To a Simpler Time

Take me back to a simpler time.

A time of Shakespeare by candlelight, a phonograph humming softly in the background, and the worries of the world not sitting at my fingertips.

Take me to a time when handwritten letters were how we communicated instead of instantaneous text messages. When you waited for the mail and wondered what might be waiting for you. When words took time—not because they had to, but because they were worth taking the time to write.

Take me to a time where photos took weeks or months to be developed. Not knowing if the memory was captured or if you couldn't make out the faces. Where it took intentionality to take the moment to capture.

I am grateful for our technological advances. I really am.

I love being able to send a message and have an answer within seconds. I love being able to turn on a light in the middle of the night without striking a match or filling a kerosene lamp. I appreciate the convenience, the accessibility, and the countless ways technology has made our lives easier.

That isn't it.

There is simply something different about the slower way of living.

Something almost stoic about sitting in a quiet room with only the soft crackle of a fire, the glow of a candle, and the music of an old phonograph filling the space.

Something beautiful about holding a letter someone took the time to write by hand.

Something meaningful about not knowing everything immediately.

We have gained so much through technology, but sometimes I wonder what we have lost in the process.

We no longer have to wait for much of anything. We can find an answer before we've had time to wonder. We can hear from someone without ever hearing their voice. We can fill every quiet moment with noise.

And maybe that's what I long for.

Not necessarily to live in the past, but to remember what it felt like to live without constantly reaching for the next thing.

To sit still.

To wonder.

To listen.

To let a moment simply be a moment.

Maybe there is something to be said for a life that moves a little slower.

A life where not everything is immediate.

A life where we have time to notice the little things—the music playing in the corner, the handwriting on a page, the flicker of a flame, the quiet of an evening.

Maybe I don't actually want to go back.

Maybe I just want to bring a little more of then into now.