Scattered Enthusiasm

Jeremy Wilson

[scatteredenthusiasm-blog]

24-hour Tech Break: Reflections and Realizations from a Screenless Day

For 24-hours this weekend, I joined up with Imaginarium and took a tech break. Starting at 6pm on Friday and going until 6pm on Saturday, I turned my phone off – not “do not disturb” or airplane mode, but just completely off. I closed my computer and iPad as well and zipped them up in my workbag and put them in my closet, out of sight and relatively out of mind. During my time away from screenland, I had a few realizations that I want to share.

Before that, I do want to acknowledge one thing.

I understand that people have actual hardships in life, and that taking a 24-hour tech break is not one of them. And I know a 24-hour tech break sounds like something that would be recognized at the Millennial’s Choice Awards.

“Oh my god, is that the guy that did the 24-hour tech break?” “Wow, I can’t believe it’s him!” “I thought he died at hour 13.” “No, the doctors actually rushed in and were able to resuscitate him after the 24th. That’s why he’s the guest of honor at this year’s MCA’s.”

Anyway, you get the point. But here’s what I learned.

Silence is Golden (for real)

I didn’t realize how much of the day my attention and thoughts were being guided by noise. My typical daily routine consists of nonstop noise. 

When I wake up I put in headphones first thing and listen to a podcast while I make coffee and breakfast, then I take out the headphones to write my morning journal of three pages by hand, then the headphones go back in and I clean up breakfast. Next up I swap out headphones for Spotify to play on my phone while I shower and get ready for the day, then I go headphones again and get my stuff together to head out the door. As I get in my car, I switch from headphones to my car audio, so I’m either listening to music (SiriusXM Fly channel 47, 90′s-00’s hip-hop and r&b, to be precise), or I’m making calls. My workday then consists of either interviewing people, training, staff meetings, or doing in-home sales presentations, which is pretty much me talking 80% of the time, which is just more noise. During a lunch break, or anytime between appointments/meetings, I toss the headphones back in and pick back up on a podcast. Eventually I hop back in the car to head home, so it’s back to music or phone calls. When I get home, the headphones go back in as I cook dinner, and then they come out as I eat dinner while catching up on the previous night’s Late Night with Seth Meyers (and other shows) on my DVR. As that finishes, I’m mindlessly scrolling through social media, just refreshing stuff waiting for the next little dopamine hit that is a new post, story, article, etc. To end the day, I toss the headphones back in while I do dishes, I still have them on as I get ready for bed, and then I pop them out only to fall asleep to Netflix on my iPad that is a foot away from my face, which I then wake up to 30-minutes later to find it still playing, so I close the case and go back to sleep.

Whew. That looks WAY worse typed out. From the moment I get out of bed to when I fall asleep (for the second time), it’s just noise-noise-noise-noise-noise-noise-noise-noise, with zero breaks.

My first realization during the tech break was how vital the silence was. I needed it desperately. The silence revealed to me exactly how much noise I fill my day with.

I like to think of clarity of mind as a mirror that I’m looking into. Every bit of noise throughout the day adds a little fog to it. Podcasts – fog, phone calls – fog, texts – fog, every refresh of social media – fog (and fog and fog and fog and fog). These things aren’t inherently bad on their own, but my relationship (or addiction, really) to them is unhealthy, because I let them fog the mirror all day.

The silence, however, is the only thing that would clear the mirror. Each hour of silence during the tech break was a small wipe across the mirror, until finally the fog was gone, which happened maybe at hour 17. The more fog you put on the mirror, the longer it takes to clear it.

When the mirror finally cleared, I was reminded of who I am and what I want to do with my energies that particular day. My creative juices started to flow, I had three or four short story ideas come up, and I was able to look in the mirror and see what the next right thing to do was. When the mirror is foggy, I don’t have a chance at seeing the next right thing. I’ll get an idea, but then a Facebook notification will completely derail that train of thought. With a clear mirror, I was able to think through a story idea completely uninterrupted, even sketching out a quick outline so I could return to it later.

Silence is vital, and it brings clarity along with it. I don’t mean that you have to treat your tech break like a silent retreat – you can talk to anyone you’d like in person – but when I say silence I really mean just a break in the noise of screenland, whether the screen is making noise or not. The silence recharged my batteries.

