Confessions of a Lapsed Luddite

 About 30 years ago I discovered that I was a Luddite. Not really an out-and-out fanatic, I qualified as only a borderline Luddite.

It all started when Hal and I joined the 20^th century and bought a personal computer. As a writer, I quickly grew to love how it made my daily work so much more efficient (which is why I classified myself as only a borderline Luddite). To ease into our private technological revolution, we took a seminary class called “The Church and the Computer.”

My self-discovery took place during the first class session. The professor gave a brief overview of computer history. Among other interesting bits of trivia, he told us that those opposed to technological advance are known as Luddites, named after a 19^th century English protest movement against industrialization. I wrote it down in my notebook as something to look into later.

Then, somewhere along in the lecture, the professor casually mentioned that computers are making libraries obsolete. One of our textbooks amplified this, describing the use of computer library terminals in a large university. With only a title, someone can type a request on the terminal or on his personal home computer if he has a telephone hookup, and within seconds he will not only find out if the library has the book, but he can actually check it out and start the home delivery process, all this without even going near the library. The author of this textbook went on to state that one need never again waste time in a library looking for a book.

Waste time in a library! I was brought up on the value of wasting time in libraries, only back in my childhood we called it “browsing.”

I proceeded to waste some time in a library, looking up the Luddites, with whom I now felt a strange kinship. I discovered that the Luddites were a band of English working-class people who rose up in protest against a large weaving frame that was replacing man-power in the stocking industry. Masked Luddites rushed into homes that employed the frames and destroyed them. Historians differ as to where the term Luddite originated, but the version I like best concerns Ned Ludd, “a person of weak intellect” whom the other village boys made fun of. One day Ludd chased one of his young persecutors into a house that employed several of the weaving frames. When Ned couldn’t find the boy, he took out his frustration on the frames. After that, whenever a frame was broken, “Ludd did it” became the common cry.

The Luddite riots did not succeed, but the name lives on, according to my friend, Webster, in the hearts of all “who are opposed to technological change.”

I made that discovery a long time ago. Thirty years has shown that computers have not replaced libraries. Computers do help; I can now order online a book I want to read and, even though the local library may not have it stock, a computer will automatically order it from another library, then notify me by email that I can come pick it up. Very convenient.

Even so, I still love to browse. For me, spending an afternoon in the library is a sensuous experience. I enjoy looking down a row of books. The collage of colors and sizes presents a map of new territory to be explored. I imagine rivers, lakes, mountaintops, and peopled cities, all waiting for me. As I wander the rows, that subtle combination of leather, paper, cardboard, dried glue, and something else (what?) wafts like incense, a homage to the world of words and ideas. I like to take a book down from its niche and hold it, to touch the texture of the cover, run my fingers over the closed thickness of its pages, and guess what treasures I can unlock if I open it. I even like the library sounds—the varied rustlings and shushings and scufflings, a relative quiet that teems with life.

Wasting an afternoon in the library opens one to all sorts of serendipitous adventures. On my way to find one certain book, I can’t help but look at the books on either side. Often I make such delightful discoveries, I leave behind the one I came for in the first place and take home something better.

The retirement community where I live has its own library. While the holdings aren’t as large as the local library, there are still delightful discoveries to be made. Two such discoveries I made in the biography/memoir section are Will Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club and Tom Michell’s Penguin Lessons: What I Learned from a Remarkable Bird.

Schwalbe’s book, The End of Your Life Book Club, is a non-fiction memoir of Schwalbe’s time with his mother as she is dying of pancreatic cancer, a two-year process. It addresses end of life issues, the importance of reading and relationships, and provides the cohesive thread for the life stories of both Will and his mother, remarkable people. I photocopied the list of recommended reading at the end of the book.

Tom Michell in, Penguin Lessons: What I Learned from a Remarkable Bird, gives the true account of his experience as a young man on an adventure in Argentina, teaching in a British school. Over the vacation he goes to Paraguay and rescues a penguin from an oil spill. The penguin bonds with him and refuses to leave his side, so Tom has to take him back to the boarding school where he becomes a favorite of the students. The book covers themes of ecology and creation-care, plus the relationship that can exist between a person and an animal. (A film has been made of the story, but it’s not as good as the book. Hal and I read it aloud.)

