I went to an island. That’s where I’ve been. All last week I
was surprised to discover I had absolutely no ability to connect to the outside
world.
No internet access. No texting. No phone.
It took me a few days to settle into the skin of this understanding—this
new non-social networking me.
Like a crab slipping from its hard outer shell, I gradually
began to feel an unburdening. I unhinged from the world of blogging, Facebook,
Twitter, and Pinterest. I reconnected with something else. Me.
Morning birds trilled with more clarity. I sank into sleep
at night without the flitting busyness that computer life can bring.
By observing and listening and quieting in the early dawn, I
stirred the sand in my soul. Even though the hard to breathe briny air reached
humid highs, my body sighed out anyway. In response to the slowing of my schedule,
the slowing of my split inattention that so readily disguises itself as
attention.
At the beach, waves spooled and unspooled in ribbons of
frothy white, near invincible threads sewn into the shore. God weaving. Tugging
back. Weaving. Tugging back. I watched the sewing tide.
My time on the island swept up an ancient dust from the
corners of my conscience, dust I’d forgotten about; dust I didn’t even know was
there.
I went to an island that spoke respite into me.
And while I missed
connecting, in all the broad and narrow stroke ways I’ve found to do so, it
became alarmingly obvious to me I needed a break.
I’m back now. Rested.
Ever been treated to a break you didn’t know you so
desperately needed? Any guesses where I was? (Hint: population = approximately
709, the crustacean I mentioned in this post is a big fat clue.)