Productivity

Without the constant interruptions of noise, I was able to accomplish more tasks in my 24-hour tech break than I had done in the first two months of the year. I always have a running list of things I’d like to get done around my house on a day off, but then stuff comes up and those things get pushed aside, or I’ll start one project and then come back the next weekend and try to finish it, usually leaving it 75% done.

Over the 24-hour tech break, I did laundry (sheets, towels, clothes), reorganized my bedroom, cleaned out my car, deep cleaned my entire house (not just dusting and cleaning the floors, but like the scrubbing the shelves of my fridge kind of deep cleaning), raked leaves, pulled weeds, trimmed all my hedges, bought new succulents for inside, moved everything off my front porch, swept the floor, wiped down the furniture, and then rearranged the layout of the porch, I read 50+ pages of a book, I wrote my three morning journal pages, wrote 50% of this post (by hand, of course), I cooked, and I got rid of (donated) two trash bags full of clothes I haven’t worn since I moved into this house in 2016.

All done in 24-hours, with ~8 of those hours spent sleeping.

I don’t mind a good day or two of cleaning and organizing because I would usually catch up on podcasts or listen to music while I did those things. But without any distractions from noise or screenland, I was able to accomplish each task in about 60% of the time they would normally take because I was solely focused on that particular task.

For example, if I have headphones in while trimming hedges, I’ll come across a song I don’t want to listen to on a playlist, so I’ll get my phone out of my pocket to change songs, but then I’ll see an Instagram notification, and when I open Instagram I’ll see some new stories pop up, then I’ll comment on a friend’s story, which will remind me to text another friend back about something else, and then 10-minutes go by and I’m standing on a ladder with hedge clippers in one hand and my phone in the other, all while my playlist is now 5 songs past the one I wanted to skip in the first place. When finally get back to work on the hedges, another song will come on that I don’t want to listen to, and the cycle starts over.

(Exhale) I told you my relationship to screenland was unhealthy.

Without my phone in my pocket, I was not only able to complete the tasks much quicker, but I was also able to do them better because they had my full attention. Instead of just buying new succulents and putting them in new pots, I cleaned out all of the old pots and mixed in new dirt for the succulents I already had. At the end of the day, I was tired, but it was that good kind of tired, where you’re proud of your work.

I was at my most productive when the mirror wasn’t fogged.

Constant Contact

Last point, so I’ll make it quick.

I was stunned at how many times I would think of something that would make me reach for my phone to text a friend. The smallest thought would pop in my head, and I’d reach for my pocket for a phone that wasn’t even there because my first instinct is, “Oh, I gotta text that person about that.” I do that ALL DAY, which puts me in constant contact with so many different people. The reaction to reach for my phone was Pavlovian like.

The shirt I wore yesterday was one I bought in Encinitas last year when I was visiting my friend Luke, and I thought, “Oh, I need to send him a picture of this shirt.” Later on I was getting my golf clubs out of my car and thought, “Oh, I need to see if my friend Patty wants to walk 9-holes tomorrow because the weather is so nice.” Then I found an old jacket from college that made me think, “Oh, I need to send a picture of this to my friends because it reminds me of this thing we did back in 2009.” This routine happened over and over and over and over.

Again, texting my friends isn’t a bad thing – in fact, it may be a nice pick me up for both of us in the process. But the quick reaction to reach for my phone anytime those thoughts popped in my head scared me. It was like I was desperate to be in constant contact with a bunch of people all day, and that constant contact is going to add more and more fog to the mirror, distracting me from writing, cleaning, reading, or whatever I want to spend my energies on. Plus, each time I open my phone to send one of those texts, I’m more likely to come across something else on that shiny, 5.5” screen that will take me down a different rabbit hole, which will, in the end, make me forget to send the original text.

The break from constant contact was incredibly calming.

If you read one part, let it be this

As the clock approached 6pm, I started to get a little sad. I wasn’t ready for the tech break to be over. I wasn’t ready to return to my old way of doing things. Texts, calls, social media, emails – I knew it would all come flooding back with the press of one button. Or even worse, what if no texts came flooding in? OR, what if only one text came in and it was from the pharmacy saying that my monthly prescription was ready for pickup? That wasn’t the case, but I digress…

I loved my time off of the grid, and quite frankly, I liked no-tech Jeremy a lot better than screenland Jeremy. It reminded me of being a kid, when I could jump from task to task, pursuing whatever interested me at the moment, free of anything buzzing or lighting up in my pocket, and solely focused on what was right in front of me at that exact moment in time. I got out of my own head. The mirror was clear.

