Small Pools of Lights

Written by Glenn Johnson, Guest Writer

Edward Abbey was a seasonal park ranger for the United States National Park Service in Moab, Utah in 1957. His work was primarily in Arches National Monument, where he lived alone in a travel trailer. Many nights, he’d go on long walks, taking in the scenery and thinking. On some of these nights, he also took along his flashlight. 

As he recounts in his book Desert Solitaire,

“The flashlight…is a useful instrument in certain situations but I can see the road well enough without it. Better, in fact…like so many other mechanical gadgets it tends to separate a man from the world around him. If I switch it on my eyes adapt to it and I can see only the small pool of light which it makes in front of me; I am isolated. Leaving the flashlight in my pocket where it belongs, I remain part of the environment I walk through and my vision though limited has no sharp or definite boundary.”

He wrote this in 1968.

39 years before the iPhone was released.

We’ll get to that, though.

First, I want to talk about light. Because as simple a tool as the flash light is, it replaced something more natural and finite - a candle.

A candle has a few limiting factors: it’s not nearly as bright as a flash light, and it can burn out. Once you reach the end of the wick, it’s gone. You can’t just change out the batteries and keep the light going. 

When it comes to relationships, we’ve seen a similar progression from the natural and finite to the artificial and infinite.

The main way we communicated prior to around 30 years ago was either in-person, by letter, or over the telephone. The most technologically advanced of the 3 is the telephone, but even old home phones were designed as a functional, focused tool. There was no screen, no access to anything other than another’s voice on the other line. Letter writing was deeply personal, taking natural elements like paper and ink and graphite and using your own body to write. Your unique, distinct handwriting was etched onto the paper, sending a piece of yourself along with the information. 

Most modern technology, like the iPhone, promises to make us more connected, at peace, and educated than any generation before. 

They promise to help us stay in relationship with those miles or countries away. To know every person you (kind of) knew in college’s birthday. Or when they get married. Or when they have kids.

Or when they try a new latte.

All very important. 

And, in many ways, that vision has come true. 

Yet I can’t help but think as I sit in the waiting room at the doctor’s office, or wait at a crosswalk in town, or in line at the grocery store - all real places, where we are face to face - and see people pull their phones out (and often find myself doing the same thing) that this utopic vision hasn’t turned out the way we imagined it could.

When we look down at our phones, even in the seemingly mundane moments of life, we “can see only the small pool of light which it makes…”

To intentionally live in the moment is difficult. Afterall, our iPhones are, in essence, infinite. A never-ending stream of information and connection. But to make eye contact with a stranger, and say, “hello” is awkward, and very finite. You may never see that person again. The interaction may only last 30 seconds. Yet who are we and what are we if not relational beings? 

What we get through a screen is junk food - it looks real, feels real, but is empty. It bloats us. That then becomes all we crave, and we forget what real food tastes like. 

There are ways to move against the tide, though it often feels overwhelming. Taking one day a week to turn off your phone is a great start. Plan a coffee or lunch with a friend on that day, and be present. Have no where to go or nothing else to distract yourself with and engage in a deep conversation.

Another practice I’ve recently taken on is not sleeping with my phone in the bedroom. I bought a small, physical alarm clock, and I put my phone away in my desk drawer at the end of the night and take it out after being up for an hour or so in the morning. This prevents me from late night Googling, checking sports scores, or seeing if anyone liked my Strava activity. I am more present with my wife and, in the morning, more present with God. 

Texting, emailing, and social media feels relational. And, in small doses, it can be. But it can never be a replacement for real community. Gathering around a table. Making time to meet. To talk. To be present. To see more clearly the whole of a moment instead of “only the small pool of light” of our screens.