I would not have even known about these books if I had not been browsing.

That said, I again confess that I am not a true Luddite. Not only do I love computers, I’ve recently been exploring the wonders of AI. Are you shuddering? Yes, there are dangers involved with this technology, but right now I’m focusing on all it lets me do and discover. (That’s a subject for a different blog.)

But nothing will ever replace a good browse in a library.

Note: For further proof that I am not a true Luddite, I am announcing that I have just launched my own author’s website. You can find it at nancyjthomas.com . Please look it up and browse awhile. This is a big deal for me.

When settling for less might be the best

 I hate that feeling at the end of the day when I re-read the to-do list I optimistically wrote that morning and realize all the items I can’t check off. It seems there’s usually some story I didn’t get written, some person I didn’t go see, a phone call I didn’t make, a meeting I forgot to attend, etc., etc.

I’m a genetic list-maker. It’s in my blood. I not only have to-to lists and grocery lists, I have lists of books I hope to read, favorite words, prayer requests, priorities, and on it goes. It’s how I stay organized. But I’m finding the system doesn’t work for me as well as it used to. Especially that to-do list. After I write it, I sometimes forget about it for the rest of the day. Then in the evening I wrestle with frustration at all I didn’t do.

Hal is even more intense than I am. His to-do list is impossibly long and his end-of-the-day laments more soulful. Some evenings we make pathetic music.

OK. I’m exaggerating a little. But only a little. Frustration with not getting enough done is part of life these days.

In my younger days, I took pride in all the stuff I got done in a single day. I was a master multitasker, juggling all sorts of balls—education, family, job, writing assignments. I even put free-time on the list. People would ask me, “Nancy, how do you manage to get so much done?”

It’s a cultural theme, something built into our society, something rewarded and recognized. I have a book on my shelf actually titled Getting Stuff Done. It presents a rather rigorous system that even I couldn’t faithfully follow, although it did help me get my files organized. Time management has become a cultural science, almost a religion to some.

Somewhere along the way, I seem to have adopted the slogan “Never settle for less than your best.” The “best” includes, of course, getting that to-do list all checked off. And every task completed with excellence. Of course.

Just writing all this down makes me tired. I find myself doubting the wisdom behind it all.

Actually, I’m not as rigid about getting stuff done as I’ve portrayed myself here. The two sides of my personality—the left-brain analytical get-stuff-done side and the playful, intuitive, poetry-writing side—are fairly equally balanced. It’s the playful side that’s kept me sane. I need to remember that now. And value it.

I’ve suggested to Hal that if he had a shorter to-do list, he might be more satisfied at the end of the day. I’m realizing that I need to heed my own advice. I think what I’m going to do is make a list (here I go again!) of all the things I would like to do and that I could work on when I have the time and inclination. I’ll post it above my desk. And then I’ll keep my daily list short. As short as possible.

In the case of to-do lists and pressures to get stuff done, maybe settling for less is the best way to go. This sounds like a good idea now in the retirement phase of life—to loosen the ties of the lists and relax the pressure to perpetual excellence.

Long ago I discerned that God has given me three priorities in life. (Here it comes—another list! But a short one.) My priorities are prayer, poetry, and people. Simple. (The fact that they all begin with the letter “p” helps me remember them.) These are more an orientation toward life than a to-do list.

I won’t stop making lists, not with my current tendency to forget meetings and deadlines unless I have a written reminder. I’ll just try to make my daily list shorter and more playful. Maybe add to the list stuff like “laugh-out-loud at least once” and “hug Hal more than once.” How about “enjoy my morning coffee” and “look attentively at something beautiful.” Yes. I could check those off every evening. Happily. That doesn’t seem at all like “settling for less.”

From lament to praise: an early morning prayer

It’s 7:30 a.m. and I’m down in the laundry room. I know that you already know this, Lord, but I’m setting it down for the record because I forget. But you know that, too. So be patient and let me lament, rant, praise, and pray in my own clumsy way.

The four driers are tossing my clothes about, loudly humming as they do. I’ve finished my coffee. There’s a bitter taste in my mouth.

There’s a slightly bitter taste in my soul as well. I feel like lament, but I want to praise. So I’m going to try and combine the two.

