time spent offline

Last week, with the power out and the only light from my smartphone illuminating my tiny bathroom, I turn on the shower praying the water is still hot, lukewarm at least. Cold water sputters; I whimper. The stories from The Nightingale come to mind as if to mock me. Do you know what happens in war? The ugly rumours, the List, the roundups, the ration cards, and the too long lines waiting for so little food— and mothers who don’t eat so their children don’t starve and they still have to bury them anyway because bullets don’t discriminate— and definitely no hot water. I step into the shower. On my commute, I get lost in The Nightingale again, fighting back tears, unable to fathom the terror the human spirit can endure. Here I am, barely able to endure the agony of reading the words on paper, while tucked safely on a seat on the Subway, my biggest threat a drugged out man screaming obscenities at no one in particular, and from a safe distance, oh, and a cold shower— The power was back by the time I left for work. And I know it ends: World War II. Another story for the history books; another story told of human suffering in a long list of human sufferings: Say You’re One of Them, Things Fall Apart, Homegoing, Caging Skies, Man’s Search for Meaning, A Long Way Gone. I read, and read, and read. And when I exhaust myself and he says, “sure babe, I’m listening,” I read to him too— My Parent’s Bedroom: Choking back tears, voice breaking, holding back a scream. He’s mostly watching the road but he glances at me: What kind of benevolent God would allow such a thing?

And, what kind of person sits around scrolling, retweeting, tapping at a black mirror while the world is on fire? When children are left to rot in the margins of society? The elderly? Him? Her, too. No, not over there. There are wars that don’t require guns, lists, camps, and well-mannered soldiers with good intentions following orders— “Madame, stop or I’ll shoot!” There are wars waged in well-manicured yards and expensively decorated homes. And most of all/ we at war with ourselves. What can you do about it anyway? Besides retweet hashtags and scroll? Consume all the rage you can endure online so you don’t have to confront their IRL misery. Your IRL misery. Except that is the only thing that will save you: Reality. Raw, cruel, dangerous reality. Did you know that prisons in the U.S. predict the number of beds they would need in the future based on the literacy level of Grade 5 students? If you can’t read by 10, ah, shit. Well, fuck it, is the bed ready? Basically. Just like that. Since reading saved my life, since if it weren’t for the books holding my hands and guiding me— one step here, another one over there; okay jump— I would also be rotting next door, I’m inspired to action when I read about the illiteracy-to-prison pipeline. I remember seeing the Leading to Reading program at the library during one of those days wandering around town with nothing better to do than kill time between this and that.

You want to find out about things? Go wander! Like a tourist. No, like a child! Borrow a kid and follow their orders: Zip it, listen. The Leading to Reading program is a free service for children in Grades 1 to 6 who are reading and writing below their grade level. I scan the volunteer application on their website and bookmark it. Can you believe it? You can just show up to the sweetest child timidly looking at you, the book in front of them, confused by letters and words that don’t add up to make much sense, and you can help them figure it out to potentially save their life. One less prison bed. One less life rotting in the margins. That simple. Who cares how many hours you spend or don’t spend on your phone? Who cares if you have social media or you don’t? Who cares about a flip phone or the newest iPhone? WHO CARES! When you’re confronting reality to potentially save a life: Reading to a child, talking to the elderly, listening intently when he rages, packing the non-perishable goods for her to take home. There is so much to do in this lifetime.

So,

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

No, not this.

Tell me, What are you going to do with your time spent offline? Because there is so much to do. And the world needs you. Your world needs you. That’s a good place to start: Your family, friends, neighbours. Call someone you love today and tell them you love them. For no other reason than you simply do. Never look at your ScreenTime again. Measure your time spent offline by how many people you get to see, talk to, spend time with, help, hold, love, and cheer for each day. Then ScreenTime won’t matter anyway. You won’t have the Time, and if you do, the Screen is dialling your loved ones, pulling up the address to serve food, and typing these words hoping to save someone else too.

P.s.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

— Mary Oliver