For people of a certain age, you're
supposed to sing that title to the tune of the John Lennon song that uses the
word "heaven" instead of "email." The other day our wireless hub here at home went out, and it
took a day or two before we could get a new one going. In the interim, my wife, who was
initially distressed at her lack of connectivity, remarked that actually it was
a refreshing thing to go without email or looking at the Internet for a couple
of days. Without meaning to, we
accidentally endured what you might call a period of fasting from email and the
Internet. And we found that it
wasn't all that bad.
Mention the word
"fasting" to most people, and you may conjure up images of scrawny
half-crazed religious fanatics who lived a long time ago. Or if you have had personal experience
of fasting, it was probably just an unpleasant prelude to a medical
procedure. The whole spirit of the
age militates against voluntarily refraining from consumption of one kind or
another, which is all fasting is.
We are told without letup that we live in a consumer-driven economy, and
so it's positively unpatriotic to consume less if you can consume more.
Well, if it's so economically
harmful, why do people do it at all?
What is the point of fasting?
Theologians have an umbrella word
for fasting, abstinence, and other kinds of things discussed in magazines with
titles like A Simple Life, The Simple
Things, or just Real Simple. The word is
"simplicity." Simplicity
is a type of spiritual discipline, meaning that it's a habit you can practice
that will make you a better person if you get better at it. Or at least, it stands a chance of
doing that. What is certain, is
that if you don't practice the discipline, it won't do you any good.
You don't have to be a theologian,
or even a religious believer, to benefit from spiritual disciplines, especially
fasting. The reason is that human
nature is meant to be a certain way, and habits that make us more the way we
were intended to be have benefits, whether or not you believe there is a God
that designed you to be a certain way or not. The habit or discipline of fasting helps the rational part
of you gain mastery over the less-rational part.
All of us have what some
sociologists refer to as a "lizard brain": a primitive part of the brain that we appear to share with
lower animals such as lizards.
Lizards are good at what they do.
We have bright-green anoles around our yard here, and they move in a way
that I have to admit is quite human:
slowly, guardedly creeping up on a bug until it's within reach, and then
snatching it before the bug can figure out what hit him. But lizards are slaves to their
instincts. When they're hungry,
they hunt. When it's breeding
time, they breed. You don't see
lizards wearing little hooded robes and rope belts around their waists
refraining from eating juicy bugs right in front of them. At least, not outside Geico
commercials.
But humans can voluntarily refrain
from consuming or doing something that is otherwise good, helpful, or even
necessary, simply to practice what you might call ordinate self-control. Take email as an example of such a
thing. Some small fraction of what
most people with email accounts receive is worth reading: it's from a person you know, or your
boss, or your long-lost Cousin Max, and you get a benefit or pleasure from
reading it. But the temptation of
email, at least for me, is to jump on the computer every time that little bing
goes off and see what the newest email is. If I give in to the temptation to monitor my email more or
less constantly like that, I will get little if anything else done.
An occasional fast from email can
teach me several things. One is, I
won't die or lose my job (not necessarily, depending on the job) if I don't
read my email for a couple of days, with the proper preliminary precautions and
notices to others. Another lesson
is, life without email is not only possible, but has advantages too. I can spend hours reading a book, for
instance (remember books?—the paper kind, I mean). Or I can take a walk in a park and observe, really observe,
nature and its manifold wonders—not just treat it as some green-screen CGI
background to the movie of my life.
Much as engineers like rules, there
are no universal rules for fasting (aside from rules promulgated by various
religions for their members, that is).
If you want to try it, think of a bad habit you have that you'd really
like to be able to control, a habit that involves something necessary in its
proper amount, but something that you find yourself going overboard with. I'm not trying to start a twelve-step
program here, I'm simply suggesting how you can pick a feature of your life
that you might consider fasting from.
Then decide on some period of time in which you could afford to stop or
reduce that activity, and try to stick to it. If it's something you really think you can do without
altogether, go slow at first.
Trying too much too soon is a classic mistake of novice fasters. If you can do without the thing for an
hour, or a day, do it, don't be too hard on yourself if you fail, but if you
succeed, try two hours or two days next time.
Fasting is currently a
countercultural thing, and except for the magazines I've mentioned and some
books I will refer to below, you won't find much support from other people if
you decide to fast. They may
secretly feel jealous or threatened by your abstaining from what they view as a
normal, healthy part of life. They
may even tell you you're foolish or going to cause yourself trouble, and you
should at least listen to them.
But if you've made up your mind to try a fast, go ahead and try it. The worst that can happen is that you
find out the thing has got a tighter grip on you than you thought—and that's
worth knowing too.
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