By Aidan Jones

“Who here knows how to drive stick?” our leader asked as we sped through the Italian countryside. He swayed with the movement of the bus as he scanned our faces, careful to keep his weight off the foot he had recently sprained. Two of us raised our hands in response to his question: myself (at the time, a 21-year-old kid from the Northwoods of Wisconsin), and a young Catholic seminarian from North Carolina. No one else in our study-abroad group knew how to drive a manual transmission, and that was how I found myself zipping along a series of winding Italian roads one summer’s evening in a borrowed stick-shift Fiat, on a mission to purchase food at a nearby grocery store. 

The group of American college students I was with spent several days in a small village nestled in the foothills of the Italian Alps. We hiked, prayed, cooked, and ate together, sleeping on the floor of a high school gymnasium at night and exploring the village and mountains during the day. Only the leaders of our group had brought cell phones, and it was one of the best weeks of my life. 

My grandfather had taught me how to “drive stick” in the parking lot of an abandoned Target store using an old Toyota Matrix. I was nervous about driving a manual transmission at the time, but if I hadn’t learned, I wouldn’t now be able to say that I’d driven a Fiat in the Italian Alps. A stick-shift vehicle is not as easy to drive as one with an automatic transmission, but there is certainly something more real about it. There’s a tangibility, an intimate connection with the vehicle, that an automatic transmission lacks. 

As our modern culture drifts further and further into a digital wasteland, I’ve noticed a small but significant countercultural trend toward vintage technologies. Polaroid and disposable film cameras are making a comeback. Record players are “cool” again. Typewriters and fountain pens now possess a kind of romance. These technologies are less convenient than our digital devices, but we seem to intuit that they hold a value that our modern technology lacks. “What have we sacrificed for the sake of convenience?” we ask ourselves. “A tangible participation in the physical world,” comes the ominous answer. 

Somewhere deep in our souls, we crave the authentic. We are searching for an encounter with reality that cannot be provided by our smartphones and computer screens. To that end, I would like to highlight what are the two most important and obvious ways we can reconnect with the “real” world: A human pace of life, and physical tangibility.

Somewhere deep in our souls, we crave the authentic.

The hectic pace of the modern world is utterly unsuited to man. We rush about frenetically, our minds racing at an inhuman speed. We seldom stop to contemplate the aspects of our lives that truly matter: our faith, our values, and our relationships. Our reliance on caffeine and LED lights makes us live out-of-sync with the cycles of the natural world. Silence is a rare (some might say ‘unheard-of’) commodity. The rush and roar of modern life has sold us the lie of multi-tasking, while simultaneously training our minds to constantly seek the next transient thing. The mindless scrolling and short-form content of social media has shattered our attention spans. Participating in reality requires us to slow down and focus on the things that are important. If we hope to foster a sense of wonder at the world around us, we must first cultivate the silence and the focus necessary to notice the small details that enrich our lives. While on a silent retreat a couple of years ago, a religious sister who once worked with Mother Teresa encouraged me to “notice the things you haven’t because you’re going too fast. Be a child again…that’s called ‘real.’” If we hope to live a life steeped in reality, we must reclaim a more human, more natural, pace of life: one that involves opportunities for silence, reflection, and wonder. 

If we hope to foster a sense of wonder at the world around us, we must first cultivate the silence and the focus necessary to notice the small details that enrich our lives.

Another key element in reclaiming a fully-human life is an emphasis on the physical world. Man is not a disembodied spirit, but that is precisely what modern technology has turned him into. As we “surf” the internet, our intellects and wills are largely divorced from our physical bodies. Despite the many benefits of living in a digital age, we must focus on the tangible things that help to facilitate a more natural lifestyle. Because man is both a spiritual and a physical creature, having a conversation “in-person” with a friend is intrinsically more human than talking with him via a glowing computer screen. Attending a concert is not the same thing as listening to music via Spotify or another online streaming service. Watching live theatre is a more tangible experience than watching a movie. I’m not arguing that these technologies are inherently bad, but am merely pointing out that there is a trade-off that occurs when we use them. If we want to reclaim a more tangible human life, we must be more deeply aware that we are physical creatures who inhabit a physical world. 

Man is not a disembodied spirit, but that is precisely what modern technology has turned him into.

What made my week in the Italian mountains so refreshing? I was thrust into the physical reality of the world around me. I was utterly disconnected from the chaos of the news cycle and social media. I had time to pray, learn, write, and reflect. I grew closer to the other students in my group through shared difficulties and intentional conversations. I was able to witness stunning beauty, and wonder at the small details of life. I was able to live as a man: fully-alive. 

How can we pursue reality, cultivating the principles of a human pace of life and physical tangibility? We can limit our time online, and invest in our relationships with our family members and friends. Rather than focusing on what others are doing on social media, or obsessing over the latest news story, we can focus on meaningful, beautiful, tangible, human activities. Plant a garden. Bake bread. Go on a hike. Write a letter. Learn an instrument. Read a physical book. Paint a picture. Learn a language. Read a magazine. Smoke a pipe. Sing a song. Write a song. Write a poem. Learn to dance. I grant that these activities are not necessarily easy or convenient. However, perhaps a lack of convenience is the cost of living a life steeped in reality.

Aidan Jones is a first-year graduate student pursuing a Master of Arts in Classical Education.