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.