The campground has no internet. Not even a neighbor’s unsecured WiFi.
Not even one bar of connectivity. Nothing. If I’d known that I would have
contacted everyone I love while I was still in Front Royal. Just to say goodbye
you know. And to let folks know that, for the moment, anyway, I was still alive
and thinking of them with my last breath.
OK. It sounds like the beginning of a tired and worn horror novel. It was a dark and stormy night, right? Truth is though that I was unprepared for my involuntary internet fast. I didn’t realize how utterly cut off from the world I would feel.
Which makes me a little uncomfortable. I had no idea how addicted I had become to being connected. It’s not as if I were constantly texting or direct messaging or tweeting or even posting on Facebook. I don’t do any of those things all that much.
But I lurk. I look in on others quite a bit. I am more than a little interested in the thoughts, opinions, judgments of others. And I have become so used to their thoughts, opinions, and judgments that when I am cut off suddenly from my ever present stream of information, I feel bereft. Weird, a little pathetic even, to be sitting by a pine fire, cold beer in hand, in the middle of some of the loveliest scenery in America and find myself jonesing for the snark on @realDonaldTrump’s latest tweet.
Weird. Pathetic. And scary. Because without the internet, I might actually have to face the blank screen in front of me. Social media is a great way to avoid pretty much everything, in case you have been hanging out on the banks of the Shenandoah River for the last fifteen years and haven’t noticed. It’s in a class by itself when it comes to distracting a student from his books, a parent from her children, a writer from the page. It takes serious will to resist the siren song of the best friend’s Paris vacation pics, or the neighbor’s student of the month, or the office mate’s promotion to CEO of the world. Hold on while I refresh my Twitter feed. Oh. Right. No internet.
Weird. Pathetic. Scary. And freeing, once I conquer my social media separation anxiety, anyway. The thing is I don’t need any encouragement in judging myself and finding myself lacking. I can find everyone and everything far more worthy than I without any help at all. Turning off social media for a season, even for an hour or two, turns off, or at least turns down the volume on the endless internal judging and comparing and competing that, for me, social media feeds.
Master chef Julia Childs has famously said, “All things in moderation.” Put another way—butter’s not the problem. You are. She’s not wrong. Social media isn’t the problem. I am.
Which is good news. I don't have to be controlled by social media. I can turn it off. And so can you. Try it and see what happens, for an hour, a day, a season, or cold turkey on the banks of the Shenandoah.
OK. It sounds like the beginning of a tired and worn horror novel. It was a dark and stormy night, right? Truth is though that I was unprepared for my involuntary internet fast. I didn’t realize how utterly cut off from the world I would feel.
Which makes me a little uncomfortable. I had no idea how addicted I had become to being connected. It’s not as if I were constantly texting or direct messaging or tweeting or even posting on Facebook. I don’t do any of those things all that much.
But I lurk. I look in on others quite a bit. I am more than a little interested in the thoughts, opinions, judgments of others. And I have become so used to their thoughts, opinions, and judgments that when I am cut off suddenly from my ever present stream of information, I feel bereft. Weird, a little pathetic even, to be sitting by a pine fire, cold beer in hand, in the middle of some of the loveliest scenery in America and find myself jonesing for the snark on @realDonaldTrump’s latest tweet.
Weird. Pathetic. And scary. Because without the internet, I might actually have to face the blank screen in front of me. Social media is a great way to avoid pretty much everything, in case you have been hanging out on the banks of the Shenandoah River for the last fifteen years and haven’t noticed. It’s in a class by itself when it comes to distracting a student from his books, a parent from her children, a writer from the page. It takes serious will to resist the siren song of the best friend’s Paris vacation pics, or the neighbor’s student of the month, or the office mate’s promotion to CEO of the world. Hold on while I refresh my Twitter feed. Oh. Right. No internet.
Weird. Pathetic. Scary. And freeing, once I conquer my social media separation anxiety, anyway. The thing is I don’t need any encouragement in judging myself and finding myself lacking. I can find everyone and everything far more worthy than I without any help at all. Turning off social media for a season, even for an hour or two, turns off, or at least turns down the volume on the endless internal judging and comparing and competing that, for me, social media feeds.
Master chef Julia Childs has famously said, “All things in moderation.” Put another way—butter’s not the problem. You are. She’s not wrong. Social media isn’t the problem. I am.
Which is good news. I don't have to be controlled by social media. I can turn it off. And so can you. Try it and see what happens, for an hour, a day, a season, or cold turkey on the banks of the Shenandoah.
