No Service Means No Worries
Originally published in Chicken Soup For The Soul
A couple of months before I started high school, my parents gave me the greatest gift any teenage boy could ask for: a cellphone. I lived on that phone all summer with my face buried in its screen. I held multi-day marathon texts with every friend who was lucky enough to have a texting plan. I talked to my girlfriend every night. I ignored my family, my surroundings and, on one unfortunate afternoon, a closed door that seemed to appear out of nowhere. What I was doing was secondary to what everyone else was doing. Being connected was more important than being present.
So, you can imagine my displeasure when I learned what my dad had planned for our family vacation that year. Not the Disneyland trip that I had been hoping for. No beach vacation. “This year,” my dad said in the voice of a parent who knows he’ll be met with attitude but is soldiering on nonetheless, “we’ll be doing something special, something I used to do with my dad when I was a kid. We’re going camping!”
His excitement was met with a disappointed sigh, which was my signature communication style at that age, but he was unfazed. And for the most part, so was I. It wasn’t my dream vacation, but it was still a vacation. I remained unbothered throughout the packing, planning and, of course, the instructions that went in one ear and out the other. My mind was on my phone, and the texts were flying back and forth. I was so engrossed in the screen in my hand, in fact, that the first time I can remember truly looking up was when we drove across a bridge en route to our campsite.
I stared out the window in a daze and saw redwoods towering above us, their branches threatening to pierce the blue sky. I saw a roaring river, with slivers of silky black water appearing between crashing white rapids. The air blowing into the car from the open windows was hot and smelled of pine. But none of that mattered to me. The reason I had looked up was for something far more serious. More shocking. My phone no longer had service. The last hour of the drive was increasingly tense. My dad disclosed that he had chosen a campsite that had no cell service, and my phone—my lifeline—would be useless until we returned home. I would be trapped in the forest for four days with no way to contact the outside world. I went through the full cycle of teenage emotions during the first day of the trip. I raged. I bargained. I pleaded. I flip-flopped from a depressive state to anger and back. None of it mattered. None of it would add bars to my cell service.
I went to bed angry that night. But when I awoke in the morning, something had changed. Instead of lifting my head from the pillow and immediately burying it in my phone, I focused on something else: my surroundings. I let the noise of the wilderness wash over me, animals and bugs creating a ruckus that was both loud and serene at the same time. As my dad and I walked the trails, I felt the rocky earth below me, each step grounding me. Each minute I sank deeper into a peaceful world. We reached a vista, and as I strained my eyes to view the vast expanse that unfolded below me, I felt the weight of a thousand stressors I didn’t know I had melt from my
shoulders.
The more I let myself become a passive part of nature, the more I focused on myself. I let my mind speak to me. I listened to what I was feeling. I realized I had been so focused on doing, speaking, and staying connected that I hadn’t been hearing my own thoughts. I had been neglecting myself.
Those four days passed in a flash. I hiked. I swam. I fished. I learned fishing is boring, even in my newly enlightened state. I spoke less than usual, and I listened more than I had before. My dad and I learned how to start a fire together, after several false starts and some borrowed lighter fluid. He told me stories of his life. Stories I had never heard. Or perhaps I hadn’t been listening. I saw the brightest stars I had ever seen, smelled the freshest air I had ever smelled, and ate the sweetest marshmallows I had ever tasted. And when the weekend came to an end, I realized I hadn’t thought of my phone once. I hadn’t felt the need to be connected to
anywhere else. Why would I? What could be better than the moments I was sharing with just my father and nature?
That was nearly fifteen years ago, and I carry that lesson to this day. Especially now. The day I received my first work e-mail, I understood the reason my dad chose a campsite with no access to technology. In a world that asks for more and more connectivity, the need to unplug becomes stronger and stronger. Having me time is nearly impossible when I can be reached at any time of day or night. So, I need to work harder at it.
Whenever I feel like my inner self is slipping, like I’m ignoring the little voice in my head that needs a break, I take a page out of my dad’s guide. I pack up the tent and drive until my phone shows those two magic words.
“No service.”
