Writing by Candlelight or The Disconnection of Being Connected

I thought about going back to my car to get my iPod that I must have left in the cup holder – distracted as I was by the fact the light wasn’t on in the garage when I pulled in.  That meant, of course, there was no other light in the house.  Or heat.

There was about ten minutes of daylight-ish left.  My thrill at being home early enough to take the dog out and see if there was ice on the driveway immediately receded into panic of starting the fire before darkness overtook completely… and panic/despair of my thwarted plans for the evening.  What was I going to do?

I haven’t spent as many evenings by the fire this year.  I didn’t invest in a good supply of firewood – or ask for it as a Christmas gift, as I have in many years.  I knew my spinning brain would benefit from a healthy journal dumping.  I found pen and paper and sat on the couch with Sadie curled up beside me – when she wasn’t alert and barking at the wind.

It is difficult… though I find the frequency decreasing with determination… to not check my phone.   (To clarify, my iPod is in my car – not the phone that I don’t crowd with music files).  The silence of the house is kind of lonely at first.  I want that social media/email to connect me to the pulsing electrified world.  I post a whine and a photo.  I check the outage map and estimated time of restoration.  9:00.  2 ½ hours. 

I’ll make a late dinner.  I had a coffee at 3:30.  I can make this work.  I’ll write.  I’ll watch the fire and the candles that I use at the dining room table.  They don’t get as much use as they once did.  That gives me a pause.  I need to plan the next dinner party soon.

So I write and empty my brain of stresses and frustrations and then I look at the flicker of candles… and see how my pen makes a shadow beneath the line on which I write.  The silence… has noise.  The wind is something fierce, occasionally shaking the house and making Sadie growl.  Strangely enough I thought to put batteries in the clock on the piano.  Batteries I let die when I stopped using my coffee hour to write by hand and mostly use it to skulk online. I hear the seconds ticking now, reminding me of time and its travel.  And then the fire pops.

It is a stillness.  A pause almost.  I don’t go back to the phone as much, now that the words spill from this pen and its candlelit silhouette (I trust I spell silhouette correctly without the computer to confirm it – I did).

And I think these hours without electricity are a good refresh and one I should attempt to revisit.

The next morning.

The power is back.  It came back not long after I finished writing.  The fire kept me warm enough – my fingers were surprisingly warmer than they are in this morning chill.  I almost read a chapter on my kindle (not a book – so I didn’t go completely old school, I guess.  But for a tangent – I read books for what people write more than the superficial materialism.  Writers’ words are no less valuable in electronic form.)

The internet didn’t come back right away.  And it is gone again this morning (so this may not see blog form until the end of day).  I started making dinner and was grateful to myself for installing the old stereo with the turntable in the kitchen.  I listened to side B of Revolver twice as I cooked.  Then – because all my television relies on the internet – I watched a DVD.

This makes me realize how connected I am to those signals and wires.  Habitually and emotionally.  But strangely – even though I did get a brief connection before going to bed (later because I spent two hours writing and reading) – I slept better.  I didn’t wake in the middle of the night with thoughts spinning.  Or stay awake with them as I thought the coffee might do.  I wrote and played a DVD, a reality that was mine not ten years ago.  I listened to music on the stereo as I cooked, a ritual that gave me happiness a few years longer ago than ten.

And I contemplate these internet connections. 

For the next few months I live in the woods, so I value the noise to some degree.  But they are bewitching… and mesmerizing.  And disconnect me from so many other things.  Habits and emotions that make it easier to sleep.  That are more productive.  That connect me to something more than the transience of a thought of this is what this person is doing.  The darkness and the quiet brought into focus all that a moment has to offer – from shadows to the bubble of warmth to the words flowing with less anxiety from my pen.

The bars have reappeared on my laptop – so I guess I can post this blog afterall.  But I hope I don’t lose the recognition of what life is like without the binding quality of my codependency on technology.  And maybe (in spite of my 40 something eyes) I will have to make a point to write by candlelight and the soundtrack of the wind more often.