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Digital Detox Shaina Tranquilino August 20, 2024
Evan had always been plugged in. A software engineer by trade and a tech enthusiast by nature, he spent his days coding complex algorithms and his nights surrounded by screens—one for gaming, another for streaming, and a third for monitoring the latest cryptocurrency trends. His smartphone was his constant companion, a lifeline to the digital world where he thrived. Notifications pinged incessantly, each one demanding a slice of his attention.
But lately, something had shifted. Evan found himself restless and irritable, his mind never quiet. The world around him, once so vibrant in pixels, had started to feel hollow. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a face-to-face conversation without checking his phone, or the last time he sat in silence without feeling the need to fill it with noise. So, when a colleague mentioned a digital detox retreat nestled in the mountains, Evan signed up on a whim.
The retreat was a stark contrast to Evan’s life in the city. No Wi-Fi, no cell service, and certainly no screens. Instead, there were endless forests, star-filled skies, and a strict rule: all devices were to be surrendered at check-in. Evan felt a pang of anxiety as he handed over his phone, but it was accompanied by an unexpected sense of relief.
The first day was difficult. Without the constant buzz of notifications, Evan felt adrift, his thoughts chaotic and loud. But as the hours passed, something began to change. He started noticing the things he had been too busy to see—the rustling of leaves in the wind, the rich scent of pine, the warmth of the sun on his skin. Conversations with fellow retreat-goers were slow and meaningful, unhurried by the pressure to respond to the next message or email. For the first time in years, Evan slept without the glow of a screen beside him, and when he woke up, he felt truly rested.
By the end of the retreat, Evan had found a peace he hadn’t realized he was missing. The constant need to be connected, to be always doing something, had given way to a quieter, more contemplative state of mind. As he packed his bags, he knew he couldn’t go back to the life he had been living.
When Evan returned to the city, everything felt different. The towering skyscrapers and neon lights seemed overwhelming, but not in the way they used to excite him. He felt a pull toward simplicity, a yearning for the peace he had found in the mountains. Slowly, he began to make changes. He turned off his notifications, limiting his screen time to essential tasks. Weekends became reserved for nature walks and reading physical books, activities that grounded him in the present moment.
He also started spending more time with people—really being with them, not just sharing space while distracted by screens. He reconnected with old friends and even joined a local gardening club, something he never would have considered before the retreat. The digital world, once his entire universe, was now just a small part of a much larger, more fulfilling life.
Evan’s colleagues noticed the change. He was calmer, more focused, and somehow more content. When they asked what had happened, he simply smiled and told them about the retreat, about the quiet joy he had found in disconnecting. Some of them laughed, calling it a phase, but Evan knew better.
His life was no longer dictated by the relentless pace of technology. He had found a balance, a way to integrate his love for tech with the simple pleasures of living. For the first time in a long time, Evan felt truly alive. The world was vibrant again, not just in pixels, but in every breath, every moment, every connection made face-to-face.
The Farmhouse Dream Shaina Tranquilino August 23, 2024
Bob and Joan had always dreamed of escaping the city's noise, so when they found the old farmhouse nestled at the edge of a small, forgotten town, it felt like fate. The house was worn, its paint peeling and shutters hanging askew, but Joan saw the beauty beneath the decay. Bob was more skeptical, but Joan's excitement was infectious, and soon he too was imagining their future in the countryside.
The couple moved in during early spring, greeted by fields of overgrown grass and wildflowers that surrounded the property. The farmhouse creaked under the weight of time, and the wind whistled through cracked window panes. Yet, there was a charm in its age, a story waiting to be uncovered.
They spent their days with hammers and brushes, transforming the space room by room. As they worked, they discovered remnants of the past: old photographs tucked behind a loose floorboard, a rusted horseshoe buried in the garden, and a journal written by a woman who had lived there decades before. Her words spoke of hard times, but also of love and community, of neighbours coming together to raise barns and harvest crops. Joan read the journal aloud to Bob each evening, and they both felt a connection to the land deepen within them.
One day, as they were repairing the barn, a man from the town, Mr. Harris, stopped by. He was in his sixties, with weathered hands and a kind smile. He had heard about the "city folk" fixing up the old place and offered his help. Joan and Bob were hesitant at first, but they soon learned that Mr. Harris had a wealth of knowledge about the area and the house. He told them stories about the original owners, how the house had been a hub for the community, a place where people gathered to celebrate and support one another.
Word spread quickly that the old farmhouse was being brought back to life, and soon, other neighbors began to visit. There was Mrs. Fletcher, who showed Joan how to plant a vegetable garden that would thrive in the local soil, and the Moore family, who invited Bob to help with their annual harvest in exchange for lessons in carpentry. Each person who came by offered something: advice, tools, or simply companionship.
The farmhouse became a beacon once more. Joan and Bob hosted potlucks in the yard, where people shared homemade pies and stories. They started a community garden, where everyone worked together and shared the bounty. In the evenings, they gathered around a fire, talking and laughing as the sun set behind the hills.
Joan and Bob's lives slowed down in the best way. They found joy in the simple rhythms of the farm, in the connection with the land and the people around them. The farmhouse was no longer just a building; it was a home, filled with warmth and love, and a community that had welcomed them with open arms.
As summer turned to fall, Joan looked out over the fields, now golden with crops ready for harvest. She felt a deep contentment, knowing they had found something here that they hadn’t even known they were looking for—a new way of life, rich with connection and purpose. Bob joined her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and together they watched as the town’s lights flickered on one by one, a testament to the bonds they had built and the life they had created.