Permission to be present
When asked at a party which superhero you would want to be, you never hear anyone say Anne of Green Gables. Understandably, she doesn’t wear a super suit, but she does have this extreme power for seeing and describing everything in nature as the most overwhelmingly beautiful thing you could ever set eyes on. She makes me cringe, but I love her. She is the queen of being imaginatively present.
Lately, I’ve been craving to feel more connected to what’s right in front of me, more present in the real world, and less connected to the demands of my phone. Though those demands are well-meaning, texts and memes from friends, emails providing work, and everything else under the sun that assist in the comfort of living, without space from this contraption, it’s impossible to “be.” To have a present room conversation without an interruptive ding. To hold your partner's gaze without my eyes diverting to a lit-up screen. To walk without your mind internally scrolling through the bottomless screen in your back pocket.
I met this woman at a lake once. She was visiting from America in an attempt to heal from burnout. We were sharing the trail, and I was wandering along behind her as she texted her daughter back home. She turned to me and expressed how she needed to disconnect and relax, but duty calls, with a heavy laugh. I said, “You can just turn it off for a while”. She said, “But what if there’s an emergency, what if somebody needs me?” I replied, “If there is, how are you going to be able to help anyway? You’re out here, miles away in the bush. Can’t you turn it off now and respond later?” She needed permission to take time for herself. I can empathise with her, I also hold my phone close, feeling like it’s the one and only solution to the pile of “what ifs.” “What if my partner has a question he needs answering quickly? What if I need to look something up or write something down? What if I come into trouble or get injured? God forbid, what if I needed to take a photo? All the while clinging to the what-ifs and robbing myself of a pure, undistracted experience and the space I need as a human.
Go for a walk without your phone
Go for a walk and be alone
Without time or compass
Bizzes, buzzes and beeps
Depart untethered
Like a child on one’s own
Go for a walk, be flesh and bone
Surrendering to the invitation of the present, I’ve started intentionally walking without my phone in the evening or by the river during the day. And it’s impossible to explain to you all the myriad of things I feel without the weight of this handheld device in my pocket. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be a child unattached. No concept of time. No foresight into where unknown trails would lead. No connection to your friends outside of planned hangouts besides the joy of accidentally running into them face to face. No responsibilities, my to-do list still exists, but it’s just not attached to my body, so my mind feels like it’s on a little holiday. My mind and eyes have the space they need to fully see what’s around me. I healthily take on the cringy persona of Anne of Green Gables. Exploring curiously, with a lightness in my step and a jaw full of over-the-top British descriptive words like, Isn’t it marvellous? Yes, truly exquisite”, as I take in the yellow sunset tones and a light breeze making the penny leaves rustle.
It seems like such a simple thing to be disconnected from technology and present with nature, but I’ve only come to the realisation recently that without it, I feel less human. It’s like for years I’ve been sleeping, clouded in view, and now given the chance to connect with the real world again, I’m soaking it in like everything’s new.