Category Archives: Katrin Haldeman

I Dumped Facebook: Disconnecting from the Constant Connection

Posted by Katrin Haldeman on April 21, 2011 1 comments

When I think of all of the relationships in my life, I generally start with my parents, siblings, children, friends, and co-workers.  On days when I contemplate the subject even more, I might include my doctor, my mail carrier, and my neighbors.  Recently I started to think about how much time I spend with all of these people.  Do I see all of them face to face every day? Do I call them every day and talk with them voice to voice, so I can listen to the emotion they might project in the sound I hear? No—and—no, I do not. 

I get up, text my youngest sister good morning, and receive texts on my way into work.  When I get to work I start my computer, and while I wait for it to load up, I check my email on my phone.  My home page was Facebook, so EVERY morning I would get a never-ending stream of other people’s status—some VERY personal, some funny, some offensive, and some sad.  I get real news from The Huffington Post, and fake news from The Onion.  I get spiritual messages from the Dalai Lama and political messages from every cause I have ever supported. 

I turned Facebook on in the morning and it was the last thing I saw before I went to bed at night.  With all the time I invested in my relationship with Facebook, we should have been engaged, or at least it should have been buying me dinner or drinks, whisking me away for a romantic weekend.  It had become my life partner.  Now, if FB was a person, a partner, a friend—and all I did was read, listen to, and participate with them morning, noon, and night – my family, children, and co-workers would be concerned that I was losing myself in this relationship.  And they would be right. 

If I WANT to know what is going on in my sisters’ lives, friends’ lives, or the Dalai Lama’s life, I can make that happen.  I can call my sister and hear in her voice that she has had a tough day. I can visit her and find out that something hysterical happened to her and I would hear her laugh AND I would get the opportunity to laugh with her—instead of seeing “lol : o”

When I started my relationship with Facebook it was to stay connected, to be informed about everything that was going on, and to feel like a part of something that was worldwide.  What I came to know is that connection no longer meant “personal” to me.  Everyone, everywhere on my “list” knew everything, not just about me, but about others as well.  My excitement and anticipation of the little red quote icon over my comments, messages, or invites started to feel the same as when I was a smoker and couldn’t wait to get outside to light one.  It felt like an addiction to a harmful substance. 

So I quit—cold turkey. As I write this, it has been 24 hours, 2 minutes, and 35 seconds since I posted my last status, and I can feel my connection to reality coming back.  I am now five times more likely to smile when I see you, 10 times more likely to laugh at the jokes you tell, and 20 times more likely to really listen to what you have to say.

Carpet, Red Riding Hood, and the Dark Unknown

Posted by Katrin Haldeman on April 8, 2011 None comments

It was April Fool’s Day. No matter what I was listening to, reading, or looking at, it was in some way referring to foolishness.  I was kind of annoyed and felt just a little bit smarter than all of the silliness going on around me; I was about to go listen to Elizabeth Lesser, founder of the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York—and she was no fool. 

So, off I went, into the big room with so many seats. It was very different from being in the earthy haven that Rhinebeck, nestled in the Hudson Valley of upstate New York, typically offers; this was structured, orchestrated, and heavily, heavily carpeted, maybe even on the walls, I’m not quite sure.  It was slightly suffocating.  I wasn’t sure what this experience would bring; it was already so different from the Omega campus, which oozed nature and life force.

Totally feeling like I was at a Michael Jackson concert—or like the nerd I was in college—I went (ran) up front, sat down with my pen and paper, and put my glasses on so I could actually read what I was writing. I was intent on absorbing as much as I possibly could from what Elizabeth was about to say.

She came to the stage and started to tell the story of Little Red Riding Hood.  A photo of a red-cloaked girl, brilliant against the lush green of a partially lit forest, appeared on the screen in front of us.  I looked up at it, and Elizabeth’s voice carried the thoughts that accompanied my eyes down the path of the light to where the forest grew dark.  The cloak was stopped in the middle, stuck, seemingly paralyzed. Would it move forward, or stay in the sun, where all was known and all was familiar?

As the story of Red Riding Hood rose into metaphor and insight, the energy in the room expanded, the air became light, and the carpet seemed to disappear from under my feet.

The insight became clear:  we are all on a path, all finding our way between the darkness and the light.  What are we carrying? How close to or how far from the path do we veer? In the darkness, it is hard to see if there is light on the other side. For all of us, this is how each journey begins.  Are we fools to wander out of the light, off the path, into the darkness, into the unknown? Or are we fools not to?

Elizabeth said, “We must learn to embrace the unknowable.” That reminded me of Rilke: “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”

Embrace the question. Embrace the unknown.  Every day there will be an unknown; every day is unknown, and can’t be known until it is lived.  Attempting to control and know what hasn’t come is a fool’s journey. At the same time, only a fool will walk into the unknown to embrace it, to live it, and to learn.

There is not one of us who is not a fool in some way. We move through life, or we watch it go by.   Do we embrace the darkness to find a greater light, or do we stay in the light we know, afraid of the unknown, destined to wear grooves in a path already walked?

I have never wanted to think of myself as a fool—and I have never looked at another as a fool. In this place on this 1 April, the room was filled with beautiful fools, all of us there because the edge of the darkness was not far enough for our journey.  Into the picture, onto the path, out of the light, into the unknown we go.