Why I Do (and Don't) Want an iPhone

I nearly spent the entirety of last Saturday by myself, save a few brief encounters with my housemate, a half hour conversation with my mom and a trip to the hardware store. Saturdays like this are both the benefit and struggle of single adulthood. The difference between feeling blessed or cursed depends on my life perspective on that given day.

On this particular Saturday my perspective was narrow and my day penetrated with the pervasive fog of loneliness. Despite this cloud, my day was infiltrated with beauty.

Such is the mark of grace...I suppose.

I made two dozen beet muffins, an experiment (a successful one I might add!) in order to use up a frig full of these winter roots.

I balanced my checkbook and thought about doing taxes. I think I'll wait a month before the pressure really kicks in.

I bought potting soil and seeds and planted herbs, onions and spring greens in my newly built cold frame. I must say, doing this task on a cloudy day, both in weather and spirit, is a significant victory for a dreamer like me.

Usually a productive Saturday spent baking and gardening is a balm for my wearied spirit. But on this day, each completed project just emphasized that dull ache--the desire to share this moment with another. Yet to my surprise, instead of desiring the presence of a dear friend or family member, I longed for digital access to everyone.

I longed for an iPhone.

As I pulled out a tray of fresh, pink beet muffins, I saw them in my mind's eye as a white-framed vintage Instagram.

I sowed eight rows of herbs and veggies, covered them lightly with soil, gently watered the rows and created little signs out of old clothespins. When my work was done, I stepped back and thought, "I wish I had a smart phone."

On my way up to my attic room I spotted an atrociously large, gas-guzzling vehicle on my street just in time to watch its twin pull up two cars behind it. "What is this? A Hummer convention?" I quipped aloud to myself. I chuckled and daydreamed about how clever I would sound if only I could let my social media network into this joke.

In a normal, albeit lonely, day of simply pleasures, my good, natural desire for companionship twisted into a longing for a few thumbs up of affirmation. 

I need people. I need to be known. I need to share experiences.

But on a day when tears came quicker than smiles, all I wanted were disembodied profiles, approval of my choice of hobbies and a moment alone made public. On days like this I prefer absent-minded 'likes' to calling a friend because I know she would hear that ache through the phone. And then...

Then I'd have to look at it.

She'd ask me questions and make me cry.

I couldn't hide behind the instantly nostalgic photos of my muffins, garden or tax form.

I'd be loved into honesty.

Naked. Vulnerable. Exposed.

God, I want an iPhone!

Author's Note: Please read this post as a reflection on our temptation to escape pain, not as commentary on modern technology. I'll be the first to admit I often err on the side of technophobia, but that is not the intended angle of this post. Thanks!

A Dreamer's Vice: A Lenten Confession

I was born on a farm and raised by farmers. I read about farming, think about farming, facilitate discussions about farming and work two hours a week on a farm. I am passionate about the merits of farm life, the joy of putting down roots and the value in staying in one spot and tending to one place in the world.

Yet, my fervor is shallow.

It is fueled by experiences I inherited from my parents’ and grandparents’ decisions, wisdom I gleaned from compelling authors and lessons learned by watching friends take risks and make sacrifices.

I, however, have not lived on a farm since I was four. Sure, I get my hands dirty, plant something each spring when the sun comes out of hibernation and the novelty of the season makes light of hard work.

But I rarely last to see those seeds to fruition. The sun gets hot and the air balmy. Summer vacations beckon and the garden is abandoned. Weeding is boring; watering plants, tiresome. So I will ignore the task at hand and read Wendell Berry on my front porch instead.

"Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat
falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone;
but if it dies, it bears much fruit." John 12:24

I wish this pattern were true only of my relationship with the land. But, alas, I am a dreamer and this is the dreamer’s vice—to romanticize that which has been and that which is to come. Nostalgia and vision are my constant companions, my omnipresent rose-colored glasses looking behind and ahead. In my mental world the cousin questions “Remember when?” and “What if?” drown out the quieter voice of “What now?”

“What now?” asks the humble voice of the present. The same whisper the prophet Elijah heard in the cave. The whisper that invites me into the only possible life, the current moment. To be faithful. To stay when the task is boring. To feel the depth of my grief and the pain of my neighbors. To know the peace of single mindedness.

Escaping to the past or the future proves detrimental to much more than agriculture. It inhibits the development of my very spirit.

If I fail to love the person in front of me, can I claim to be loving?

If I seek joy in distant memories or future possibilities, do I experience true joy?

If I believe peace will come when I’m married, promoted, in the woods, debt-free or any other condition, will I ever know peace?

But there is hope for the dreamer. A present hope. It is the opportunity to make space for the small, still voice asking “What now?” The voice urging me to live where life is happening in its hardship and boredom, as well as its growth and joys.

These words from “Rest Your Tattered Heart” say it as good as any:

The visions used to seem so much clearer, but they were shiny and unreal. Now they're forming out of mud, out of our bodies and blood, and they're gonna walk and talk and holler in the world. ~Dave Lefever

May this Lent be a time for you and I to make space, to be present. To pray, to fast, to give so that we may better hear the gentle voice that is ever calling us to know life as it is.