I praise you, Lord, for all the changes in my body. I used to be a morning person. I used to wake early and pop out of bed, eager to greet the day. No more. I often wake from a night of poor sleep, having gotten up several times to go to the bathroom or from coughing and gagging. I go out to the living room to see if I can sleep sitting up. Sometimes I manage for a couple of hours but then I wake up with an aching back. I greet the day groggy and more than a little grumpy. Definitely not a morning person.

Problem is, I’m not a noon, mid-day, or night person either. What kind of a person am I?

OK! Enough of that. This is pure lament. Or maybe just complaining.

How can I combine this with praise? Is praise even legitimate when my whole body is protesting and my emotions are nowhere near a “spiritual high”?

Of course. I’ll just begin.

Praise you, God, for old bodies. Mine in particular. I can still walk; well, sometimes it’s more like a dizzy wobble, but it gets me where I need to go. My eyes still see; even if I can’t read the street signs, I can tell if anything’s coming toward me down the road. I can still hear; although I haven’t quite got the hang of manipulating the controls on these hearing aids, it’s better with them on.

Praise you, God, for my life companion. Although life would be easier if he were not so old, he understands all I’m going through. Old love isn’t the same as young passion, but a hug is just as comforting. The memories are sweeter because we share them. And even though it’s taken all these years to get to know one another, we’re still learning new things.

Praise you, God, for the beauty of the earth. From my chair by the window, I watch the day dawn. The clouds outside put on a difference performance every day, and here I am with a front row seat. The coleus plant on the window ledge has a limited wardrobe of only one outfit, but I never tire of admiring it. As I walk the canyon path, sometimes a deer surprises me, makes my heart beat faster.

Praise you, God, for family. I guess we’re the oldest now. The ancient matriarch and patriarch. Supposedly the wise ones. (We know better, but we’re not telling.) Any day now, the newest great grand-baby will be born. Our son and daughter-in-law get to be the grandparents—something that amazes me even more than this birth. We’ll let them, while we watch from the sidelines. It’s their turn. Family. It keeps going on and on. Praise.

Praise you, God, for good work that gives definition to my days and a way to make a small contribution to the well-being of others. For my job as poetry editor of a magazine that thousands of Quakers read every month. They all need good poems, whether or not they realize that. For my work as editor of the community journal of my retirement home; it lets me encourage my companions on this journey to tell their stories and give us a glimpse of who they are. For the privilege of coordinating the Sunday school class that has become my church family. All of this is joyful work. I thank you, God.

Praise you, God, that there are still stories to be told and poems to be written. And that you think I’m young enough to do some of that good work.

And praise you that although I woke up tired and grumpy this morning, I’m no longer that person. I’m praising you, glad to be who I am right now.

And so glad that you are who you are.

“Friendship, Faith, and the Camino de Santiago”

 As a young person, I had a wish-list of experiences I hoped awaited me as I journeyed through life. There were, as the saying goes, “places to go, people to meet, and things to do!” As the years progressed, I was able to fulfill many of these dreams, plus some new ones that popped up along the way.

Now in the years of retirement, the list has morphed into “places I’ll probably never go to, people I won’t meet, things I’ll never do.” Sounds like resignation, but perhaps it’s better named “reality.”

But some of things on that list I now get to experience vicariously, often through a good book. Recently I fulfilled a wish by vicariously walking the famous Camino de Santiago in Spain. Not only that, my daughter accompanied me. Or, better said, I followed her footsteps, as it was her dream; then her reality.

And now her book. The Way We Walked: Faith, Friendship, and the Camino de Santiago, by Kristin Gault (2025). In the summer of 2024, Kristin and her friend Heather walked the more-than-200-mile trail (camino) from Porto, Portugal to the Santiago Cathedral in Compostela, northwest Spain, a walk of 12 days. Thousands of people a year walk the Camino for many different reasons, anything from a way to process grief, to have a spiritual retreat, or to just have fun and an adventure. But, as Kristin discovered, the Camino can surprise you and give you something rich you hadn’t realized you needed. She writes in her introduction,

“Heather and I started this journey out of a sense of adventure. Every detail was meticulously thought out from the socks we would wear, to the size of our backpack—determined by how many liters it could hold, to the number of miles we would be walking each day, to the specific route we would take. Everything planned.

