Light & Dark
From the moment I wake up until the wee hours of the night I’m connected to some sort of device. Typing, clicking, scrolling, swiping. The glow of a screen is my nightlight and my phone the morning alarm. I love technology. Access to the internet is like some sort of super power. Directions, recipes, advice, friends, knowledge and inspiration. All at our fingertips, anytime we want it. It’s phenomenally powerful and incredibly addictive. That’s why every so often - I must disconnect.
I spent the weekend in the rural countryside in an old cabin my father and his friends purchased in 1977. During the drive the landscape eases into Amish country. Dirt roads and old homes. Open fields, grain silos and the smell of fresh manure. Set back down a rutted and muddy driveway lies the wooden structure. Most everything is poorly rigged up. Duct-tape, nails, old couches, TV’s stacked upon TV’s. Everything is second hand and any improvements are generally made from leftovers from random construction sites. It seems as if nothing is in working order. It’s a battle to get the radio working, hot water is scarce and you better have wood chopped if you’d like to stay warm. Any slight luxury needs to be worked for and therefore is valued that much more. A proper lack of cleanliness takes you outside of your comfort zone - but there’s a roof over your head, a place to wash your face and acres of wilderness to explore. Here I realize that everything we want is not everything we need.
The first thing I do when I arrive is shut down my phone. I make a point to separate myself from the digital world that I hold so dearly. At first it’s like kicking a 10 year smoking habit. You visualize your inbox exponentially increasing each moment you let it go. Is anyone trying to reach me? What if there’s something really important that I’m missing? Won’t clients worry if I don’t respond relatively soon? Everything. will. be. alright. I’ve come to realize that unless you consciously make an effort to disconnect, you will be swallowed whole and swept away. Here I quickly learn to fight the discomfort and to embrace the silence.
I step outside onto the old wooden porch. I breath in the untarnished air. Its strong aftertaste of pine and frost instantly refreshes the lungs. I walk into the forest and observe the massive amounts of life that surround me. Color, movement, texture, growth, wisdom. The sound of birds coming back from the south remixed with the wind pushing through the trees. The forest creaks and howls as if it’s teasing me to find out what is making these spectacular sounds. They combine into a magnificent concoction of chirps, howls and crackles that pulse like the rumble a perfectly tuned motorcycle. At that point I know it’s connected. It has purpose. It’s undeniable. This is when I realize there is comfort in nature. It is my strongest inspiration.
Everyone should have a place where they can go to escape the noise. Minimize the static and forget about invoices, traffic jams and voicemail. Don’t worry about bothering your neighbors with out of tune singing or obnoxiously large campfires. Be primitive again. Remove yourself from the distraction of an endless sea of information and dare to entertain yourself with simple surroundings. You’ll find it isn't easy but extremely gratifying. Every so often I must push the reset button. Spend time off the grid whittleing a knotted stick and listening to a bullfrog symphony. It allows me to passionately jump back into the digital world. My battery seems to become recharged and I’m raring to go. It’s at this point I am strongest.
It’s not the buzzing of the city nor the silence of the countryside that I seek but rather the fragile balance between the two. I’m grateful for the ability to find just that. Just as Good does not exist without the contrast of Evil, we can not recognize the light without the darkness.