A power shift had taken place – one I was dying for and didn’t even know it. For the first time in probably a decade, I owned my phone instead of my phone owning me.

So going forward, I’ll make some adjustments to my routine: I’m going to limit the amount of time headphones are in my ears, I’ll swap out Netflix for a book before I go to sleep (because I know I don’t need to watch all of The Office for the millionth time), I will leave my phone in a different room of my house when I want to get stuff done, and I’ll continue not checking social media before noon, which I’ve been doing for Lent this year.

If you’d like to try a 24-hour tech break, here are my suggestions:

1. Do it over a regular weekend at your house, because it’s easier to analyze your habits when you are in your typical routine. If you do it outside of your routine, then you’ll have other distractions to keep you away from technology in the first place, which won’t reveal your tech instincts enough. It’s best to have as little planned as possible.

2. Get someone else to do it that doesn’t live with you, because it’s a nice little encouragement to know other people out there are doing it as well.

3. Keep a notepad with you and write down your accomplishments every time you complete one. By the end of the day, you’ll be shocked at what all you’ve done.

I know one tech break isn’t a cure all, so I’m planning on doing this once a month for the rest of the year. In the meantime, I’ll be working hard to keep the mirror clear.

[scatteredenthusiasm-blog]

Order, Disorder, Reorder: My Experience with an Ongoing Spiritual Transformation

I have been so intrigued with Richard Rohr’s three phases of life: Order, Disorder, and Reorder. Order is the belief system and rules that were passed down to you when growing up, Disorder is when those beliefs are challenged and fall away, and Reorder is a new life on the other side. 

Order, Disorder, Reorder is the pattern of growth, transformation, and any story worth telling. Here’s how I have seen it play out in my life the past 18 months...

ORDER

Order was being the youngest child born into a Christian family. Order was having my nursery decorated in a Noah’s Ark theme before I could even crawl. Order was spending Sundays in children’s church before I could even walk. Order was church on Sunday morning and every Sunday night. Order was learning Bible stories before knowing how to read or write. Order was eating goldfish after singing Jesus Loves Me. Order was drawing Zacchaeus up in the tree, a wee little man was he. Order was felt-board Jesus.

Order was boring hymns that sounded 1,000-years-old – maybe they were. Order was the booming voices of older men in baggy suits singing Rock of Ages, and the woman in the pew behind me holding the note a half-second too long. Order was the organ-player putting her heart and soul into every note. Order was a church-wide dinner in the gymnasium on Wednesdays before the midweek service.

Order was memorizing the Westminster Shorter Catechism for Kids, reciting them to my Sunday school teachers: “Q. 14. Where do you learn how to love and obey God? In the Bible alone. Q. 15. Who wrote The Bible? Holy men who were taught by the Holy Spirit.” Order was being freaked out about questions 10 and 11: “Q. 10. Where is God? God is everywhere. Q. 11. Can you see God? No. I cannot see God, but he always sees me.” Order was keeping it to myself like everyone else.

Order was attending a Christian school from Kindergarten through 12th grade. Order was learning colors, and words, and numbers. Order was learning how to write my name with an oversized red pencil. Order was seeing the same faces in class that were in Sunday school. Order was trying to make friends laugh during naptime, and getting in trouble for doing so. Order was just trying to make it to recess.

Order was a weekly Bible verse memorization for 13-straight years at school. Order was weekly sword drills, seeing who could find the chapter and verse the quickest. Order was winning the 4th grade sword drill competition, with the grand prize being – yes, you guessed it – a new and sharper “sword.” Order was more concerned with the “what” and “where” in scripture, not the “why.” Order was learning about the Bible the same way as learning our country’s 50 States and Capitals.

Order was being taught a literal six-day creation story with no room for an alternative theory. Order was every teacher giving a disclaimer when science videos hinted at the Earth being 13 billion years old – “Oh, before I press play, the stuff at the beginning about evolution and all is obviously not true, but the rest of the video is pretty good.” Order was hearing the same stories at church and school, giving no reason to question it because it was often coming from the same people.

Order was authority figures always having all the answers, regardless of the topic. Order was Bible teachers answering existential questions with the same certainty as questions about the Periodic Table. Order was having P.E. coaches tasked with teaching Bible classes. Order lacked mystery and the unknown. Order was building walls around me without my knowledge.

