Walking with plutonium
I often go walking with my neighbor for comradery and exercise. This morning I was supposed to meet her earlier than usual because I had plans for later in the day. Alas, the person with whom I had scheduled those plans reneged. Consequently, I really wanted to cancel my walk and just lay abed, but I knew my neighbor’s phone was broken. I couldn’t call or text. I’d have to actually get out of bed, get dressed, and walk the 1/4 mile or so from my front door to hers just to change the plan. Might as well go for the scheduled walk.
So, I put on my shabby old walking boots, with yesterday’s wooly socks, jeans, shirt, cardigan and jacket. A hat for good measure. And I waited at the mailbox for my neighbor.
Before long, she and her husband came down their extended driveway in a truck. She, too, was canceling. They had a sudden appointment in Oklahoma. Ha!
Well, I was up, dressed, on the road—might as well walk alone.
And it was perfect! The air was brisk on my face. The temperature at the moment required a coat, but the sky was clear and the sun bright, promising an afternoon warm enough for shirtsleeves. As my soles rhythmically connected with the rutted, rocky soil that is my county road, cows came to the fence line to greet me. I could hear woodpeckers, despite my advanced hearing impairment, and I stopped to look for them in the bare branches of the woods. There was no talking. No music. No human stories. Just nature sounds. The perfect winter morning, with hints of spring.
Until I thought about the plutonium in my pocket.
Yesterday I got my very first smart phone. I still don’t really know how to use it—but I brought it because I knew my neighbor’s phone was out of commission and should we need emergency services while walking, she would know how to call for help. And suddenly, the knowledge that this toxic device was in my pocket, poking me where my left leg joins my hip, (way more uncomfortable than its tiny dumb predecessor) made me feel like I was on the verge of poisoning this perfect morning. One false move and the woodpeckers would disappear. The cows would scatter. Dogs would run. The sun would hide.
One moment I had been calmly appreciating life on my pastoral planet. The next, I found myself under threat of an alien invasion that could sever my connection with nature and render me unable to be alone with the birds and cows and the brisk chill of a blossoming day. I felt like I was the last of my species, my fingertips clutching the jagged ledge from which I found myself dangling, an alien fiendishly peeling back my fingers one at a time.
I have taken a step into the 21st century. I hope I can keep a foothold in the past. Maybe smartphones should have scheduled blackouts so we humans will be forced to disconnect from time to time. Technology is wonderful. The human brain is quite a phenomenon. But the planet at rest is perfect. Don’t forget to notice.
(And maybe I should quit watching Stargate SG-1 with dinner.)