It was several Saturdays ago now that I found myself phoneless while out running a few errands. A small panic fell over me as I reached toward the passenger seat only to find the space next to my wallet empty. Did I really leave home without my phone? Could I be away for a few hours without it? Or should I run back to the house quick and grab it?
Several thoughts raced through my mind at this point, some more rational than others:
What if one of those worst-case scenarios happen and I can’t get ahold of anyone for help? What if I miss a call, or miss out on part of our regularly-occurring family group texts? What if, what if, what if?
Anyone with me on this?
Well, here’s what I’ve come to realize since this surprisingly fruitful moment of forgetfulness: the incredible irony of this “what if I miss…” mindset is that I actually miss out on more when I’m constantly tending to the rings and beeps that have become an all too familiar part of my days, hours, and minutes. So concerned am I about not “missing anything” that I’m actually disregarding everything else that’s right before me—the face across the table, the man beside me in bed, or those sacred moments where quiet invades and I can be still.
The person across from me at dinner will eventually get up and leave, my husband will eventually roll over and fall asleep, and those quiet moments will all too soon become not-so-quiet and the noise of life will prevail. And yet, all those texts and phone calls and perfectly-curated instagram posts will be there hours, days, and even weeks from now. They can wait. But life refuses to.
Those hours I spent a few Saturdays ago sans iPhone were truly such a gift. I found that I was more relaxed, more free to focus my thoughts and attention where I wanted, and more able to be present—even if only with myself. As it turned out, nothing of catastrophic proportion happened, the texts and phone calls were waiting when I got home, and I even bought a jacket without first texting Ty a picture from the Anthropologie dressing room.
The lie I find myself falling for over and over is that disconnected = irresponsible. But what I’m finding to be more and more true is that permission to disconnect can actually be the most responsible gift we give ourselves. Being constantly connected to email and conditioned to automatically respond to every text and tweet might be a sign of twenty-first century living, but it’s not how I want to live my life.
In fact, you might find me “forgetting” my phone a little more often. Chances are there will be enough “connected” people around me in case one of those worst-case-scenarios actually does happen.
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