Order was then attending a large public university, but quickly finding a group that fit inside those walls. Order was having the same beliefs preached every week, but in a different state by different faces so that it felt like newer ideas. Order was meeting new people outside of the walls, but always returning and locking the door behind me. 

Order was moving to Chicago and meeting people from all different backgrounds, which didn’t poke holes in the mortar of the walls, but rather revealed the actual existence of the walls. Order knew to find a church immediately to ensure that friends would be on the same page, but even then Order started to look dated. Order was a small group that had open and honest discussions, but often the group’s honesty wasn’t to Order’s liking.

Order was moving to Nashville where it felt safe and sound. Order was reconnecting with old friends and making new friends that fit comfortably back inside of the walls, which put Order at peace. Order was going to a new church where the music was better and the people dressed well, masking that message hadn’t changed since the felt board. Order was still hearing preachers talk about who was in and who was out, how single people “needed to be rescued,” and how all were welcome, but with an asterisk next to “all” so large it could be seen from outer space. Order’s walls began to get exposed by personal experience, and the views from inside were bleak. Order became old and stale.

Order, however, was important and necessary. Order was learning right from wrong. Order was learning safe from unsafe. Order was great friends, mission trips, camps, lock-ins, white-water rafting and ski trips. Order was sports, movies, television, (heavily-guided) reading, singing, bad dancing, dating, and parties. Order was performed and taught by lovely people with good intentions. Order needed authority figures to have authority, just not the absolute kind.

Order was missing one key ingredient: curiosity. Order would encourage curiosity, but only if it fit within Order’s walls, because Order didn’t like to be challenged. Order had curiosity and mystery on a retractable leash, letting them have the feeling of running wild until they reached the threshold, then they were violently whipped back, returning to their origin.

Order was necessary because Order is always the beginning. Order is not to be tossed out, but for growth to occur, the walls of Order must come tumbling down.

DISORDER

Disorder doesn’t start with an explosion. Disorder begins like the first few sprinkles of an approaching storm, causing the glassy lake to lose its smooth reflection. Disorder is ripples, not waves.

Disorder, however, won’t start or go anywhere without the companion that Order kept on the leash: curiosity. Disorder has its learner’s permit, but it is not allowed to drive anywhere without curiosity in the front seat. Disorder will knock on the door relentlessly, but curiosity has to unlock the door from the other side. Disorder, for some, knocks on the door for years, exhausting the tenant who won’t let curiosity near the deadbolt. Disorder is the vehicle, but curiosity is the fuel.

Disorder began with an innocent book about a guide to creating a life worth living. Disorder knew I wouldn’t realize that it was spiritual at first, but later I would realize that everything is spiritual. Disorder knew that Order had installed a more passive approach to living: our time on Earth was a waiting room for the glory that’s to come, so speak the party line until you advance to the next level. Disorder needed to show me that the glory was here and now, and that God was looking for co-creators saying, “Psst – this is a gift, and you’ve had it the whole time.”

Disorder needed to start with adjusting my mindset before hitting the road. Disorder didn’t try to change my lens, but rather reveal the existence of the lens. Disorder turned on the lights, exposing just how high the walls towered overhead.

Disorder then tapped on my shoulder when my Uncle, a pastor of a large church in San Francisco, opened the doors of his 20-year-old church to the LGBTQ+ community, fully affirming and inclusive. Order had taught me for years about who was in and who was out, but with no research other than an authority figure saying, “Well, the Bible says…” Order loved to keep things black and white, stifling any resemblance of a counter-argument on such topics.

Disorder began by asking me not what I believe, but to consider why I hold certain beliefs. Disorder wasn’t trying to change my mind right off the bat; it just wanted me to be open to the idea of a change of mind. Disorder was setting the stage; ripples, not waves.

Disorder doesn’t force your hand, but it won’t do the dirty work for you.

Disorder was a book about re-examining scripture’s view and the history of the church’s relationship on the LGBTQ+ community, cracking the mortar of Order’s walls as I flew through each chapter. Disorder was then another book on the same topic, then another, and then podcasts full of stories from this community that had been treated as less than human by the church forever. Order had taught me a narrow, dualistic view that turned away so many, and doing so “in the name of God.” Disorder showed me that we are all beloved children of God, with no exceptions, and we have been the whole time – no matter what.

Disorder was always asking the question, “If so, then what’s next?” If Disorder stops asking that question then it’s no longer in the room, and you need to go open the door and let it back inside.

