When I Lived Under A Rock, Life Was Human
- stephaniewilson
- Feb 27, 2024
- 4 min read
The most surprising discovery I made when my family moved to Turkey for a year for my husband’s work was the odd fact that the world didn’t end — nor did my life change — when I didn’t have access to TV or the internet.
It took a while for me to get internet service hooked up to our apartment, which meant my awareness consisted only of a little corner of Istanbul. The television aired Turkish stations, and while I was taking lessons to learn the language, understanding the fast-paced speech on TV was a stretch. This was long before smartphones were on the market.
We were fully unplugged in the early stages of the war in Afghanistan when America was glued to their screens. For the first time in my adult life, I lived under a rock.
My life didn’t change one bit.
It was a new experience to watch my lack of access to the world have no negative effect on my day-to-day, my safety, or my intelligence. More so, I was surprised to see it affect me for the better — I was calmer, paid more attention to people, had a clearer head, and felt more positive about life. I spent loads of time with my kids, read books, wrote stories on my laptop, learned a language, and learned to navigate a foreign city that differed greatly from my home turf.
That lesson never left me. I’d always assumed being plugged in was how I stayed intact. When I went from one reality framework to a very different one, I learned assumptions are something to be probed.
Several weeks ago, I decided to rearrange my bedroom, which included getting rid of lots of things I don’t need anymore. I’m one of those people who likes — loves — to organize and rearrange furniture. I hold downsizing on a pedestal. The only glitch is downsizing asks for extra courage from me that I don’t own every day. It takes some self-convincing for it to dawn on me how freeing it will be if I no longer have those three shirts in the back of the closet with dust on their shoulders because they haven’t been worn in years.
I pushed through this block and made a big reduction in my hobby paraphernalia, books, stationery, and other items that don’t truly matter to my current life. They were weighing me down each time I looked at them because they were a constant reminder I wasn’t using them, should be using them, shouldn’t have bought them, or I had too many have-to’s on my life’s plate. If I own them then I also have the constant responsibility to use them.
I arranged a nice sitting area in the corner with a bookcase holding only the projects and books I wanted, instead of what I thought should want. As soon as it was all set up, guess what happened? Just like in Turkey — I was calmer, happier, and felt lighter as I approached the things I wanted to do. That lightness was a surprise. I feel it every time I look at the corner of my bedroom and the two chairs with the nice throw pillows and their pristine surroundings.
It feels like a new kind of dedication to me.
I’ve developed a new skill. It goes like this. I’ll be reading an article online that caught my eye as I meandered around trying to find an answer to some question or info on some topic. The article is legit — super interesting. It’s intellectually stimulating and broadens my knowledge base. Then twenty to thirty percent into the article I say, “Do I need to be reading this?” to which I answer, “Nope,” and I move on.
It’s like shedding the shirts in the back of the closet or having an unplugged existence in Turkey. My real, present-day life with its aspirations for tomorrow doesn’t need the knowledge in that article. It needs knowledge, but not that knowledge, not today, not now.
Since my life is finite and there are endless options for articles, I’m learning to actively opt out of the superfluous in favor of the more consequential. Learning about everything possible — or keeping up-to-the-minute with every world event — should be the goal if I have countless lives to live.
But I don’t--and that’s what makes this one so dear.
I see this topic out there constantly — folks writing about some form of simplifying. Why is this? We know the answer — we live it every day. We’re not superhuman, we say. We weren’t built to manage this much input or so many things all the time.
Following that logic, only a superhuman — a more advanced creature — would be able to process these vast options.
But is it more advanced to process information like this? If so, then it’s less human, too. Maybe instead of Superhuman, we should say NotHumanAnymore.
Besides, we already have those creatures. They’re called machines. Why be a machine when we can be us?
We’re a different kind of creature — a supreme originator as opposed to an advanced processor. We can integrate an imagination of the future, an awareness of the past, and attention to the present — all of it wrapped in some degree of self-awareness. At our best, we can communicate wonder, appreciation, curiosity, and truth — from the heart, not from a data set.
We’re more than a computer’s central processing unit. We’re a creature who has the chance to live out a life of wonder, dedication, and gratitude. Loading up that creature with less so it can rise to its best self — oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.
But it’s hard to know what to let go of, and then have the courage to do it.
For me, I use one corner of my life to help inform another. If I know how calm and focused I felt in Turkey when I didn’t have an excess of attention-grabbing info, then I bet I can more easily reject the fascinating article on my laptop that has no bearing on where I want to be.
When I see how a pristine corner in my bedroom makes me feel free and light, then I can more easily say no to projects that aren’t supporting the way I want to live out my time.
Easier said than done, but the more I do it, the more it makes sense, and the more of me emerges from the morass of every possible option. I’ve noticed I’m interested in getting to know her. She piques my curiosity. She’s cool — more than I realized — and that’s a welcome surprise.
Have a good week, friends.
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