Untethered in Kyoto

A month without phone connection, the digital weight we carry, and discovering what’s been quietly waiting

“So it’s not a problem of getting people to express themselves but of providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say."

Gilles Deleuze, Negotiations 1972-1990

a recording of this letter, if you’d prefer to listen 🎧 ↑

Moving to a new place is no doubt exciting as it is an opportunity to introduce your senses to new experiences. A way to see the world through a new lens and understand things a little differently. But if you’re not careful, this wonder can quickly become eclipsed by the inevitability of tedious chores like opening a bank account, wrestling with insurance forms, and settling on a phone carrier.

It’s this last one that Chie and I gave deeper thought to when we first arrived in Kyoto.

A Question Worth Asking

In Australia, I signed up for a phone contract on day two of being in the country. In Tokyo, within the first week. In England, on the very day I arrived.

So why did we wait over a month this time?

We asked ourselves whether we really wanted to be tethered to the digital world again so quickly. What if we tried to experience this ancient city without the constant pull of the slot machine that is the little black rectangles in our pockets? What would happen if we left our phones unconnected, walked into the city and tried to just listen for something deeper than the ping of yet another notification?

Not having a phone connected to the internet brings a certain low-level anxiety for some people nowadays, doesn’t it? I know it certainly did for me. Have you noticed it too? I found myself reaching for that phantom vibration dozens of times a day. It was like a muscle memory so deep I hadn’t even noticed it forming. Tapping the screen to see if any new notifications had come in. Oh nothing? Guess I'll go back to what I was doing then…

But something unexpected happened during those phone-free weeks.

The Weight I Didn’t Know I Was Carrying

We suddenly felt liberated. We began to notice things that had been quietly waiting for us all along. The jasmine found growing along the Kamo river hit us in waves, so intense it was almost narcotic. The gentle flutter of temple flags, gorgeous reams of coloured fabric dancing in the wind. The soft staccato of stones being swept off paths. The vibrant pink hues of the azaleas growing in every corner of this city.

One thing became immediately clear: the absence of those red notification dots helped us to appreciate these small mundane details more. But it also brought me face to face with how much of my attention had been leased out, even when I thought I was being present.

A Form of Digital Debt

I began to think of notifications like digital debt. Each red dot representing borrowed attention. Borrowed from conversations with Chie, borrowed from noticing the cicadas or the frogs, borrowed from the steam rising from a cup of morning coffee. And like any debt, the interest compounds. One un-replied message turns into anxiety about seeming rude. A delayed response becomes overthinking the perfect reply.

I thought about how constant connection creates constant obligation. There’s always someone’s message awaiting a reply, always another Instagram story that makes you wonder why you weren’t invited to some party, always one more ping that can derail an entire morning’s peace.

All of this amounts to a kind of digital weight. A mental load that we carry due to FOMO, group chats, green ticks, DMs, red notification bubbles, and email pings. Each notification adds an invisible stone to your back. Each red dot acting like a helium balloon tied to our wrist, pulling us back to those screens, even when we’re trying to be somewhere else entirely.

The Moment I Became Frustrated

Here's a little confession: I ended up getting very frustrated one day a couple of weeks in because I didn't have internet on my phone yet. I was cycling into the city, got a flat tire on my bike, and was searching for a local shop that could help out. I had downloaded offline maps on Apple Maps so searching for nearby bike shops wasn't too much of a hassle but without a phone I couldn't call the shops to check if they were actually open and wasted a lot of time walking to two shops that ended up being closed. I also couldn't translate English phrases to Japanese when I finally did find a shop that was open. And I had made plans to meet friends and was now running late with no way to contact them.

How simply all of this could be sorted with a phone connection, but in hindsight this whole experience ended up feeling incredibly humbling. As if being uncomfortable in these small ways is not such a bad thing and can help us to gain a bit of perspective.

Through this experience, I discovered how rarely I’m truly alone. How little I let myself sit with discomfort, before reaching for distraction or the easy fix that the phone provides.

An Invitation to Get Lost

Maybe presence can be about leaning into the risk of being lost—letting yourself walk without internet coverage, and listening for what arises when your phone isn't vibrating.

So I’ll invite you, dear reader: Leave your phone behind, or turn it off, for one morning this week, and let your city lead you instead of a map. See what surprises you notice, or what discomfort you feel. If you try it, write and tell me how it goes. I’m genuinely curious what attention feels like for you, here or wherever home is.

🎧 Here's a brief recording I made of the frogs calling out into the rain at Sanzen-in Temple.
A moment to stop and listen. This is what I paid attention to.

The Bells Are Still Ringing

When the phone goes quiet, we can finally give our full attention to what surrounds us. The modern world profits from our divided attention, so choosing presence becomes an act of rebellion.

The temple bells were always there; I just needed to stop listening to everything else. They’re still ringing now as I write this, competing with the soft clack of my keyboard, the distant hum of Kyoto, and the gentle rain falling on the leaves outside my window.

As always, thank you for noticing with me. If this letter stirred something within you and you’d like to support my work here in Kyoto, please consider becoming a paid subscriber, exploring my music on Bandcamp or buying me a coffee.

🍃 SJF

P.S. I should probably make it clear to any friends that are quietly reading this from the sidelines, this letter does not mean please stop texting me 😂