Offline.
How do you find tranquility and stillness?
As soon as you wake up, log on, tune in, begin browsing we are bombarded by information, overrun with visual cues and encouraged to contribute. We immediately enter the battlefield, a never-ending conflict for our attention. It can be overstimulating, overwhelming. Where do you focus your energy? How do you engage? Should we engage?
Being connected and in constant reach of information is a reality in most societies today, with technology central to our daily lives. Businesses and organisations promote their products and vie for our support, individuals share their thoughts and memories. News is publicised everywhere with stories which can be informative, provocative, sensational, heart-warming, depressing; perhaps all of the these at the same time.
I am guilty. I consume too much - oversubscribe and aimlessly scroll. I am conscious this is written on a computer and shared online with the wider world. The ability to find and share information freely and broadly is wonderful, most of us have access to it if we wish. This is the beauty of being online. Yet, this opportunity to always have all the details at our fingertips can wear thin. A yearning to escape and be out of contact often builds, but this can be difficult, maybe impossible for some, if you have to make a conscious choice to do so.
One place where you can escape constant connectivity without necessarily doing so deliberately is in the Falklands. Internet and mobile coverage is widespread, even if somewhat expensive and unreliable, yet there are still many places out of reach. News doesn’t filter through and fill us with feelings of anxiety and helplessness, messages stay unread and unanswered, and other realities remain hidden. We are forced to look inward in these places, focussing on the present - we are here, and it’s now.
The elements seemed amplified in these places. I was fortunate to visit one such place over Christmas, just me and my father. We had visited here before, on separate occasions, and this time we were staying overnight before hiking back to town the following day. As soon as we arrive our focus turns to what is in front of us; the vultures circling high above us, the wind whistling from the NorthWest across the diddle-dee bushes and the white grass, and the sun beating down relentlessly with a heat mostly hidden by the constant breeze. Nature is advertised as still in charge here; it mostly is, but the wire fence lines stretching out across the land, ships dotting the distant horizon and, every now and then, a plane flying above challenge this reality.
A historic wildness remains. Penguins which have called this stretch of coastline home for decades, perhaps centuries, still waddle ashore and nest on the hillside below our cabin. The silence - when the wind abates and the birds stop calling - is the most impressive aspect of being out there. Disturbances are at a minimum, we are alone with our thoughts and with the company we keep. There were so many distractions only the day before but now many of these have disappeared and everything else seems far away. I usually struggle to concentrate, my mind gets lost in countless other thoughts, but here there is clarity. The clarity doesn’t provide all the answers, but many of the questions no longer require a response. The atmosphere feels settled.
To be able to access spaces like this is a privilege, many elsewhere cannot do so. We have no ‘right to roam’ in the Falklands unfortunately, permission to visit is still in the hands of landowners, but at least the possibility exists. We made full use of our new found freedom and hiked everywhere we could. First to a couple of dazzling white-sand beaches, bordered by flowering sea cabbage and blooming Falklands lavender, with regal King penguins nesting in the short grassland above the sand dunes. Then we trekked the wave-battered cliffs of the north coast, along old vehicle tracks towards colonies of Rockhopper penguins, who clamber and bounce up the steep cliff faces to their nesting sites. We eventually, after lunch in the shelter of a rocky gully leading up from the sea, head across the quiet, grassy interior towards the nearest farm, walking between two distinctive hills with ancient stone-runs dictating our route.
All along the trial we swapped stories, shared opinions, debated the future and discussed the past. It was liberating to talk openly without distraction and to be fully present, truly listening. Listening is a skill I have yet to fully master, but here was some great practice. Being offline, ‘off-grid’ as some might term it, certainly helps us to keep connected, whether that is with others or with ourselves. It can allows us to hear others, and also, importantly, hear what the world around us is saying. The environment can’t tell us what it is feeling, but it does speak to us, and we can only hear it if we listen properly.
Returning to town after a few days away, the anxiety that had existed before we left had lifted and I felt more at ease. If I could escape all the time I would, but this isn’t realistic. Learning how to live in a world which is at once constantly connected and disconnected from each other, requires balance; a balance which differs for everybody. Finding the right balance, learning when to switch off and switch on is an art form. Switching off and taking time to explore our relationships, our own state of mind and the beauty which surrounds us is a pretty good place to start.
