the death of quiet is not a victimless tragedy
Somehow the permission and potential to always be productive took away my freedom to just be.
I feel a loss.
It’s not even a thought, really. It’s less than that. (Or maybe more than that?) It’s a gut feeling, an instinct, and it’s still pretty unformed and hard to properly describe, but if I don’t try to pull the words and meaning out, I’ll never really get to the bottom of it.
So I’m trying.
I feel a loss. I have this sense that something insidious is happening.
There’s something undiscovered and important and it’s hiding in the most ordinary minutes of my life.
The minutes I am quick to fill with important things, or at least… something.
Something to do. Something interesting. Something to read. Something to listen to. Something to continue my productivity.
My life has become almost seamlessly integrated with tech for years, specifically because of iPhone. I’ve embraced it and praised it. I have reveled in its conveniences, the ability it gives us to connect with others, and the infinite information it places at my fingertips.
I find myself cringing writing this, but I wouldn’t be honest without acknowledging: my smartphone is more than a phone; in many ways, it’s an extension of myself.
It has my to do lists, and calendar, and journal entires, and important photo and video memories, connection to the world outside my home, the books I’m listening to, the writers I follow, it’s the tool I used to build my photography career and then my residual income with Young Living, it’s the place I keep up with current events, talk to friends, etc.
And in the middle of all that good, even with all the things I’ve gained having this access, I can still feel deeply something is being lost and I am determined to recover it.
My tech has thrown open the doors to the world for me, but it’s simultaneously closed others in my private life. I was too busy enjoying its benefits to notice its shadow side for a long time.
Eliot Blackmoore said, “the death of quiet is not a victimless tragedy.”
There's something unnerving about always having a phone in my hand, or at least within arm's reach.
Moments of stillness where I was once content with the simple act of being or daydreaming, are now swallowed whole by the endless potential of productivity available online.
The potential for creating, connecting, consuming, learning… the potential doesn’t just feel like something to be taken advantage of any more… It feels like a master that I have to serve. How can I sit still when there is so much to do?
I realize that I created my own problem with my unfettered access to the world online and my personality bent towards productivity. I enslaved myself. And I perpetuate the cycle by reaching for my phone when my day slows down, as if boredom or stillness of any sort is a monster to be vanquished.
I’ll be honest, even the idea of boredom sends me reeling.
We weren’t allowed to be bored growing up. But all that really meant was: don’t complain when you haven’t found something to do, there’s always something to do, even if it’s just daydreaming.
But I don’t allow myself to be bored any more, not often enough, at least.
Somehow the permission and potential to always be productive took away my freedom to just be.
To be: unproductive.
To be: quiet.
To be: still.
To be: daydreaming.
To just be.
(I’m a human being not a human doing.)
It was Einstein that said, “The monotony and solitude of a quiet life stimulate the creative mind."
Research shows heightened creativity in people when they enjoy moments of solitude, free from the interruptions of the outside world. So why, why, why, do I feel like my potential isn’t available in the quiet? What it is that? A personal flaw? A bug in the tech? And how do I get more available for my real life so I can access that creativity and feel like I’m really alive in all of my minutes?
I’ve been slowly examining and deconstructing my ideas around productivity and what it means to be successful in any endeavor. I’ve had to dismantle the idea that anything worth really doing will have a finished state that is beautiful and worth presenting in some way to the world.
I imagine growing up with blogs and social media and seeing the highlight reels of everyones lives has had a huge effect on what I think is worth doing. A world of curated online presences have led me to believe everything I do should have the purpose of visually appealing outcome. It reduces life to… content. And embracing the quiet isn’t content. Can’t be content. If it’s made content, then it’s not really quiet.
I’ve felt pressed to make myself and what I do… impressive.
But as I dig into a deeper understanding of the significance of being in the middle of the work, I feel that pressure less.
I have recognized that the value of an experience extends far far beyond its curb appeal. The ultimate goal of my life isn’t to make things pretty for others to enjoy. In fact, I make myself and my life less when I try to reduce my living into snippets for others consumption.
There is immeasurable value in the gritty, real, middle-of-it-all living, without any focus on an end that is worth looking at.
I want to live in my days present and focused, enjoying the in between minutes and the thinking and to-dos that won’t get me any social credit, but will add value to my life. To my kids lives. To my husbands life. Because I’m all here. Even for the moments of stillness.
There are tools and decisions and habits I’ve had make and remake and continue to do so I can build this life I really want. And those decisions are the quiet, unimpressive, middle-of life-living things that are personal and in process and not something I want to share prescriptively.
But I want to say if feel like you’re losing something too, you aren’t alone. Our leaps in technology give so much to the world, but that doesn’t mean we can’t also acknowledge the things it takes from our lives. Like the quiet. Like being in process. Whatever your life looks like, you’re allowed to change, if you want to. You don’t have to figure it out in one go, you can be in process for the rest of your life too.