The wind bites down as I tuck my chin, attempting to burrow into my jacket and block out the English air. It really is cold here.
Ducking into a Japanese-inspired cafe, I shake off the cold and order a matcha. I peruse the pastries and turn back to the queue. One citrus cake with lilac frosting, please.
The space is only part cafe. Past the coffee bar honey-colored wooden shelves hold Japanese beauty oil and soap, artisanal rice vinegar, milky ceramic matcha bowls, vintage books, and hand-drawn greeting cards that read: slowly and gently, now.
I love this kind of shop; a meticulous love letter to place. It’s like walking into someone’s dream; reverberations of their favorite moments strung together. Some people see a cafe. I see art.
The man in the beanie gives me a subtle nod as he places my matcha on the bar. Drink in one hand and cake in the other, I eye the four small tables hugging the wall. All occupied. I hunch my shoulders as I head for the street, willing my clenched muscles to withhold a little more heat.
Darling, do you want to have a sit?
I hear her before I see her. A delicate voice against the backdrop of a busy street. Perched on the stool, wrapped in a smokey wool coat, she looks almost like a child. I’ll later learn she’s seventy-two. I thank her and slide easily onto the stool across from her. I expect this to be the end of our exchange. I’m used to it - the sterile sharing of space. Sitting quietly, heads down, headphones on. When you really think about it, it’s devastating.
But not today. Today, we fall into easy conversation.
She tells me that the world is different now. She doesn’t quite recognize it anymore, all this separation. If only we could just talk to each other, just really try to see one another. She tells me, quite seriously, that she always talks to young people on the bus. We must remind them that it’s okay to reach out to strangers, to be curious, and to be kind.
Twenty minutes north of town, she lives in a tiny cottage. She doesn’t care. She spends most of her days in the garden anyway. She tells me that there’s almost nothing beautiful about her town. Only the beauty of authenticity. It's like walking back thirty years. Can you imagine? She winks at me.
As she recounts the challenges she’s overcome and the ones she’s yet to surmount, there’s a smile in her eyes. Other cafe-goers throw sideways glances as her laughter explodes suddenly and with gusto. This is a woman utterly untethered to the opinions of others. She couldn’t care less.
We sit for a little while longer. I tell her I’m a therapist, she tells me I must always protect my heart. Really, everything comes from the heart. As she picks up to leave, she kisses my cheek and whispers well wishes for the rest of my life. I watch her go, magenta scarf blowing in the wind.
I wonder what this hour would have been like had I connected to the Wi-Fi as I had planned. I don’t really have to wonder. I already know. I do it all the time. There would be no afterglow of connection. There would be only the virtual world in front of me. Nothing more.
I’ve been trying to write this newsletter for months.
A thought piece on our relationship with social media — that was the intention. But it was stale, retreating with every advance. It felt true, but not right. As if to tell me: no, not this way.
I hoped that, in writing it, I could catch up with the runniness of my attention span. I would change the narrative and scoop myself back into a firmer container. If I just find the words, I would finally lay the relentless comparison to rest. I could, once and for all, learn my lesson about the internet. But that’s the funny thing about wishing for finality, it never seems to arrive when we think it should.
As I sat with those last few bites of citrus cake, soaking in the fruits of my screen-free hour, I stopped making it so complicated. I allowed it to be simple. I set the truths out on the table and exhaled.
The internet can be insidious and life-giving. It can give us cherished friends and whittle away at our confidence. It can support our livelihood and a belief that there is never enough. It can bring us closer to what makes us feel most alive. And, perhaps more easily, it takes us further away. We can find authenticity and lose ourselves all the same.
I can neither condemn nor celebrate all the faces of the internet; there are simply too many of them. All I can do is come back to what feels true in my bones.
When I don’t spend time on social media, I’m happier. When I spend more time offline, I notice more. I’m kinder. I’m less rushed. I’m more able to sense when I’m drifting off and, consequently, more capable of gently coming back to the ground.
When I’m not on social media, I read more. I’m more patient. I call my family. I have access to a deeper well of thoughts. I don’t think as much about what others think about me. I think more about what I think of me. Away from the buzzing of the virtual world, I’m a little more tuned into the things that make life worth living.
In the end, all my mulling has gotten me here—right back at the beginning. So, as I long to learn, once and for all, there is some peace in knowing that we are never quite done. Once we see our truths, we have to do the good, honest, human work of living them.
We have to practice.
Walking home, I see bluebells—small, violet-hued, upside-down bells that tell us spring is coming. She told me about them, how her garden tells her when it’s time to emerge. They came early this year, and even though it was a frigid spring, they chose not to wait.
Sometimes we do things before we are ready. Slowly and gently now.
Until next time,
Amy
A list of resources exploring our attention spans, relationships with social media, and who we are becoming
〰️ Drowning in the Digital Deluge: The Shocking Cost of Our Online Consumption
Beautiful. This was a deep, deep exhale for me. Thank you Amy 🤍🤍🤍🤍🥺
I loved reading this! What a special moment you had with that lovely woman. Those are the kinds of moments we remember for the rest of our lives 🤎