Rebooting - On Sharing

Sharing — Why We Do It, What We Expect

Sharing is one of the oldest human instincts, long predating social media, cameras, or even written language. Long before we posted photos of lunch, we gathered around fires and told stories, held up objects we’d made, pointed out something beautiful on the horizon. At its core, sharing is a way of saying: I noticed this. It mattered to me. I hope it might matter to you too.

Modern platforms didn’t invent the impulse — they simply amplified it, sped it up, and sometimes distorted it. But the underlying desire remains deeply human.

When we share, you’re saying: This is the quiet I found. This is the order I noticed. This is the moment that made me pause. And when someone responds — with a comment, a reaction, or even silent appreciation — it affirms that your way of seeing resonates beyond your own mind.

We also share because we hope to offer something. A bit of beauty. A moment of calm. A perspective someone else might not have noticed. Minimalism, especially, carries that gift: the ability to distill the world into something simple, peaceful, and intentional. When you share those images, you’re not asking for applause so much as offering a small refuge.

And yes, there’s the desire for judgment — not in the punitive sense, but in the sense of calibration. Is what I’m seeing actually there? Does this composition hold up? Does this evoke anything in someone else? Art has always needed an audience, not for validation alone, but for dialogue. Sharing invites that dialogue.

Finally, we share because connection is one of the few things that feels better when it’s mutual. Thoughts kept entirely to ourselves can become heavy. But thoughts offered — even the vulnerable ones — lighten a little when they meet another mind.

In the end, sharing is a bridge. A way of saying: Here I am. Here’s what I’ve seen. If it brings you a moment of joy, clarity, or recognition, then we are all the better for it…

Rebooting - On Electronics

The proliferation of “electronics” has gradually inundated our lives, promising ease, speed, and connection, but too often yielding addiction. For a long time, I was totally on board. A message that once required a stamp now arrives before I can find my glasses. A question that once sent me to the library now yields an answer before I finish typing it. It all felt miraculous — and in many ways, it still does.

But somewhere along the way, things got out of hand. Notifications multiplied like fruit flies. Every device decided it was “smart,” which mostly meant interrupting me with things I didn’t ask for. My phone began tattling on my screen time. My tablet wanted to update itself every time I tried to do something meaningful. My computer developed opinions about what I should click. I started to feel less like a user and more like an employee of my own electronics.

Then, on a whim, I picked up a pen.

It felt awkward at first, like shaking hands with an old friend whose name you momentarily forget. But as the ink began to flow, something else returned — attention. Presence. A sense of ownership over my thoughts. I found myself wandering into a Goodwill bookstore, finding dictionaries and desk references that once anchored entire generations. A Roget’s Thesaurus with thumb indexes practically winked at me. Three dollars apiece. A bargain and a revelation.

I even went to the library in search of an encyclopedia, only to discover they’d replaced them with a “makerspace.” Wonderful. I can’t look up the capital of Bolivia, but I can 3D‑print a plastic llama. Progress, I suppose.

So here I am, embarking on what Pat aptly called a “digital detox.” Not out of frustration — though there’s plenty of that — but out of curiosity. What happens when I let my mind wander without a glowing rectangle nudging it along? What happens when I reach for a dictionary instead of a search bar? What happens when silence is allowed to be silence?

This isn’t a rejection of the modern world. It’s a recalibration. A remembering. A small manifesto written in ink instead of pixels:

I choose slowness over speed.

I choose intention over interruption.

I choose the weight of a book over the weight of a notification.

I choose the quieter path — the one where the heart can hear itself think.

For a month — or longer — I’m stepping back from the digital hum to rediscover the analog world that shaped me. To think more slowly. To feel more deeply. To live more fully.

Eschewing electronics. Embracing presence.

Rebooting - How It Came About, Going Forward

Here’s how it happened…

For weeks—maybe months—the Facebook photography group I help administer had been more controversy than constructive conversation. Instead of thoughtful discussion, we were wading through flare‑ups, misunderstandings, and the kind of low‑grade friction that slowly drains the joy out of a community. 

Add to that the grim news coming out of Minneapolis, where I have family, plus the steady drip of disinformation that seeps into any feed no matter how many things you “hide” or “snooze.” It became clear. 

I needed to step away for a while.

Fortunately, the Facebook group has a terrific admin team, and I knew the group would not only survive but probably thrive in my absence. With that reassurance, I started planning a retreat from the noise.

Somewhere in that process, the idea expanded. Why not go beyond a social‑media break and try a full‑on digital detox—or at least as close as modern life allows? Email is email and still necessary from time to time, but I could reclaim a lot of mental space by changing my habits.

So I did:

1. I moved all the “media” apps off my home screens—Facebook, Instagram, Apple News, the New York Times. Out of sight, out of mind.
2. I unsubscribed from every newsletter, digest, and “daily summary” that had been quietly colonizing my attention.
3. I dug out some paper and a pen. (Remember when choosing the right pen felt like a small but meaningful pleasure?)
4. 
   Realizing I no longer had autocorrect or “look up,” I stopped by the local Goodwill bookstore and stocked up: Webster’s New World Compact Desk Dictionary, Webster’s Pocket Dictionary, the New York Library Desk Reference, and a gorgeous thumb‑indexed copy of Bartlett’s Roget’s Thesaurus. All for under $12. A small miracle.
5. And as if on cue, my sister had given me The Book of Alchemy for Christmas—a guide to journaling and reflection. Perfect timing.

With all that in hand, I set a few new rules for myself:

• Before touching a device with a screen, I read a book or magazine for at least 15 minutes.
• Immediately after breakfast (and coffee), I write in a paper journal for at least 15 minutes.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing punitive. Just small rituals to reclaim a bit of quiet and remember what it feels like to think without a glowing rectangle nearby.

What I’ve Noticed So Far

The surprising part isn’t how much I’ve missed. It’s how little.

The world didn’t fall apart because I wasn’t refreshing a feed. The group didn’t collapse without my constant vigilance, although I do miss the wonderful images posted and the thoughtful critiques that quite a few members were capable of. And the space that opened up — the mental quiet, the analog slowness — felt less like deprivation and more like oxygen.

I’m not swearing off technology. I’m not moving to a cabin in the woods. But I am rediscovering the pleasure of choosing what gets my attention, instead of letting the algorithms choose for me.

And for now, that feels like enough.

Rebooting My Place in the Digital World

For the past week, I stepped away from the glowing world of screens. The digital noise was making me feel like I was in a Kansas tornado, spinning like a top, being pulled in a thousand directions at the same time. 

So I went old school instead: notebooks, pens, thrift‑store dictionaries, and thoughts that didn’t need to be broadcast the moment they arrived. I eschewed electronics.

But the urge to share never really disappears. Humans are built for connection, and eventually I felt that familiar tug — not the frantic compulsion to post, but the quieter impulse to speak in my own voice and offer something honest to whoever wanders by.

So I’m dusting off this old blog. Same Chuck, better perspective. I’m not here to rejoin the churn; I’m here to re‑enter differently. Slower. Calmer. With more intention and far less angst.

Let’s see what’s up…