The Fall of the Old Man

It was the absence of distraction. It felt like hitting the Franconia Notch – going from 75 mph to suddenly what seems like slow motion at 45 mph. Maybe at times it even felt as if the car was in reverse. 

Disconnecting from the online world – from social media, to be more specific – has been one of the most unintentional intentional shifts I’ve made in my recent life. What I originally saw as a temporary break, is turning out to be much more than that. I have felt a deep crack forming in my value system – something a bit like what I imagine happened to The Old Man of the Mountain, but a bit less dramatic and much more unexpected. 

What does my life look like if I’m not online anymore? Do I even matter? Am I even seen?

These were the first big questions that surfaced within a couple days of unplugging. And I didn’t have answers. It was more of a realization that I had created a fragile system of existence for myself, one that felt rather empty, and when unplugged, completely meaningless.

Who am I without a profile? Without images, video, without a podcast or blog?

I buried myself in books, and soon found myself in Bondcliff Books here in Littleton, talking with Mike Dickerman about the history and happenings of life in the North Country. He kindly lent me old copies of The Littleton Courier from ‘99 - ‘03 and I immediately felt like I had been gifted the ability to time travel. I read about the fall of The Old Man of the Mountain, as well as the death of Guy Waterman on Franconia Ridge. Both significant tragedies in this region – both massive losses which were deeply felt by so many. I shared both stories with my parents. They had seen The Old Man years ago, though they had never heard of Guy Waterman (neither had I).

It is an uncomfortable thought, the idea of no longer existing. And it surfaced not more than 2 days after disconnecting from social media. I was sitting on my couch reading, when all of a sudden the thought hit me: 

You are going to die, Amanda.

My heart sank with a weight that I felt like I had been carrying beyond the point I thought even possible. It was like holding onto a loaded barbell that’s making your hands hurt in the places that normally develop callouses from repeated effort. My callouses were gone, and the terror set in with a rapid and violent invasion. 

I am going to die!

I knew immediately that this horrible realization was not something new, but just the sub-surface tension that I had been delicately avoiding for so long. The very tension I had been masking by distracting myself with being online. Now I had no distractions. No shifting to the latest news, the latest drama. No diversion or deflection. Here I was, face-to-face with my mortality and not a single clue what to do about it. 

I cried.

The passing of the following days proved to be even more revealing. With my phone not being an option for distraction from the uncomfortable thoughts, I filled my time with more books, and more meaningful conversations with loved ones. 

And I began to notice something else. My mind began creating distracting thoughts on its own. Some things that weren’t necessarily important or helpful, and some that were. Memories resurfaced that had left me with uncomfortable emotions. My mind was trying to ‘solve’ things in my past that I hadn’t understood. A former friendship that had failed. A previous employer who had betrayed my trust. The now-distant relationship I have with a sibling. Things that I had wrestled with, things that had hurt. 

Now resurfacing and demanding my attention were years of digital suppression. And I’m left this week with the discomfort of no immediate resolutions, no lessons, and no takeaways. It’s just me staring reality in the face and wondering where I go from here.

One of the books I read towards the end of the week was called ‘The Fifth Mountain’ by Paulo Coelho. It tells a tale of a prophet named Elijah and how the purpose of his life changed. Once he had believed he was supposed to free the nation of Israel, but by the end of the story he had fallen in love with a woman who was then killed in a siege. Elijah was devastated, almost as much as the city that lay in ruins around him. He felt he had lost his way for a time and decided to rebuild the city that represented the woman he had loved and lost. And in rebuilding that city, he gained a new sense of purpose.

One particular passage of the story captivated me.

“The brave set afire that which was old, and even at the cost of great internal suffering, abandon everything, including God, and continue onward. From heaven, God smiles contentedly, for it was this that He desired, that each person take into his hands the responsibility for his own life. For in the final analysis, He had given His children the greatest of all gifts: the capacity to choose and determine their acts.”

I am not a religious person, but I do believe in the power of written words and stories, and their ability to teach us when we choose to listen.

This week offline has been the ultimate exercise in listening, and a reminder to live every moment of my precious life with intention. I’ve had a serious wake up call. I’ve taken a closer look at my daily choices and realized I need to set fire to those things that no longer serve me, even at the cost of internal suffering (fear of missing out, or if I’m really being honest, the fear of being disconnected), and I need to trust that what is meant for my life will find me as I continue onward.

All these things I’ve been contemplating, and so it seemed appropriate that today I took a quick trip to visit the historic site of The Old Man of the Mountain. I had never been there. I visited the Profiler Plaza, read the signs and historic descriptions, and even stood on the pink granite stones, where I could see what The Old Man would still look like today had he not fallen.

As I was crossing the plaza, the warmth of the sun was on my face. The sound of eager chickadees reminded my ears of spring. The skies had never looked bluer, and I was aware at that moment of how wonderful it is to be alive. 

I smiled.

And as I was feeling grateful, I happened to look down to notice the engraved granite pavers beneath my feet. One particular paver caught my eye. It was not shouting for attention. It was not written in any special font. And actually, it was the exact same color as all the other squares. 

It simply said, “Love Outlives Us All”.

-Amanda