Digital detox 4: Be still I will

What was once my favourite internet surfing spot-my cozy living room loveseat, wrapped in a favourite blanket-has now become my Lenten thinking spot. I’ve had roughly 22 mornings since declaring my digital detox to sit in this spot and wander the quiet hallways of my mind.

In the profound stillness, sipping a warm beverage and staring at the wall, I have identified two important things. The first is that my living room is in dire need of a paint job, which apparently escaped my attention while I was in a Facebook fog. In addition to noticing the cracked plaster and chipped paint, I now understand what I was desperately searching for when surfing the ‘net became the focal point of my life.

About three years ago, I joined the ranks of the ϋber-commuters-the people for whom the GO (Government of Ontario) trains do not GO far enough. Several times a week, a six-hour roundtrip haul on the VIA train became a regular part of my life. The alarm that used to ring at 6:30 now went off at 4:00 am. I had barely recovered from one long day when another loomed on a dark horizon.

During that first winter, in my chilly Victorian house, those early morning wake-up calls felt lonely and isolating. My husband, nestled snug in bed, was no longer my morning companion for coffee hour. That time together, when we talked, enjoyed one another’s company and solved most of the world’s problems over a pot of dark roast, had been a constant in our marriage. Now, it was gone.

With the snap, crackle and pop of old floorboards beneath my feet reminding me that returning to bed was not an option, off to my surfing spot I would go. Once the coffee was poured, reaching for the laptop was the next best thing.

And so it was in this way, and from this spot, that I discovered Facebook. During the wee small hours of the morning, Facebook now provided a sense of belonging and community. Even though the conversations were largely one-sided, there was more often than not some “friend” who had suffered a sleepless night-or who had made some witty observation about being awake in the middle of the night-that I could turn to, to “like” and feel connected to.

And then at the end of the day-during the long, lonely train ride home in the silent company of strangers-I once again found solace and comfort in my online community. Eventually, six hours of commuting became tolerable as I supplanted it with six hours of clicking, liking, looking and longing-wishing I were home with my family-craving comfort in what fellowship I could find, wherever I could find it.

Over the past three years, these online pit-stops became both the first and last thing I needed to do every day and over time, the scope of the pit-stops expanded-both in frequency and importance. Then they began to spill over into my non-commuting time. Even when I was home and could seize the day with the very people whose company I longed for most, I had grown a profound and mostly uncontrollable attachment to my online world.

It was because of the rampant, unchecked expansion of the role the Internet played in my life that on the eve of Ash Wednesday I found myself gasping for air-aware for the first time that I had indeed lost control-surfing waves of information that were drowning me.

And so I am thankful for this Lenten discipline-for the opportunity to catch my breath, to study and evaluate the role I want the Internet to play in my life. During these Lenten days, in the silence of my living room, or with the whistle of a train outside my window, I am rediscovering something I once knew very well; that comfort can be found in stillness, and that being alone does not have to be synonymous with loneliness.

The Old Testament Psalm says it so remarkably well, “Be still and know that I am God.” And be still I will…knowing that with God we are never alone.

Michelle Hauser is a parishioner at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene in Napanee, Ont., and manager of annual giving for the Anglican Church of Canada.

[hed] Digital detox 4: Be still I will

What was once my favourite internet surfing spot-my cozy living room loveseat, wrapped in a favourite blanket-has now become my Lenten thinking spot. I’ve had roughly 22 mornings since declaring my digital detox to sit in this spot and wander the quiet hallways of my mind.

In the profound stillness, sipping a warm beverage and staring at the wall, I have identified two important things. The first is that my living room is in dire need of a paint job, which apparently escaped my attention while I was in a Facebook fog. In addition to noticing the cracked plaster and chipped paint, I now understand what I was desperately searching for when surfing the ‘net became the focal point of my life.

About three years ago, I joined the ranks of the ϋber-commuters-the people for whom the GO (Government of Ontario) trains do not GO far enough. Several times a week, a six-hour roundtrip haul on the VIA train became a regular part of my life. The alarm that used to ring at 6:30 now went off at 4:00 am. I had barely recovered from one long day when another loomed on a dark horizon.

During that first winter, in my chilly Victorian house, those early morning wake-up calls felt lonely and isolating. My husband, nestled snug in bed, was no longer my morning companion for coffee hour. That time together, when we talked, enjoyed one another’s company and solved most of the world’s problems over a pot of dark roast, had been a constant in our marriage. Now, it was gone.

With the snap, crackle and pop of old floorboards beneath my feet reminding me that returning to bed was not an option, off to my surfing spot I would go. Once the coffee was poured, reaching for the laptop was the next best thing.

And so it was in this way, and from this spot, that I discovered Facebook. During the wee small hours of the morning, Facebook now provided a sense of belonging and community. Even though the conversations were largely one-sided, there was more often than not some “friend” who had suffered a sleepless night-or who had made some witty observation about being awake in the middle of the night-that I could turn to, to “like” and feel connected to.

And then at the end of the day-during the long, lonely train ride home in the silent company of strangers-I once again found solace and comfort in my online community. Eventually, six hours of commuting became tolerable as I supplanted it with six hours of clicking, liking, looking and longing-wishing I were home with my family-craving comfort in what fellowship I could find, wherever I could find it.

Over the past three years, these online pit-stops became both the first and last thing I needed to do every day and over time, the scope of the pit-stops expanded-both in frequency and importance. Then they began to spill over into my non-commuting time. Even when I was home and could seize the day with the very people whose company I longed for most, I had grown a profound and mostly uncontrollable attachment to my online world.

It was because of the rampant, unchecked expansion of the role the Internet played in my life that on the eve of Ash Wednesday I found myself gasping for air-aware for the first time that I had indeed lost control-surfing waves of information that were drowning me.

And so I am thankful for this Lenten discipline-for the opportunity to catch my breath, to study and evaluate the role I want the Internet to play in my life. During these Lenten days, in the silence of my living room, or with the whistle of a train outside my window, I am rediscovering something I once knew very well; that comfort can be found in stillness, and that being alone does not have to be synonymous with loneliness.

The Old Testament Psalm says it so remarkably well, “Be still and know that I am God.” And be still I will…knowing that with God we are never alone.

Michelle Hauser is a parishioner at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene in Napanee, Ont., and manager of annual giving for the Anglican Church of Canada.