For lent this year, I decided to completely abstain from social media (Facebook and Instagram, for me) Monday through Saturday, and "lift the hold" on Sundays. My decision to choose social media this year was due in part to my maternity leave-- freeing up my schedule in a way that seemed to leave my phone permanently attached to my palm. It was starting to disgust me and I knew that a removal from social media six days a week could only help things. I knew what to expect from my social media detox, having removed myself for a full advent once and also after reading Glennon Melton's brilliant distillation of her 40-day social media removal:
http://momastery.com/blog/2014/01/14/best-momastery-2013-5-reasons-social-media-dangerous/
There is really nothing I can add to her apt summation of what social media does to our minds and behaviors--nor could I even sum up my experience with such eloquence--but I thought I'd share it nonetheless. The most fascinating thing to me about what constant engagement with social media has done in my life is the strange relationship it creates with time and the present moment. Let me share an anecdote to illustrate what I mean.
In the middle of the posting fast for advent in late November 2012, I was walking under four large oak trees near a building in which I work. The walkway from this building to my office was thickly carpeted with saffron and paprika-colored leaves-- and the ones that remained on the trees seemed to glow, backlit by the autumn light. It was utterly beautiful and instead of breathing the scene in deeply and thanking God for such majesty, or even just being still and quiet in that moment, I was thinking: "I have to have a picture of this! And darn it, I want to post it THIS SECOND so everyone else can see what a beautiful scene this is!"
I immediately stopped and reflected on this reaction. As for the first part of my reaction-- I have come to accept that my love of taking pictures to capture awesome (or even just mediocre) moments is just my way of enjoying my world. My grandfather was an amateur photographer and I inherited his love for beautiful photos, an admission I make without apologies. But the second part of my reaction kind of rattled me. Why must everyone else see that I am enjoying a moment of autumnal grace? So that I can be affirmed that it is, in fact, beautiful and breathtaking when someone "likes" it? Or even better-- comments on it? Why do I need this affirmation? It is beautiful and breathtaking and I'm not sure how I became so reliant on other people's validation of that beauty. Or, more frighteningly, does it go even deeper than momentary validation? Do I need affirmation from others that my life is in fact full of grace and beauty?
In my current 86% absence (off 6 days a week and on Sundays) from social media, I have noticed similarly disturbing results in my fast during advent. And the subjects of these unsettling moments are even more precious than a pile of gilded leaves-- my sons. I just gave birth to my second son and since I am now so acutely aware that the first year in a baby's life is somehow set to "warp speed," I have had my camera out a lot to try and capture the ever-so-fleeting images of this tiny being who by the end of the photo shoot might have outgrown the very onesie I just put him in. Admittedly, the very act of taking too many pictures is in issue in itself-- I recoil at the fact my newborn son tries to gaze at my face with a smile and his line of vision is soon blocked by a glowing rectangle, just so that I can show everyone else how sweet and happy my boy is. Amos doesn't care about these people. Amos can live a full life without ever flipping through a digital book with 500 images of himself as a baby. People have done it for centuries.
Amos needs to see his Mommy's face for an uninterrupted stretch of time. Amos needs his mommy to stroke his little legs and place her forefinger inside his right fists and hum a little song to him.In short, Amos needs his mommy to teach him to be present in the moment. Not to try and sell this moment on Instagram for 36 likes and 4 comments. Amos needs to be taught to be still and grateful, not to constantly seek attention or validation.
The problem is that this addiction runs deep into our brains. I am not a scientist--ok let's make an even more honest concession--I never got higher than a B in high school science classes--so I'll leave the chemical-reaction in our brains part to someone else, but I can tell you in general terms that we humans are hard-wired for connection. It feels good to connect with other people, especially when other people give us positive attention. And so when Janet so-and-so posts a picture of a sunset and a glass of Chardonnay and someone writes on that picture "what a lovely evening you are having-- wish I were there," it feels really good to Janet. She knew already that the sunset was beautiful and that, paired with her favorite adult beverage, it was a recipe for bliss. But now that she has received positive feedback about her post she just got a nice shot of dopamine or whatever (enter scientist, please!) to her brain and is creating patterns to seek that good feeling again when this one wears off.
See, the good feeling that comes from connection isn't anything biologically new-- it's the instantaneous-nature of social media that turns it into an addiction. We learn that we can have that feel-good connection sensation minutes, sometimes seconds, after a post.
And so my absence from social media for 86% of the week has helped cleanse and rework the patterns of my brain a little bit. At the very least, it has helped me separate the moment I am enjoying with my family from the immediate approval of my social world. Yes, I still am taking lots of pictures-- but I know that if I take that picture, it is for me and for my family's purposes-- not for the immediate approval of hundreds of acquaintances.
Of course, the cleanse has not occurred without a bit of weaning. My poor relatives in California have had to endure some pictures sent to them via text, as this was an allowable part of my lenten fast. I found the need to share my newborn's milestones with my loved ones impossible to resist entirely. Hey, I'm a recovering social media addict, give me a little break.