Disorder was then Rob Bell’s podcast with Richard Rohr about the Alternative Orthodoxy, causing me to write page after page of notes on the skinny balcony of my old apartment. Disorder was tearing through the rest of his podcasts, some causing me to accidentally sit through red lights while in deep thought, others leaving me teary eyed thinking about how I had spent the last 25 years treating this sacred life like a pit stop. Disorder was giving me a whole new approach on how things progress, on how the whole thing moves forward. Disorder cracked the foundation of the walls.

Disorder then introduced me to a whole new world of thought leaders, some religious, some not: Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic (both the book at podcast), Richard Rohr’s books and daily meditations, Suzanne Stabile and Ian Cron on the Enneagram, The Liturgists, Science Mike, Rachel Held Evans, Glennon Doyle Melton, Peter Rollins, Peter Enns, Brene Brown, Mary Oliver, Martha Beck, Mark Nepo – a list of names that would be a spooky hell dream of my conservative past. Disorder also gave me teachings from other religions, challenging me to connect the dots of what I had previously thought of as off limits.

Disorder gave me so many podcasts and books that challenged me to rethink every single thing I had been taught growing up. Disorder had me back on that skinny balcony reading Love Wins, crying as I turned each page thinking about how certain I had been that people in the “out” crowd were destined for an eternal, boiling fire by a monster, judgmental God – and all of the times that I prayed that this God wouldn’t send me there too; what kind of loving God would do that? Disorder was turning the ripples into waves.

Disorder wasn’t going to airlift me to safety out from inside Order’s walls as they crashed around me. Disorder left me in there and made me watch every last brick come crumbling down from the inside. Disorder wasn’t interested in the easy way out.

Disorder was sleepless nights, leaving me replaying all the ways that my previous beliefs hurt people when I thought I was helping. Disorder was an interior journey, demanding me to mine the soul to its core.

Disorder was brewing inside of me every second of every day, but it hadn’t bled into my surroundings yet. Disorder still had me at the same church, but leaving every Sunday upset and bitter at what felt a room full of people missing the point. Disorder made every church service and Bible study feel like I was showing up for a game in the wrong color jersey. Disorder then turned to cynicism, telling me that I’m the only one in this town – or even this part of the country – that thinks this way.

Disorder had me church hopping for a month or two, but it was only a distraction from the truth – I didn’t really want to find one. Disorder turned into taking a break from church, because why go somewhere for an hour and a half knowing that it’s just going to piss me off when I could stay home and watch the previous night’s SNL?

Disorder turned me bitter towards any people or organization who didn’t see things the way I did now: friends, family – aunts, uncles, cousins; previous schools, classmates, teachers, churches, pastors. Disorder ping-ponged back and forth from anger at how limited the belief system I was taught growing up to despair, making me wonder if any of it really mattered anyway.

Disorder had taken everything I had been told to be true and buried it in the rubble.

Disorder wouldn’t call the cleanup crew right away; it let it sit for a while as I laid watching the dust settle on the destruction. Disorder knew that I needed a break.

Disorder leaves you bloody and broken, because it knows the desire and hunger for growth is at its highest when you are at your lowest. Disorder knows you are most open to new life when you are at complete death.

Disorder then placed me in the front seat, tossed the car keys to curiosity, and hopped in the backseat. Disorder knows its time isn’t over – in fact, it’s never over – but it knows to lay low for a bit.

Disorder was and is to come.

REORDER

Reorder is harder to write and put into words because Reorder is still very new. Reorder is less of a reflection like Order and Disorder, but more like a stream of consciousness because Reorder is unfolding right now.

Reorder isn’t on my DVR. Reorder is live on the air.

Reorder found me in the rubble, but it only came after me because it saw that I was still holding onto curiosity. Reorder knew that as long as I had curiosity then I would be willing to answer the question, “What’s next?”

Reorder is being made new, not hitting the restart button. Reorder is a new birth, not reaching for the defibrillators.

Order is Palm Sunday. Disorder is Good Friday. Reorder is Easter Sunday. Reorder isn’t naïve though, it knows there are more Disorders to come, and in fact it welcomes them. Reorder doesn’t fear future Disorders because Reorder has experience as an ally; it knows how the cycle works. Reorder doesn’t exist without Disorder.

Disorder and Reorder are like the oars of a canoe. Disorder is when the oars come up out of the water, readjusting the paddle to a new angle. Reorder is when they re-enter the water and propel you forward; you can’t go anywhere without both working in perfect harmony.

