An Undocumented Life

Mothering in the 21^st century is a tough proposition.  Most of us lack adequate help, as was historically available to women bearing and raising children.  We tend to live far from family and friends.  For the increasingly small percentage of us that stay home full time with our children, we are alone in the house with little people for large chunks of time.  Getting together with other adults, even other moms, is difficult, especially in the winter months when it seems like everyone is sick with something or other.  Add in a busy husband, (however helpful he may be when home) and inconsistent childcare, and you have a nice recipe for isolation and disconnect.

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I find the isolation to be one of the hardest parts of mothering.  Social media and reading blogs does ameliorate it somewhat, as I don’t feel quite so alone, but mostly, I’m plugging away by myself, day after day, with little people all in different stages of life, who all need so much from me, both physically and otherwise.  I often feel lost in the shuffle.  Having children with chronic health conditions and being trapped in a chair with a nursing baby who likes to nap in my lap for large chunks of the day doesn't help matters any.

It is easy to try and plug the gaps with online communication, to drown out the roaring in my ears with ebay or etsy window shopping.  To fill every quiet moment with digital noise.  But I find that after a while, I’m unhappy, scattered, disorganized, inattentive, and feeling even less connected than before.  Then I know it is time to tune out, turn off, and be still with myself. 

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 Sherry Turkle writes that “reaching for a device becomes so natural that we start to forget that there is a reason, a good reason, to sit still with our thoughts: It does honor to what we are thinking about. It does honor to our [selves]." Honoring the self is difficult to do in the digital age.  It means living the undocumented life—a life that mutes the digital noise of our age and limits the number of photos taken, quiets the beeps of incoming texts and the chiming of calendar alarms; one that leaves the mobile device in the kitchen instead of by the bedside.  It is one that sits with the uncomfortable realities of life, those things that make us squirm, make us hurt, and deal with them.  An undocumented life is one that makes the time and mental space to watch the clouds go by on a clear day, or notices the shimmer of puddles in the rain instead of trying to capture them in a photograph. 

Don’t get me wrong: I think photographs are important. Photographs tell a story, help us to remember where we’ve been, who we are.  I love looking back at old photographs, because they help me understand myself.  I can see my physical features reflected back at me in the faces of my ancestors, and I can understand more about their lives and their legacy.  I like looking at photographs of my own growing up years, because it reminds me of the journey I’m on, and where I’ve been.  It reminds me of how far I’ve come, and yet how far to go. 

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But sometimes, the device gets in the way.  I find I’m photographing my life instead of living it.  I have to remind myself to step back, put the camera down and simply experience the moment, take it in rather than figure out the best frame for the shot. 

A life undocumented is a life with space for quiet contemplation.  My best thinking times lately are while I'm doing dishes (we don't have a dishwasher, so this occupies a fair amount of my time, especially after dinner).  

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Sometimes it is important to put down the device, close the laptop, shut down the PC, and simply be.  If we always eat our food with distraction, we never learn to feed our bodies appropriately.  If we fill every waking moment with stimuli, and digital noise, we never learn the discipline of reading a book to the end, of getting lost in a story, or a moment, or to walk in the woods and listen to the trees. The undocumented life is one that is able to reflect on the spiritual, the life that gives us moments to process the difficulties, grieve death, heal, make deliberate choices, grow.  Disciplining ourselves to have limits, to fast sometimes, and feast sometimes, to carve out quiet mental space is necessary for a life lived well, a life examined, the part of life that is undocumented.