Attention is my most precious gift. It is how I ride the waves of consciousness, calm or windy, deep swells or lapping at the shore. It is the window allowing light; the door opening to every room; a vehicle for travel; the place where experience lands and insight visits; the backdrop where the movie of my life plays out.
You would think I’d guard this gift carefully, but I allow it to be taken easily, spilled out and drained away. Attention seems to be a reservoir, an endless supply I can always tap. And while that’s true, it misses a vital point: attention is made to be used in the present moment, not saved for later. The gift is the tapestry it brings right now. Once this moment has passed, there is no rewind button. The size of the reservoir can make me complacent. Habits form, their roots take hold and fall to default. One unconscious moment becomes a thousand, crowding out my capacity to concentrate, to recenter in the act of conscious choice.
My phone is an addiction, and it drains my attention like a hole in the boat.
My phone is beautiful, feels lovely in my hand. It does so much. It takes care of me. It satisfies my wishes at a whim, which no other part of life seems capable of doing. It is indispensable. More than utility, it offers to soothe my jangled nerves. The tiny screen comes on and I am welcomed into a small flat world that smooths out all my wrinkles. My inbox may have something for me; someone may be reaching out; some danger in the news may need my worry; my curiosity has a question that needs research. And the shiny games are blinking, mildly entertaining but dangerously absorbing. Posts, opinions, songs from my youth, clips from old movies. What is the concern? My inbox hurts no one. My research questions are valid, the games harmless.
Except, these stimulations play havoc with the gift. They build habits that fragment and scatter my attention, substituting speed for substance, flash for felt connection. This tiny world pretends to offer comfort for the apprehension it excites, but it only feeds itself, strengthening the siphon circling the drain. And once I’m in, the current is strong, the escape hatch narrows.
It should be easy to refuse, to not pick up the phone. For short bits, it’s bearable, but the pressure builds. Can I use the gift itself against the drain? I turn my attention inward. What is happening now, right now? What can I feel? I am aware of a tension building, a tug-of-war between reaching and not reaching. I see where it wants to go, starting in my chest, running up my neck and down my arms, surging toward my hands. I can feel the phone along the contours of my palm before I make a move. But I don’t move. I pay attention.
And something curious happens when you pay attention to a thing. It changes. The tension does not cease but morphs. My urge to reach out continues, but now sits within a stillness that is willing to wait. A freshness creeps in. I realize my skin is cool, my breathing tight. There is something underneath the tension. I am surprised when it names itself as fear. Am I afraid? Of what? Not being in control, not having what I want, not knowing how this drama will turn out? How strange that I would look to my phone for security. My breathing lightens, the urgency recedes, replaced with sadness, which also surprises me. I sit with this as well. Sitting, noticing, paying attention. These build habits too.
Photo by Faisal Nugraha on Unsplash
Hear, hear, brother Mystic.
Carrie, so good to hear from you. Here’s to noticing more and scrolling less.