Reorder is the one step forward to Disorder’s two steps back.

Reorder knows whom it’s dealing with; it has watched me since birth, so it’s never surprised by the handlings of Disorder. Reorder is the feeling of being fully known, and there’s such magnificent comfort in that. Reorder is out of the proving my worth business, it’s not keeping score. 

Reorder is the feeling of Divine connection; maybe Reorder is the Divine, or the closest we can get; maybe Reorder is the difference between being a Christian and being Christian – I don’t know. Reorder is acting my way into a new way of thinking instead of thinking my way into a new way of acting.

Reorder recognizes that the process of Order-Disorder-Reorder is all around us; it’s found in the seasons of the year in the same way as the seasons of life. Disorder was winter; Reorder is spring, aware that it won’t last forever, but knowing it will return. Reorder starts to see the Divine in everything. Reorder has me more interested in art, writing, comedy – any creative pursuit that helps with the ongoing creation of the world, which is when I feel most connected with the Divine.

Reorder is keeping an open mind about everything, always looking through a progressive lens. Reorder has taken this lens to the Bible, sparking a fascination about the Jesus story and what it means to be human than ever before. Reorder is realizing that the writers of the text were incredibly progressive at the time, and the best way we can honor the word is to keep pushing forward instead of trying to revert back to a literal interpretation. Reorder is making it hard for me to even talk to people about anything else.

Reorder is curiosity in action.

Reorder can be small things like seeing a t-shirt that says, “I met God, she’s black,” on it and then being excited when my sister got it for my birthday a few weeks later – a shirt I’m wearing while writing this.

Reorder can’t stomach conversations like: “How’s it going?” “Good, you?” “Good.” “Oh, Good.” Reorder has no interest in the surface level – it demands to go deeper. Reorder wants to know what gets someone out of bed in the morning – what makes them tick – and why?

Reorder can (and will) railroad friends and family with excitement and energy about this new way of being, but unlike Disorder it doesn’t get bitter when the feeling isn’t reciprocated because it knows that everyone else is on their own journey on their own timeline. Reorder knows that not everyone who doesn’t see the world the same as I do is a bad person – they are just as beloved as the rest of us, even when it doesn’t feel like it. Reorder is the constant practice of patience and understanding, but maintaining that an inclusive, progressive approach is the right way.

Reorder is looking back at my Facebook profile and hardly recognizing the person on there, like it was from a past life, often feeling horrified at some of my “This day in history” notifications of previous posts throughout the years, making me wonder, “Would the version of me today even be friends with former me?” Reorder, though, doesn’t wipe it out and start over because Reorder knows that everything belongs.  

Reorder now looks back fondly on Order, and is no longer upset with former teachers and pastors, it knows that they were doing their best with the information they had. Reorder has no desire to go back and change anything because Reorder knows that every Bible class, Sunday school lesson, and chapel service on Thursday mornings led to this specific journey. Reorder, again, knows that everything belongs.

Reorder is my same Uncle telling me about a progressive community like Gracepointe Church in Nashville, a place I had driven by 1,000 times and never noticed. Reorder introduces you to tons of like-minded people, restoring hope when Disorder made you feel like you were alone. Reorder’s excitement has me jumping in headfirst, sometimes forgetting that I’m new there and people don’t really know me yet, but the place felt like home the first time I walked in the building. Reorder is not the feeling of wearing the correct color jersey now, but realizing that the jersey color doesn’t matter, because a true representation of the Kingdom knows no labels.

Reorder longs to be around people who are fully alive, taking on life with the same level of curiosity and passion that Reorder knows so well. Reorder doesn’t have time for the mundane. Reorder is interested in those who have a desire to keep pushing forward, making me want to grab them by the hand and take off.

Reorder is still pursuing ideas that challenge my current way of thinking, understanding that I’m a perpetual student and the learning process is never over. Reorder is answering, “What’s next?” with even more books, poetry, meditations, podcasts – not staying still and waiting for the next Disorder, but rather lacing up my boots and going on the hunt for it.

Order, Disorder, Reorder is the pattern of growth, transformation, and any story worth telling. Reorder has the wisdom of knowing that the pattern really looks more like this: Order-Disorder-Reorder-Disorder-Reorder-Disorder-Reorder, and so on.

Reorder is the restoration of hope, and it has me excited for what’s to come.