All of this is not to culminate in some grand and dramatic gesture in which I delete my Facebook and Instagram accounts and throw my iPhone into the woods. I still believe that the merits of social media outweigh the drawbacks. I love staying in touch with my friends in Tucson, San Diego, New York, Los Angeles, etc., and how would I be able to see the sweet pictures of my kids' cousins in the Central Valley, in the Maryland area and in Germany? But I now truly recognize the addictive nature of these sites and have resolved to keep myself in check. In fact, it feels so nice and freeing in the "off" days that I think I will continue to spend more time off than on even after the cessation of lent. Maybe I will allow myself Wednesdays and Sundays on, and the rest of the week off, with posting only on one of those days? And I know that when I start to see the phone interfere with my face-to-face engagement with my sons that something's gotta go. And spoiler alert: it's not my sons.
http://momastery.com/blog/2014/01/14/best-momastery-2013-5-reasons-social-media-dangerous/
There is really nothing I can add to her apt summation of what social media does to our minds and behaviors--nor could I even sum up my experience with such eloquence--but I thought I'd share it nonetheless. The most fascinating thing to me about what constant engagement with social media has done in my life is the strange relationship it creates with time and the present moment. Let me share an anecdote to illustrate what I mean.
In the middle of the posting fast for advent in late November 2012, I was walking under four large oak trees near a building in which I work. The walkway from this building to my office was thickly carpeted with saffron and paprika-colored leaves-- and the ones that remained on the trees seemed to glow, backlit by the autumn light. It was utterly beautiful and instead of breathing the scene in deeply and thanking God for such majesty, or even just being still and quiet in that moment, I was thinking: "I have to have a picture of this! And darn it, I want to post it THIS SECOND so everyone else can see what a beautiful scene this is!"
I immediately stopped and reflected on this reaction. As for the first part of my reaction-- I have come to accept that my love of taking pictures to capture awesome (or even just mediocre) moments is just my way of enjoying my world. My grandfather was an amateur photographer and I inherited his love for beautiful photos, an admission I make without apologies. But the second part of my reaction kind of rattled me. Why must everyone else see that I am enjoying a moment of autumnal grace? So that I can be affirmed that it is, in fact, beautiful and breathtaking when someone "likes" it? Or even better-- comments on it? Why do I need this affirmation? It is beautiful and breathtaking and I'm not sure how I became so reliant on other people's validation of that beauty. Or, more frighteningly, does it go even deeper than momentary validation? Do I need affirmation from others that my life is in fact full of grace and beauty?
In my current 86% absence (off 6 days a week and on Sundays) from social media, I have noticed similarly disturbing results in my fast during advent. And the subjects of these unsettling moments are even more precious than a pile of gilded leaves-- my sons. I just gave birth to my second son and since I am now so acutely aware that the first year in a baby's life is somehow set to "warp speed," I have had my camera out a lot to try and capture the ever-so-fleeting images of this tiny being who by the end of the photo shoot might have outgrown the very onesie I just put him in. Admittedly, the very act of taking too many pictures is in issue in itself-- I recoil at the fact my newborn son tries to gaze at my face with a smile and his line of vision is soon blocked by a glowing rectangle, just so that I can show everyone else how sweet and happy my boy is. Amos doesn't care about these people. Amos can live a full life without ever flipping through a digital book with 500 images of himself as a baby. People have done it for centuries.
Amos needs to see his Mommy's face for an uninterrupted stretch of time. Amos needs his mommy to stroke his little legs and place her forefinger inside his right fists and hum a little song to him.In short, Amos needs his mommy to teach him to be present in the moment. Not to try and sell this moment on Instagram for 36 likes and 4 comments. Amos needs to be taught to be still and grateful, not to constantly seek attention or validation.
The problem is that this addiction runs deep into our brains. I am not a scientist--ok let's make an even more honest concession--I never got higher than a B in high school science classes--so I'll leave the chemical-reaction in our brains part to someone else, but I can tell you in general terms that we humans are hard-wired for connection. It feels good to connect with other people, especially when other people give us positive attention. And so when Janet so-and-so posts a picture of a sunset and a glass of Chardonnay and someone writes on that picture "what a lovely evening you are having-- wish I were there," it feels really good to Janet. She knew already that the sunset was beautiful and that, paired with her favorite adult beverage, it was a recipe for bliss. But now that she has received positive feedback about her post she just got a nice shot of dopamine or whatever (enter scientist, please!) to her brain and is creating patterns to seek that good feeling again when this one wears off.
See, the good feeling that comes from connection isn't anything biologically new-- it's the instantaneous-nature of social media that turns it into an addiction. We learn that we can have that feel-good connection sensation minutes, sometimes seconds, after a post.
And so my absence from social media for 86% of the week has helped cleanse and rework the patterns of my brain a little bit. At the very least, it has helped me separate the moment I am enjoying with my family from the immediate approval of my social world. Yes, I still am taking lots of pictures-- but I know that if I take that picture, it is for me and for my family's purposes-- not for the immediate approval of hundreds of acquaintances.
Of course, the cleanse has not occurred without a bit of weaning. My poor relatives in California have had to endure some pictures sent to them via text, as this was an allowable part of my lenten fast. I found the need to share my newborn's milestones with my loved ones impossible to resist entirely. Hey, I'm a recovering social media addict, give me a little break.
All of this is not to culminate in some grand and dramatic gesture in which I delete my Facebook and Instagram accounts and throw my iPhone into the woods. I still believe that the merits of social media outweigh the drawbacks. I love staying in touch with my friends in Tucson, San Diego, New York, Los Angeles, etc., and how would I be able to see the sweet pictures of my kids' cousins in the Central Valley, in the Maryland area and in Germany? But I now truly recognize the addictive nature of these sites and have resolved to keep myself in check. In fact, it feels so nice and freeing in the "off" days that I think I will continue to spend more time off than on even after the cessation of lent. Maybe I will allow myself Wednesdays and Sundays on, and the rest of the week off, with posting only on one of those days? And I know that when I start to see the phone interfere with my face-to-face engagement with my sons that something's gotta go. And spoiler alert: it's not my sons.
