Last week, a fan beside me at Fenway – the most wonderful place on earth – brought along an old-fashioned scoring book, which contained records of every baseball game he’d attended for the last decade or so. The kids around him were mesmerized as he recounted every play from a famous old match-up by reading the rune-like symbols – no YouTube clips or ESPN highlight reels required. By the end of the night they’d mastered the secret code and were yelling out the scoring for each play so that it could be properly recorded.
It is wonderful to live in an age when we can recall a recipe or identify a birdsong or settle a trivia bet with the press of a button. But dear friends, what do we want to keep closer, safer?
Knowing the stars and trees and creatures and pathways home need not be left to apps. Our memories and images and poems and music need not depend on strong wifi.
What is so precious that we give it space within?