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103 Ways to Digitally Detox and Regain Your Humanity.
Take your sons and daughters to the park.
Read The Moviegoer by Walker Percy.
Paint a picture.
Turn off your air and open your windows.
Walk barefoot in the grass, in the dirt, in the rain.
Visit the Lincoln Memorial. Keep a journal.
Watch Rushmore.
Listen to Radiohead’s OK Computer uninterrupted.
Read Flannery O’Connor’s collection of short stories Everything That Rises Must Converge.
View the Howard Finster exhibit at the High Museum of Art.
Listen to Bonnie “Prince” Billy’s I See A Darkness, uninterrupted.
Mow your own grass.
Grow your own tomatoes: even if you don’t like tomatoes, your friends do.
Learn a card trick.
Read The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger.
Take a sabbatical, no matter how short.
Bake an apple pie—make your own crust.
Make something out of wood.
Learn G, C, and D chords on the guitar. And wail on them!
Attend something at Radio City Music Hall.
Take a photo. Develop it. Frame it.
Memorize the lyrics to “Sweet Caroline” by Neal Diamond.
Volunteer.
Wear something for comfort, not style.
Ride a bike.
Visit a National Park.
Knit a hat.
Read a book on science.
Listen to Neutral Milk Hotel’s In The Aeroplane Over The Sea, uninterrupted.
Make a short movie, play it for your friends.
Play wiffleball with the kids on your street.
Visit a working farm. Observe.
Attend a concert by your local symphony.
Listen to Radiohead’s Kid A uninterrupted. Then do it again.
Act like a tourist.
Smell the coffee.
Wear socks that don’t match your outfit.
Become a beekeeper.
Go surfing.
Learn to play Van Halen’s "Jump" on the piano.
Visit the Museum of Natural History in New York City.
Skip a rock in a creek.
Dance in your underwear to Generation X’s “Dancing With Myself.”
Climb a tree.
Make something out of Play-Doh.
Listen to “Prelude and Entrance of the Gods into Valhalla” from Das Rheingold by Richard Wagner.
Play checkers.
Study another religion.
Listen to live music at your local bar.
Drink a bottle of Chimay with a friend, repeat.
Avoid chain restaurants and stores when possible.
Listen to Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons uninterrupted.
Read Walden by Henry David Thoreau.
Repurpose something.
Visit your local library.
Unplug.
Read The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck.
Handwrite a letter.
Write a poem.
Attend something at Atlanta’s Fox Theater.
Listen to Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, Movement 4, “March to the Scaffold,” performed by the Philadelphia Orchestra, conducted by Eugene Ormandy.
Go for a boat ride.
Fly a kite.
Train to be a pilot.
Play chess.
Take your spouse on a date.
Watch Dancer in the Dark.
Visit the Museum of Modern Art in New York City.
Listen to Ten by Pearl Jam uninterrupted.
Read to your kids.
Visit the Vietnam Memorial.
Read The Book of Images by Rainer Maria Rilke.
Observe Sabbath.
Ride a four-wheeler.
Ride a four-wheeler in the snow.
Go horseback riding.
Go horseback riding in the snow.
Smoke a pipe occasionally.
Take a walk.
Join a sports team.
Wrestle with your sons and/or daughters.
Go fishing.
Give away some money; someone always has less than you.
Take a walk in the rain.
Stop by a friend’s house unannounced.
Learn to cook soul food.
Take a walk while it’s snowing.
Start a hobby that you previously abandoned.
Read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Ride a skateboard.
Make a wish.
Take your daughter on a date.
Believe in unicorns.
Read a book on philosophy.
Hang a birdhouse in your yard.
Listen to “Prelude, Suite for Solo Cello No. 6” by Yo-Yo Ma.
Go swimming in the ocean.
Make a card for someone.
Light a candle.
Play air guitar.
Draw a cartoon.
Read On the Road by Jack Kerouac.
Make a sand castle.
Do all of this without announcing it on social media or YouTube. Do it because life isn’t lived in pixels and bytes but in the amazing technicolor of a beautiful, beautiful world.
This post was taken from my first nonfiction book, co-authored with one of my best friends, Jason Locy. The book is Veneer: Living Deeply in a Surface Society. And you can still buy it all these years later. We had a lot of fun making this list, as you can tell. We made the list years ago, but it all holds up nicely as I read it. Feel free to leave a tip to support my writing ministry, and by all means, share it with a friend or family member.
When I dusted off this list, it reminded me of the heart behind The Summer Slowdown, a new mini-course I released this week. The Summer Slowdown is a “Practical Summer Challenge to Inspire You to Slow Down & Revitalize Your Life.” Click the button below to explore more and buy.
A Practical Summer Challenge to Inspire You to Slow Down & Revitalize Your Life
How My Daughters See Me
Not long ago, I attended a sophisticated party. Beautifully adorned women, smartly dressed men. I sat and observed the wonder of human interaction. How we dip and pirouette in and out of conversations with sighs, laughs, and head curtsies.
