Flick That iPhone Switch Off, Take In The View
By Greg Evans
Everybody has a location, somewhere, a view that hits them like a glass of their favorite wine. A warm, fuzzy feeling of euphoria washes over you. For some, it is a view of the beach, while for others, it is a view of the mountain trail. For the majority of the population, it is staring into a screen. It doesn't matter if you are eating sitting alone or with others, flying in a hot air balloon, sitting in a class, or crossing a busy intersection. For me, it is a stretch of about 150 feet on a bridge over Lake Norman while moving at 50-plus miles-per-hour.
I often travel between Huntersville, North Carolina, and Johnson City, Tennessee. The majority of the drive is typical of the American highway experience, with little to see except trees, giant sound barricades, and the occasional town or small city that begins to look very much the same after a while.
There are a few peculiarities along the way. Hit Roan Mountain, and your view is of streets bizarrely lined with rebel flags, like it is 1866 or Newman, with residents decorating their homes in flickering Christmas lights not long after Halloween festivities. Meander through a foggy, narrow mountain pass, roads slick and damp, dark and unforgiving, and come upon a gypsy RV park with campfires alit regardless of the hour. How many people even notice it anymore?
Crossing that first bridge heading south over Lake Norman at dusk and glancing out over the water, you see the glittering lights along the shoreline, the boats out on the lake, the pastel sky, and everything in the world is right.
Any stress, any aggravation, any pressing deadlines or family dissent, the anxiety of some social event, or the perpetually rising cost of smoked salmon, it all goes away.
For about 15 to 20 seconds, I pass into this utopia. I don't want to pull over and stop on the shoulder to soak it in. I have to be moving. This view must come and then go. The anticipation of reaching this bridge, arriving, and leaving Huntersville is always the same. There is an excitement along with an empyrean calm, the twinkling, silent lights out in the darkness.
Every time I reach the bridge, I think about those people who reside there on the lake, looking out at each other's homes and boats and enjoying that intoxicating view for hours, every day and every night. I wonder if it is as magical for them as it is for me. Or are they too busy sitting on their decks, eyes glued to the iPhone, scrolling, scrolling, and scrolling some more?
Do they get lost in that picture? They are fixed on the shoreline while I am always in motion. There is something to be said about movement. I wonder if there are other romantics out there that come upon this very same spot and see what I see, also always in motion. Or do they not even notice? The glow from the iPhone is too distracting and inhibits the field of vision. Oh, my gosh. That meme is too much! I must respond right now, here in the middle of this bridge. Oh, are we on a bridge? The bluish-white glow of a cellphone in a dark car has become repulsively familiar.
I also wonder sometimes if I have ever hit that spot on the bridge along with someone else, and together, we have the same euphoric experience, both of us with our iPhones turned to the off position.
Then I wonder if I am mentally fit to be driving over a bridge at all, having such outlandish thoughts. The boats on the lake are in motion, just like me. Their perception is similar to mine, but they are more engaged in being a part of the view. I feel jealous. I want to be on that boat too. But would I enjoy the view as much, being able to stare at it for much longer, analyze it, imagine who the residents are living there, noticing the flickering of televisions, and cringe knowing the view gets neglected?
What is it about this view that I love so much? I recall leaving Huntersville at around 4:30 in the afternoon, heading north. It was still light out, and the sun was beginning to set a bit. I was on the bridge, soaking in the view and knowing it was going to end in a matter of seconds. I glanced right for whatever reason to see a woman driving in the same spot, mesmerized not by the view but by the text she was heavily involved in typing while traveling 60 mph over water with nothing but a skinny guard rail to keep her from plunging to a watery grave.
I slowed slightly to protect myself against her swerving wildly into my lane, but also to prolong the view. What kind of person drives past a view like this and doesn't notice? I remember thinking, and oddly felt some disdain, but quickly realized her mediocrity wasn't worth my concern.
Maybe in such moments, it is ok to be selfish, it is OK to enjoy something just for me, and the masses can keep their faces stapled to their phones, though maybe refrain from driving while texting to say, save a life or two...
Humans are an offbeat creation. Sometimes I wonder what God was thinking when I see people doing things like texting and driving while zooming across a bridge in a 2,000-pound killing machine as if taking on Bristol Motor Speedway with a blindfold.
As I drive back to King University in Bristol, still clutching onto life without being run off the bridge, I think about how lucky I am to have not fallen so far into the technological wormhole that I no longer recognize a beautiful view. How can I translate these thoughts to the students?
My happy place doesn't sit inside of a screen. It sits out there in front of me, on a bridge over gently rippling water, silent, stoic, transcendent, here in this enchanting place called Lake Norman, North Carolina. Maybe one evening flick that iPhone switch off and take it all in, just one time.
Originally published on Sunday, December 20, 2020
Mooresville Tribune / mooresvilletribune.com
