Dopamine Hits
I stuff my nose into the butter coloured flower head. As I inhale it’s scent, I am swept back to the Kew Gardens of my childhood. The Rose Garden behind the Palm House, when I was small enough to roll down the one foot slopes that border the garden. I make a vase, and as I sit at the kitchen table the scent creates an atmosphere around me that has deep connectivity to my past.
I look at the pile of thinly sliced leeks on my chopping board. Working with a new knife has rendered them almost transparent. This is true satisfaction.
Yesterday I took a train to Bath. I had prepared a little pack of scissors, cotton thread and fabric pieces to work with on my journey. While I was at the station and on the train, I tacked patchwork squares. As I sat at Swindon station, a breeze was pushing a sign on the platform, causing it to squeak. It gave my waiting for the connecting train a melancholy air. It got me thinking about Western films, when the hero rides into town; the street is deserted and the only sound is the rusty movement of the sign outside the bar. I felt the melancholy of it, sat with it, imagining the tumbleweed and heat of the scene. There was no swiping down to the next image or refreshing the feed. If I had had headphones in, listening to a podcast maybe, I would not have heard it.
When I arrived at Bath my friend was waiting for me. I had told her the day before what time my train arrived, and there she was. As simple as that, no extra messaging required. We threw our arms around each other and talked non stop, ate avocado on toast in a nearby cafe, and drank delicious coffee. We went to a bookshop, breathing in the smell of new books, laughing at guinea pig wrapping paper. Being together was restorative, enriching and delightful. Not the same as our Whatsapp chat at all.
These are the dopamine hits of Real Life. They cannot be tracked, traced, digitized or monetized. Facebook’s algorithms cannot get to work on them. Because of this they are radical, dangerous, rebellious. And wonderful.
At the extreme end there are the folk who have chosen to leave no digital footprint. They have no mobile phones, no email accounts and no social media presence. A small but significant cohort of young people are choosing to live this way. They are the true rebels of their generation.
A while back a man came into The Beacon to tell me about a magazine being distributed in France. It had no digital presence, and was distributed to shops that didn’t have Wifi. While writing this article I stupidly tried to look it up online. But of course, all I had to draw on was the memory of talking to him that sunny day last autumn. He was small dark haired, with a thick accent, and passionate about moving away from the digital world we are so immersed in.
A digital detox, even for a day, can bring unexpected rewards.
I didn’t look at emails yesterday. Nobody died and nothing bad happened because I didn’t. What I gained from being present in the world was much more than I lost from not looking at Instagram. I also tacked twenty squares and added them to the cushion cover I am making when I got home.
Life plugged in can feel two tone; flat. Little is left to the imagination, it’s all presented for you. Like a goose being force fed grain to fatten it’s liver for foie gras. Too much screen time can make me feel sick and disorientated.
The dopamine hits of real life are unexpected, subtle and fuel imagination and creativity. The internet and technology have their place and are useful and important. Yet the highs of being actually present in the world are more enriching than any like on a Facebook page in my book. Ah yes, books, lovely books. Under the duvet, tired but cosy after a busy day. Toes warm, mind engaged with a good story, screens downstairs and firmly switched off.