Joel Mathis

  About a week ago, after more than a decade of owning an iPhone, I downgraded to a flip phone. The proximate cause of this was news that Apple was going to be snooping in on users phones to look for child sexual abuse material. That's a worthy cause, but it contributed to my unease with privacy in the digital age. But I'd been thinking about making the change anyway, if only to create spaces in my life where I'm not constantly staring at a screen. And it's working! I'm finding it easier to concentrate on long-form reading, or even being present with my wife. But there are tradeoffs. I didn't realize the extent to which my impulse to exercise was connected to my iPhone, how the widget showing the number of steps I've taken today was a nudge toward getting out and doing something, usually early in the day so I wouldn't be haunted by low numbers all day. Since getting the flip phone, my exercise just plunged off a cliff. Living without the iPhone means tha

I've spent the last few months trying to figure out how to live a thoughtful, contemplative life in a digital age. There's been a lot of talk lately about Nicholas Carr's book, "The Shallows," and about how The Google Life is one of endless multitasking and short-circuited thoughts that, not so slowly, is robbing us of the ability to think or read deeply, or at length. For awhile, I tried a little bit of cold turkey -- deactivating my Facebook and Twitter accounts -- and pondered the idea of giving up the digital life entirely. I discarded that idea ultimately: Giving up the Internet is, frankly, impractical. Twitter, it turns out, is a useful networking tool. And Facebook, well ... Facebook connects me with my friends, old and new. I would miss them. Plus: I like blogging. Instead, I've had to set limits for myself. The problem for me isn't so much the Internet -- there's tons to love about the Internet -- but my own capacity for endless, shallo