We’ve had a few more days of sunshine lately, the promise of spring by look, at least. Some days the temperature climbs and others it sinks, but the extra light always makes it feel warmer outside than it may be. I appreciate the light, as I’m still struggling to find my way this year. That feels self-indulgent to say as March approaches. It’s one thing to let January slip away, but February? Especially during a leap year?
I take the kids’ phones at night, and I should put mine down more during the day. Minutes stack together quickly: scrolling or solitaire or texts that don’t need to be answered with the urgency I find myself typing. I know what to do, books, poetry, writing, laundry, walking, anything really that keeps me from staring at the little screen cradled in my hand.
Yesterday I watched a squirrel for a while. Max would have been fascinated, but he was sleeping, as he often is during the day. The squirrel sat just feet from our back door, an acorn clenched in his jaw. I watched as he stood alert. His front paws stayed clasped at his waist as he waited, for what, I’ll never know. I snapped a photo, surprised he didn’t startle at the movement behind the glass. I moved on, spraying down the kitchen island for the fifth time before the kids even got home from school.
I’m trying to find those moments of quiet appreciation, to keep my eyes on what’s around me instead of only what’s in front of me, what my algorithms know will keep me busy for as long as I want, longer than I want many days. Breaking away from those algorithms feels strange; those short clips and flipping cards stimulate and wreak havoc on nervous systems, but they also numb, the same comforting stimulation over and over.
I want to find other things, nothing extreme, quiet stimulation that makes me think, that twists around in my brain, burrowing in like the squirrel’s teeth in the acorn he’ll one day turn to for nourishment. I know those things exist, but not in the slim box in my hand.
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