I want to live up a mountain
An experiment to tame the digital tyrant
On nights out with friends, when they check their phones during conversation, I notice. When I stand up to go to the bathroom, and they reach for their device, I judge.
What do they think they’re missing? Can’t they just browse the menu? Look out of the window? People watch?
If they did, they’d see rows of couples having romantic nights out, whilst scrolling. Gobbling down TikToks alongside their dessert.
When I’m out with my husband I point it out. “Look at the table behind you,” I say. “I don’t know why they’ve bothered coming out.”
Sometimes I smugly tell people how I’ve deleted the apps, but it’s all a charade. I’m addicted too. I’m just good at hiding it.
The other morning I checked my phone whilst still dripping wet from the shower. I’d been clearing my inbox directly before. What on earth did I think had landed between 8.11 and 8.19am?
My social-media-fried brain was looking for comments on yesterday’s LinkedIn post. With no app, the notifications don’t pop up on my phone, but the damn thing still emails if there’s any response.
It feeds the addiction. I fall into the hole time and time again. Sniff out the dopamine. Hungry to be told that what I’ve said matters. That people care. That I’m not alone.
The first draft of this letter was written on my phone, early one morning. It was on the kitchen worktop, leant up against the tiles. I carried it there from the bedroom. Why?
I was making tea for god's sake. It’s not like I need a recipe to follow. But my phone was staring at me, like it always does, so I reached for it. Because that’s what I do.
In that moment it was a tool, a way to capture an idea. But what’s wrong with a notepad? A pencil?
At times, I dream of living in a shepherd's hut on a hillside [Greece would do nicely.] I’d have no online contact whatsoever with the outside world. A year living like that would detox me. Straighten me out. But what then?
On a recent evening out, at a classical concert, my gaze fell on the audience. It was a full house. There was not one phone in sight. Every single person was transfixed by the stage. Nothing else existed. Just the pianist, the orchestra, the music they played.
I went to that concert alone, and yet felt connected to every human there. As if I had planned to meet them. As if I would see them again.
The wisdom that I am not alone - that I am never alone - seemed to land in my body in a new way. In those moments I felt part of something.
But experiencing that depended on me being in that room, not on my phone - with other people not on their phones. A room where we were all there. Actually there. Our shoulders, almost touching. Breathing the same air.
What I’m taking from all of this is still forming, but what I do know to be true is that I wish to change my relationship with technology. For it to play less of a role in my life. For in-person, live experiences to be the default, rather than the exception.
And I also know I cannot overpower what the very smart, well-paid people who design our devices and apps have put in place. It’s supposed to be addictive.
But I don’t want to stumble through the second half of my life, half here and half not.
I want to take life in. Whatever is right in front of me. To be immersed in whatever is happening. To feel more connected to people around me, more of the time. I want to either be using technology or not, at any given moment.
When I’m blow-drying my hair, I want that to be the only thing I’m doing. Or doing my make-up. Or listening to music as I dress. I don’t want random content, or messages or emails pulling me away from that ordinary, everyday experience.
I want my friends and family to know that when I’m with them, I’m with them. I want to meet them at the pub and for my phone to stay in my bag. All night. Even when I go to the bathroom. I don’t want to secretly check my email in the toilets. One message, is all it takes to pull me away.
I want to really be here, whilst my children still live in our home. Devices make time fly, and I can feel it flying away. My children will fly away soon, too. They are 16 and nearly 14. How did that happen? How many of those years have I spent half here, half not?
Over the next couple of weeks, I’ve asked my husband to mind my smart phone. To hide it from me.
Once a day, he will hand it back. I shall curl up with a cup of tea and a plate of treats from the Christmas cupboard, check and respond, then hand the phone back.
I will treat those minutes, as if I’m opening post, and sitting down to write letters - like people did not that long ago.
My daughter will lend me her Spotify for morning dancing. I’ve even bought a cheap burner to use when I go out alone, for emergencies only. No - I will not be playing Snake, and only my husband and children will have the number.
This experiment may reveal that technology is so intertwined in how I live that I should just surrender to it. But I doubt it will be as clear cut as that.
The thought of smartphone-free days feels like a little adventure. It isn’t a year on a Greek mountainside, but perhaps it will feel similar in moments. Like glimpses of the sun on a cloudy day. Perhaps it will lead me to how I can incorporate healthier habits when normal, post-Christmas life and work resumes.
What will it be like to not walk around with a computer in my pocket? I expect my body will remember.
It already does, in moments. Like when I’m listening to live, unplugged, inspiring music, shoulder to shoulder with other humans.
Phone-free is how I lived more than half my life. It’s just something else I’ve forgotten how to do. Something else I’ve forgotten how to be.
Thank you for being here
With love,
Claire
Find me elsewhere:
Instagram: @clairemackinnonwrites
Website: clairemackinnon.com
LinkedIn: Claire Mackinnon
YES! I’ll meet you on that Greek mountain, dear Claire!
Sweet freedom.. if only for a moment.. Hopefully we extend these mini smartphone breaks to become a lifestyle where we remain connected in where it matters most.
Thank you for sharing exactly what has been on my mind.