What if the sun woke me up? The day’s beginning, light rising, silences dreams of skiing in powder atop of the Alps. No alarm, no sudden escape from the thriller crime about to be solved in my subconscious, just a brushing of light across my eyes. Maybe I wouldn’t need thirty minutes before talking to anyone. Or wish that I was a coffee person because, boy, I could use the caffeine. Maybe I would be more of a morning person.
What if I looked around me as I walked to class? Didn’t stare at a screen—a photo of a beach with clear waters where I wish I could be, a snap of my friend eating peanut butter toast, an email about selecting a new name for a mascot—but looked around at my surroundings? Saw people, saw faces looking up, because maybe they put their phones down too. Heard birds, conversations, cars driving by. Felt the breeze, smelt the eggs oozing out of the cafeteria, absorbed. Maybe I could see more beauty, see this world more for what it is. Maybe I would feel more present, senses alive in the here and now.
What if I sat through a whole meal at dinner without once touching my phone? But instead sat, took a bite, let the tastes of spices mixing together captivate my tongue. Put my fork down, and genuinely asked the person across from me about their day. Not the person miles and miles across state borders and boundaries how they are. No, the person directly across from me physically in the flesh. That’s a scary thought; would we know what to say? We’d takes bites of our food, talk, and then maybe even laugh, smile. Possibly enjoy the meal for what it was, each other for who we are. Not-interrupted. Minds fully there.
What if I got in my car and drove? No directions, no destination. Stopped when I saw some calm waters. Got out, stuck my toes in. Saw a fish, and then, realized I was hungry. So I pack up, go to my car, and remember I have no idea where I am, where food is. And suddenly I’m worried because I don’t know how to hunt or fish or kill, besides I only have a bobby-pin, no spear. I may have to talk to someone. Ask them to point me in the right direction. Actually look them in the eyes and say hello. It occurs to me that this may be dangerous; they are a stranger after all.
What if I didn’t have to take a picture to prove it happened? Go out to dinner with my girls and not have to let everyone know we had wings—which, by the way (if you were wondering because you didn’t see the picture), were delicious. Climb a mountain and see the view, through my eyes, not a screen that doesn’t capture it quite right anyway. No filter, no adjustments, just present and looking and being. And that would be enough. Being there, just me, surrounded in the moment with whoever is there, content. Content because I know this is now. Content because others don’t need to see it, like it, for it to have significance. Maybe moments wouldn’t pass by as quick. Maybe I would feel more alive. Maybe so, if we just put down our phones.
