The Walk You Take Without a Phone

My boys,

I leave my phone on the kitchen counter.

Not on purpose at first.

I am already halfway down the porch steps when I reach for my pocket and realize it is not there.

I stop.

For a second, I consider going back.

Then I keep walking.

The morning is cold enough for the coat now.

Not winter cold.

Just enough that my hands disappear into my pockets without being told.

The neighborhood is quiet.

A sprinkler ticks somewhere behind a fence.

A truck starts two streets over.

Leaves scrape along the pavement in little bursts whenever the wind finds them.

I walk toward the path.

Usually by now I would have checked something.

A message.

Email.

Weather.

News.

Something at work.

Something that happened somewhere else while I was asleep.

Instead, there is nothing to check.

So I walk.

At first, my mind keeps reaching for the phone even though my hand cannot.

I remember something I need to do.

I should write that down.

Then another thing.

I should look that up.

Then someone I need to answer.

I should—

Nothing.

The thought has nowhere to go.

So it stays with me for a while.

Then it leaves.

I reach the oak near the bend in the path.

Its leaves are farther along than they were yesterday.

There is red in it now.

Actual red.

I wonder how many mornings it has been there without me noticing.

A squirrel runs across the path carrying something far too large for its body.

It stops halfway up a tree and looks back at me.

"You made that decision," I tell it.

It continues climbing.

Good talk.

Farther down, I hear water before I see it.

A little creek runs beneath the footbridge.

I have crossed this bridge plenty of times.

Today I stop.

A yellow leaf lands in the water.

It catches against a stone.

The current folds around it.

For a moment it stays there.

Then the water lifts it free.

It disappears beneath the bridge.

That is all.

Nothing happens next.

Nobody needs anything from me.

There is no photograph of it.

No note.

No record except that I saw it.

I keep walking.

The strange thing is how slowly the world begins returning when you stop asking a screen to tell you what deserves your attention.

Birds become louder.

Cold air has a smell.

Some houses have coffee coming through open windows.

A spiderweb between two branches is covered in dew.

My footsteps change when pavement becomes dirt.

My breathing settles.

Even my thoughts become less crowded.

Not empty.

Just mine again.

I think about you boys.

About work.

About God.

About nothing for several minutes.

That may be the rarest one.

Nothing.

At the far end of the path, the sun finally reaches through the trees.

I stand there with my hands in my coat pockets.

Normally this is where I might take a picture.

The light is beautiful.

Fog low over the grass.

Gold leaves above it.

One empty bench.

I feel the impulse.

Then remember.

No phone.

So I just look.

Maybe memory will keep it.

Maybe it won't.

Either way, I was here.

On the walk home, I notice how often people pass me looking down.

I am not judging them.

Most days that is me.

Today isn't.

When I reach the house, the phone is exactly where I left it.

Several things are waiting.

Nothing appears to have collapsed because I walked away for forty minutes.

Before picking it up, I make coffee.

I stand at the kitchen window.

Outside, another leaf lets go.

This one I don't photograph either.

I love you.

— Baba

Question:

When was the last time you experienced something beautiful without immediately trying to capture, share, search, answer, or do anything with it?

Moral:

Attention does not always need to produce something. Sometimes the purpose of noticing your life is simply to have actually been there for it.

This story reflects real experiences and philosophies behind Backyard Brew. It is shared to inspire perspective and intention.

Author: R. Solace