Indeed, I visit often.

Do I remember life before the internet?
I beg your pardon—
you speak as if it no longer exists.
Though there lives a generation that might not understand,
I will not bring you the details.
Rather, I shall take you there—
where I still go, more often than not.

For I, a woman of a certain experience, recall living it vividly—
not as a primitive inconvenience,
but as an era of mystery.

And let me assure you,
it was an enchanting mystery—
full of patience and sincere connection.

A place where time existed, but was never rushed.
The sun remained our clock,
and our hearts remembered more than our minds.

Yes, the internet has hurried life.
The world now moves like a train without a station—
and unpleasantly loud.

Before the internet, we spoke with our presence.
Our conversations were not reduced to abbreviations or emojis,
not summoned like bored ghosts from behind a screen.
No—
we spoke face-to-face,
with our whole selves.

And might I add—
one could speak for hours without being interrupted by a ding or a dong
or whatever hideous sound one now finds entertaining.

We wrote letters, not “messages.”
Letters that took time.
Letters that carried fragrance and feeling.
One did not “react” to such correspondence.
One reflected.

And the waiting—ah, the waiting—
was not burdensome, but exquisite.
Anticipation, you see, is the most elegant emotion.

Meals were not delivered.
They were prepared—
with forethought, intention, and often a pinch of inherited wisdom.
And if one found the menu disagreeable,
one kept such sentiments to oneself…
or better yet, learned to cook.

Calendars were made of paper, thank heavens—
penciled in with birthdays, anniversaries…
or, imagine this:
you simply remembered that special detail.

I dare say, I feel far younger the less I indulge the internet.
There is a certain timelessness in not knowing everything at once.
It preserves the soul.

I have learned to protect my thoughts from polluted noise,
to say, quite simply:
“No. You may not visit me today.”

Not every headline deserves a reaction.
Not every message is an invitation.
And not every voice deserves a seat in my stillness.

You see, one begins to understand:
To be informed is not the same as being rooted.
And nothing on a screen compares
to the richness of a moment fully savored.

The internet made things easy, they say.
But I must protest—
Easy rarely teaches.
Easy does not fortify.
Easy does not build character,
nor does it clean up after supper.

Allow me to peel back the lace on that one:

Ease may set the table, but it doesn’t stay to scrub the pans.

And what of speed?

We now press a button and summon nearly anything.
We are conditioned to believe we need everything—even faster.
Next-day delivery has become our gospel.

And the noise—oh, the noise.

I never much cared for it.
Especially not the kind that insists upon pushing itself upon a lady.
Unsolicited advertisements.
Crude headlines.
Shouting matches with no winners.

No.

I knew what I knew not from trending opinions or digital consensus.
I learned by living.
By trial and error.
By slipping, standing, and asking those who came before me.

There was no search bar—
but there were parents.
Grandmothers.
And God.
And the gift of being quiet long enough to hear both.

And what I didn’t know?
Life saw to it that I’d learn—
gracefully…
or otherwise.

So, do I remember life before the internet?

Indeed, I visit often.
And I stay as long as I please.

“Before the world needed to be seen, it was simply lived.” -TRC

#DontNeedHashtag

(Because some words don’t need to be followed. They simply need to be felt.)