“What we didn’t plan for was how quickly this walk would morph into an internal journey God was taking each of us through. It became less about the things we could control and more about what was happening on the inside of each of us.

“They say the Camino doesn’t give you what you want, but what you need. I wanted a leisurely stroll with no pain, accompanied by long lunches beside the beach, and lots of laughs. What God had in store was entirely different.”

As each chapter carries us through a day on the Camino, we experience the beauty of Portugal. (“Nothing really beats the magic of being the first ones up and walking along a dark cobblestone street lit by street lamps…. As we neared the ocean, the sound of the waves grew louder and louder…. Surrounded by beauty, a sense of wonder and awe replaced all my previous worries and concerns. I was right where I was supposed to be.”)

Along with Kristin, we experience the specific agony of unexpected blisters, heat, swelling feet, and a new dependence on Vaseline. We meet other pilgrims on the way, strangers who become friends. We learn to wash our underwear at night, hoping it gets dry by morning. We face the trauma of being in a strange town with nowhere to spend the night, only to be rescued by the kindness of strangers.

All our outward adventures force a deeper inward look where we discover God healing old wounds, renewing our spirits. At one low point of physical pain and discouragement, a loving hostess’ listening ear and words of encouragement turned things around. Kristin writes that “the journey had just officially stepped out of the realm of adventure into a true pilgrimage for me. I didn’t yet know what that all meant, but something had shifted for me and I was already experiencing a deep change inside myself.”

I won’t detail the specific adventures, challenges, serendipities, and deep lessons Kristin experienced. That’s for you to read for yourselves. But I did let myself be brought into the story and so vicariously walked the Camino and learned the life lessons such an experience teaches.

I’m realizing that I’m walking my own Camino, really, not just vicariously. It called the Camino of Growing Older. Some of the life lessons Kristin learned on her walk can apply to my current adventure. Kristin and Heather chose to walk the Camino de Santiago, and that’s where my journey differs. I didn’t choose to grow older, but now that I’m on the path I would do well to see it as a grand adventure. It’s a journey with a destination. And I don’t mean death.

Traveling light was one of Kristin’s key strategies. Not more than 10 pounds—that was the goal (until she had to start adding blister medications), and it made a difference. For me, traveling light means more that downsizing our stuff, although it includes that. It means making sure I’m at peace with my memories and relationships; regrets are way too heavy. I need to forgive, heal, and release.

Being aware of beauty as I walk the trail is another key. The cloud formations outside my window, the sunrises and sunsets, the distant trees. And the close-up trees as I walk the path down by the creek. And the beauty in the faces I pass in the halls every day. Lovely old faces full of character, memories, and battle scars. Sparkling eyes full of mischief. And the beauty of the presence as I sit in silence in the early morning.

Companions are a necessity. Travel buddies. Friends. I’m not the only one around here growing older. We all face similar challenges and we can give each other courage. We can tell our stories. We can make each other laugh. When I get too tired, I need your hand on my back, giving me a little push.

Grit and determination! Another necessary element. I remember at one point in the book where the pain and discouragement were almost overwhelming, Kristin told herself that “giving up is not an option!” She writes that “The blisters were pushed hard against the sides of my shoes, and I just continued breathing deep through it all, pushing myself forward. After about twenty minutes, I realized I was going to be okay, and the pain became more bearable as my body adjusted and got used to it.” That little scenario played itself out over and over. Persistence and determination. The courage to put one foot in front of the other and just keep going.

I need that, too. My body is changing and I face several chronic conditions that may get better with time and medication (I’m also open to miracle). But then again, I may not get better. I may need to do just what I can every day, knowing that I am moving forward, getting closer to the journey’s destination.

And as I let God change me, my adventure turns into pilgrimage.

So, through the words of my daughter, I’ve walked the Camino de Santiago. I can cross that off my list. I’m also walking another challenging Camino. I have marvelous companions (one of whom I sleep with every night) and the best of Best Friends. Beauty surrounds me, begs me to attend to it. Laughter helps. And telling stories. The Spirit strengthens me to move forward, sometimes walking into the pain, applying plenty of spiritual Vaseline, and always keeping the end of the pilgrimage in sight.

What a trip!