As a kid we were not allowed to use screens on Friday nights, opting instead for family dinner and board games. As soon as my dad got home from work we replaced the flickering of the TV screen with that of two tall, white candles.
Having moved almost 4,000 miles from home, technology helps me feel connected to the people and place I left behind. But it also prevents me from being fully present where I am. And because of everything happening in the world today, going online can make me want to withdraw from those dearest to me.
To address this, I turned to a ritual I practiced growing up. For the last six months, once a month, I have done a “Screen-Free Shabbat” where I turn off my phone and computer from sundown on Friday until sundown on Saturday. I do not have a big Jewish community where I live, so these Shabbats have been less about gathering with other Jews and more about the ritual, the feeling that these days are different, that I am stepping out of sync with the modern world and into a liminal, perhaps holy, time.
The following are some of my journal observations from my screen-free Shabbats:
January 20:
This morning I meditated. But without a phone or alarm clock, I couldn’t set a timer for 12 minutes and wait until it rang like I usually do. Instead, I had to sit with the fact that the silence would last until I couldn’t take it anymore. It was about how my breath felt in my lungs and not the number of exhales.
It was rainy, so I went to the art museum. I wasn’t sure what bus would get me there, so I walked. My hair got frizzy and created a golden halo around my face like in so many of the paintings on the wall. I found a room I’d never been in before. A pleasant surprise.
Like days when I was home sick as a child, the hours today stretched before me like taffy. I realized an hour is not a standard measure of time. It sometimes rushes, sometimes crawls and sometimes stands completely still.
February 10:
A friend and I made plans to meet up for lunch. I arrived at the restaurant, sat near the window and watched the clock on the wall. Five minutes went by, then 10, 15. The waitress kept checking on me with a concerned expression. I told myself I’d wait five more minutes and then I would order.
As I started counting down, I was uncomfortable, verging on upset. But then I thought about how my parents first met. They were both waiting at the gate at the airport (back when you could do such a thing) for a late flight their respective friends were on. They started chatting and got a drink at the bar. It never would have happened if they had gotten notifications on their phones telling them to wait at home, or if they could have messaged their friends mid-flight to stave off their boredom. For those 20 minutes at the restaurant, it was like I was experiencing the late ‘80s, a portal to the past.
My future bashert did not approach me, but my friend arrived a few minutes later.
March 2:
I bought a puzzle. My flatmates and I completed it by a mix of candle and lamplight over wine and hot chocolate. I took a photo with my film camera.
I thought about the ancient days spent in the dark with only the dwindling Shabbat candles, the stars and sometimes the light of the full moon. I wondered if there was ever a year where all of the Shabbats coincided with full moons. Is that even possible? In the past, did people count the days until a Rosh Chodesh Shabbat?
April 27:
I had to meet someone else today. The weather just got warm enough to spend more than a few moments outdoors, so I sat down on a bench in a public square and waited. After 30 minutes, I wrote in my journal: “I feel like a lost child in the woods staying put in the hopes a human will find me, but suspecting a bear might get to me first.”
Another 30 minutes went by and my anxiety subsided because there was simply nothing I could do. I added: “Not having a phone means you just have to be. You can’t do things that have nothing to do with where you are, talk to people who aren’t within arm’s reach or plan for the near future, only the distant.”
May 25:
I sat in the park under trees which recently dropped their blossoms to the ground, creating a potpourri of pink and white. I brought my journal and told myself I would write until my mind was empty, but found, to my surprise, that the more I wrote, the fuller it got. I wondered if it was the muse or God. The pages, damp with my chicken scratch and strikethroughs, were more satisfying than a word document, clean as an operating theater, could ever be.
In the afternoon I baked a challah. I used a recipe book my mom mailed me and hoped for the best when the dough didn’t double in size. No checking blogs or the Rebbe Google. It turned out dense but sweet and my flatmates joined me in eating it. The time spent in the kitchen felt as thick as the honey we dipped the bread into.
June 29:
I met my family for a vacation in the Canadian Rockies. Usually, I spend a lot of time alone while practicing my Shabbat, but today was like when I was a kid — like I’d been transported back in time 20 years to when we played Scrabble after dinner on Friday nights.
