A day without technology, once per week. What can you for 24 hours without technology?
On my first weekend last fall, I eagerly shut it all down on Friday night, then went to bed to read. (I chose Saturday because my rules include no television, and I had to watch the Giants on Sunday). I woke up nervous, eager for my laptop. That forbidden, I reached for the phone. No, not that either. Send a text message? No. I quickly realized that I was feeling the same way I do when the electricity goes out and, finding one appliance nonfunctional, I go immediately to the next. I was jumpy, twitchy, uneven.
I managed. I read the whole paper, without hyperlinks. I tried to let myself do nothing, which led to a long, MP3-free walk, a nap and some more reading, an actual novel. I drank herb tea (caffeine was not helpful) and stared out the window. I tried to allow myself to be less purposeful, not to care what was piling up in my personal cyberspace, and not to think about how busy I was going to be the next morning. I cooked, then went to bed, and read some more.
It’s not the Jews who kept the Sabbath, the saying goes. It’s the Sabbath that kept the Jews.
A day without technology? Everything crafted by humans is technology.
At its absurdist minimum, that means a day naked in the forest. There are people who do that, but I’m not that fond of bugs and dirt.
Some of us like to spend entire days, weekends, even weeks at a time living at an 18th Century level of technology. Or 19th Century. Or 16th Century. Or 5th Century.
We eagerly look forward to these days out of time. It never occurred to me until this post that running toward the 18th Century is also running away from the various electronic umbilicals that ensnare us.