tech. No question. Eliminating the tug, taking the choice off the table entirely made me appreciate it more as well as highlighting the downside. Which I already saw to an extent or I wouldn’t have been compelled to undergo a device-free stretch in the first place.

When I blew out a tire on the highway driving home, my phone was a godsend. I had a tow truck and a friend on the way within minutes. I use it to finalize plans, or to let someone know when I’m running late. I once used it to 911 my husband when I found a wild chicken with an arrow in her leg. (He was out hiking. I was on a local walk.) I couldn’t catch her and needed help. He came; we took her to the vet. The arrow was extracted, antibiotic applied, and we released her where we found her. Happy ending.

The ability to reach someone when it’s urgent can be a literal lifesaver. But everything else? What would we have instead if we didn’t have constant information? If we weren’t constantly accessible?

I’d like to find out.