Instead of Picking up My Phone

                                          Some mornings
I take myself away from the television
and go outside where the only news comes
from the fresh air folding over the houses.
And I feel glad for an hour in which race
and power and all the momentum of history
add up to nothing.
~from "First Verse" by Tim Seibles

It’s been a little over a year since I killed my Facebook and Instagram accounts. While the early days of social media were kinda fun—catching up with long-lost friends and keeping up with more recent acquaintances, getting inspired by other people’s creativity, betting jealous of other people’s vacations, ogling other people’s displays of Fiesta ware. But by the time the direct links between Meta and the rising fascism of the US became glaringly obvious, the platforms themselves had been overtaken by advertisements and videos and a lot of random posts I didn’t want to see (the so-called enshittificaiton effect). So, really, I haven’t missed it.

In his book Make (Sneaky) Art, Nishant Jain writes about social media being a panopticon. (“The panopticon,” Jain writes, “is a theory of social control in which prisoners police their own behavior because they believe they are under constant monitoring.”) I was a blogger for many years, and while I wouldn’t necessarily say I was policing my behavior, I was definitely pushing it: doing things to make my life more beautiful, creative, and fun so that I’d have something to post about. It was nice, when I was a mom to young kids, working a thankless job, and struggling to get through each day to share the results of whatever creative outlet I could squeeze into my life with a small audience of people who might appreciate the effort and the results in a way that my family didn’t. It wasn’t a lie—I really did those beautifying, creative, and fun things—but there was a performative aspect to it, which carried over when blogs faded away into the Instagram era. And now, without all that, it’s nice to just enjoy creativity—or time in nature or adventures—for the sake of doing those things, without needing to share a photo of every moment.

Unfortunately, despite having dropped the big, bad social media platforms from my routine, I have not stopped doomscrolling. In addition to Substack, which is some kind of weird mashup of blog, newsletter, and social media platform, I also have a Bluesky account, and though I don’t post much on either, I do get trapped in the algorithm of doom often enough. And it’s not only bad for my blood pressure, it’s often a waste of time. So here are some of the things I’m trying to do—or planning to do—instead of picking up my phone.

Reading. If I’ve got a book going that’s a real page-turner—something with a bit of suspense but not stressful, not too much like real life—then I don’t even think of picking up my phone.

Drawing. The 100-Day Project started last Sunday, and while I was feeling wishy-washy about participating, I decided to do a sketch-a-day for 100 days. I bought my favorite kind of sketchbook—palm-sized with heavy paper, a hard cover, an elastic band to hold it closed, and a satin ribbon to mark my page, and so far I’ve been doing 5-minute sketches (a recommendation from Make (Sneaky) Art)—and got started; and now it’s my favorite part of the day. (See today’s creation, Day 6, above.) The irony is that a big part of the 100-Day Project is sharing on Instagram. I did that the first several years I participated, finding it awkward at first and then liberating to be publicly bad at something (see above). For the last couple years, my 100-Day Projects have been just something I do on my own without sharing. I lose the camaraderie, inspiration, and accountability aspects that way, but I don’t mind.

Knitting. I’ve gotten out of the habit of knitting over the last year or so. I usually put my needles aside for the summer months and pick them back up in the winter, but not so far. I’ve been working on the same project for two (or is it three?) years now, and the pattern is super boring and repetitive, and it’s not inspiring me right now. But I’m going to haul it out today and next time I feel compelled to pick up my phone, I’ll pick up some yarn instead. And if I finish this boring project, I’ll give myself permission to start something new and exciting.

(Re)learning. This year I’m co-coordinating the training course for the Maine Master Naturalist Program, and for this month’s class on winter tree identification, I volunteered to collect most of the twigs we’ll be using in class. I snowshoed around our property with a pair of clippers, looking for the different species, and then I practiced keying each twig out, sketched them, and wrote down each one’s identifying details. This might not be most people’s idea of a good time, but I found it a most delightful and life-affirming way to spend an hour a day (those little tiny buds are protective houses from which new leaves will burst come spring!)

Birdwatching. Almost every morning for the last few weeks I’ve sat outside on my deck for around 20 minutes and watched the birds come and go at the feeder. Our deck faces east, so as long as the sun’s shining, it’s lovely out even on the coldest days. And watching birds do their thing is the most relaxing activity I can imagine. Did you know chickadees eat snow? I did not until I watched them come to our deck and nip little bites from the snow clumps left in the corners. I don’t know why they prefer deck snow to yard snow, but I’m delighted that they come so close.

Most days, I walk in the late afternoon, when the color has begun to fade from the landscape, but today I go out in the morning, and the sun that casts long shadows as it slants through the trees has a warm, golden glow to it. I’m ostensibly searching for a striped maple I think I know about in one spot on our property, but when I can’t find the tree I abandon all pretense of a goal. Instead I just walk, slowly, stopping and standing still for no apparent reason.

It snowed all day yesterday, lightly, but enough to accumulate a few inches. This fresh snow lies thick on the branches of pines and firs. I pause and press my tongue to the cold, mineral freshness of one inviting clump on the end of a branch. Little puffs of wind send snowflakes sifting down from high in the trees, and the sunlight refracts in the flakes, tiny sparkling rainbows raining filling the air.

When I reach the river, I stop and look up into the branches of the hemlock trees. The sky above them is brilliant blue and the needles glow yellow-green in the sunlight. I can almost imagine I’m back in Puerto Rico, with the jungle canopy above. I stand still and gaze and gaze up into the trees. I’m a child of prairie and of mountaintop, but I also love looking up into trees. Perhaps there’s something primal about it, a deep-seated memory of when our distant ancestors swung from branches and the trees were their cradle, their pantry, their landscape.

There are things I need to do at home, so reluctantly I turn and make my way back up the trail, pausing along the way to watch a flock of chickadees, nuthatches, and tufted titmice gleaning their way through a cluster of trees. When I hear a shushing sound, like a hand running over the nylon fabric of my coat, I turn and see that a slender pine bough brushing my shoulder, as if it wants to say hello. I pull off my mitten and run my fingers through the needles. Hello, dear tree. Hello.

I’m very excited to offer a writing workshop in April. I’d love it if you could join me. Pay Attention. Be Astonished. Tell About It: A Nature Writing Workshop
Charlotte Hobbs Library, Lovell, Maine, Saturday, April 11, 2026, 1-4 p.m.

Check out what I read last month, including my Puerto Rico reading list: January Reads.

To see my travel sketches, check out my Puerto Rico Travel Journal post.

It’s definitely still winter in Maine, and so it’s not too late to check out “Hit the Beach this Winter” in the Green & Healthy Maine Winter Guide.

For a cozy read by the fire, pick up a copy of Echoes in the Fog: Literary Reflections on the Liminal Spaces of Maine’s Coast, and read my essay “The Saltwater Cure.”

If you’re starting to daydream about summer hikes, pick up a copy of my book, Uphill Both Ways: Hiking toward Happiness on the Colorado Trail.

For more writing, plus workshops and editing services, visit www.AndreaLani.com.

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