Then I observed one elegant woman sit upon the out-of-the-way leather couch, off to herself, pull out her iPhone, and flip through, whatever.
Astounding, I thought. We, the sophisticated, turning from the real, to the virtual.
Then I thought how most of these beautiful men and women will return home, check their children (if they have them), dress for bed, and sit up looking back on the evening via news feeds from the social.
I marveled at how we can transition from the delights of fellowship, into the gorging of narcissism. This thought sent me reeling. I wondered how I looked within the grand context of human interaction. Was I checking my phone when e're I could? Did I return home simply to hop in bed and hop online?
Then I thought, How do my daughters see me?
They pop into our room during the pre-sleep I need-a-snack time. What's daddy doing? Flipping through the social? Binge watching? On the laptop? What legacy am I creating each morning, noon, and night? What am I etching into their hearts via my actions and inaction? Do they see me rush to the virtual world, when the physical world demands my attention?
Certainly digital/social media serves some purpose in our lives. But what struck me was how it has moved from simple augmentation of the real, to a weird kind of co-inherence with one another.
So, I scribbled down my manifesto, a declaration of my organic humanity and its relationship to the most important discipleship project I'm a part of: fathering my daughters.
My Manifesto
I want my girls to see dirt under my fingernails. Grease in my fingerprints. Grass stains on my jeans.
I want them to see me build a fire. Cook them s'mores. Pitch a tent.
I want them to see me work, hard. And then play, hard.
I want them to be overwhelmed with the wonder and beauty of books. To be humbled, intrigued, and inspired by human thought, because I, myself, respect all humans and their unique and varied thought.
I want them to read poetry, love poetry, write poetry, because I, myself, value poetry and its place in human discourse.
I want them to see me participate in hard conversations, through thoughtful interaction, through rigorous scholarship, and hard thinking on subjects that demand more than bumper-sticker-theology, sound-byte-moralism, or blog-deep-advocacy.
I want them to see me hold my ground, when the whole world shifts toward the popular trends and too-cool-ideology sparked by a postmodern narcissism that threatens to reduce sacramental and sacrificial living into a cesspool of self, tagged with the your-best-story-now mantra.
I want them to see me take on adventures. Travels, hikes, bike-hikes, day-hikes, back-yard-capades.
I want them to see me fail. I want them to see me get back up. And try again.
I want them to see me give mercy. I want them to see me accept grace. I want them to see me talking with their mom, in the quiet of the mornings on the porch.
I want them to find me playing my guitar when no one is looking or listening. I want them to know how beauty roots in solitude and blooms as an afront to chaos.
I want them to find me talking to God as if he hears, and wants to talk back, because he does.
I want them to discover the overwhelming wonder of music, from Bach to Led Zepplin. I want them to see me drink it in. I want them to see me singing with it, dancing to it, unafraid of the neighbor's surprise visit or what our sophisticated society may think.
I want them to hear my laughter shake the rafters.
I want them to hear my sobs resound in the quietness of my closet.
I want them to find me napping, under a tree, in a hammock.
I want them to find me by the fire just looking at stars, way past midnight when they should be in bed but can't sleep.
I want them to see me heading out on my mountain bike. Cleaning my mountain bike, fixing my mountain bike. I want them to ask me if they can come along.
I want them to see me bleed.
I want them to hear me tell stories.
I want them to feel free to crawl up into my lap, even while I'm working.
I want them never to have to wait until I post something to hear their inquiry.
I want them to be in the world, rather than spending time curating a virtual one.
I want to binge-watch THEM.
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As a culture, our attentiveness has succumb to the glam of immediacy. I want my daughters to see me attentive, to them, to our life together, to the moment. I don't want them to see me rushing it off to the internet.
I didn't post any pictures from the party. I wanted to keep the images in my memory, private, and special. And the same goes for this Saturday when I planted pansies with my daughters. Life events don't have to be posted to be special. In fact, hiddenness enriches our lives with the value of intimacy.
Explore Dr. Tim’s New Book
A Note for the Curious.
Beauty can change you if you let it. That’s what the path of life has taught me so far. Beauty changed me. It still does. But don’t worry. This isn’t a book about sitting on beaches or mountain roads watching the sunset or meditating in art galleries—although I have done (and still do) these things.
This idea of chasing beauty is about pursuing a lifestyle that goes against the cultural grain of busyness, loudness, and naked ambition—you know, the kind of ambition we’re told we must have in order to find success in this cutthroat world.
My relatively short life has taught me that Beauty Chasers are thinkers and listeners. They see when the world goes blind. They embody quietness when all the world wants to do is scream. They promote the good of others when the world says to promote yourself. They give life to others when the world seems hell-bent on killing.
Beauty Chasers live their lives to a different cadence. They walk the path less traveled. If you’re interested in these things, and you’re willing to risk change, then read on, my friend.
Healthy Habits for a Happy Year of Writing