The Actual World

The Actual World

I still remember when we used to do

real things, how I’d rake the yard

until I could see the path the tines

had made, like claw-marks in the grass.

Or the heft of an old phone in the hand,

how we spoke into a receiver, then

placed it back into the cradle—such

gentle words for this exchange of voices.

No text messages back then, no screen

pinging with notifications, no blue light

fooling the eyes into staying awake

until long past dawn. I miss the space

left in a day without interruption, when I

could give my whole self to a glass

of water on the table, its bubbles full

of my breath, or catch a rare, rose-breasted

grosbeak streaking its trail of color

through the snowy air—how I was

there to see it, there to receive.


One of the best ways to soften our despair is to engage in the doing of real things that give us a sense of accomplishment and completion. When we are talking with a good friend on the phone, raking the yard, or watching a rare songbird cross from tree branch to feeder, we give ourselves the gift of inner space, and the kind of deep stillness that can seem extinct these days. I have been meditating lately on the following quote and blessing from the Benedictine monk, Brother David Steindl-Rast: “May you grow still enough to hear the stir of a single snowflake in the air, so that your inner silence may turn into hushed expectation.” I may not grow still enough to hear a snowflake slowly spinning through the air, but I can stretch my awareness by staying in touch with the actual, physical things and people in my life. I can invite the “hushed expectation” of readiness and surprise into each hour by choosing not to check my email again or log onto social media one more time. This is why I sometimes miss the heft of old phones, a heavy plastic receiver in the hand, and the satisfying click of placing it back in its cradle once a conversation was finished, with no other pulls on my attention. I miss the smell and feel of real newspapers, and the new-paper scent of a book bought fresh from the bookshop. We use the word “analog” to describe any process, practice or activity that can be accomplished free from the online world, without screens or computers, and I have come to believe that I need more of this kind of life in order to recover the attention span and focus we once took for granted, as if it would always be present. When we agree to be here as often as we can—for whatever arises, whatever we notice—we become more resilient, more open, more ready to receive whatever might flow toward us in the course of a given moment.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: What are some of the objects and activities you miss from “analog life,” and how do you feel your mind has changed by engaging in so much online activity. You might try to take a stretch of time today with as little technology as possible, engaging in those things that bring you the simplest, most accomplished sense of joy.

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Photo Credit: Photo by Yuri Antonenko on Unsplash