“Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains.”
Jean-Jacques Rousseau
–
I’m sitting on a carpet I made from leaves, tree bark, and a piece of tarp. It’s 4:35 p.m.: the time I usually get home from work and start to snack on some sugary junk I find in the pantry and binge whatever I’m currently devouring on Netflix. I know the time because I brought my watch with me: a swatch whose battery seems to happily last forever. Nothing digital, I told myself when I left. I close my eyes simply because I feel tired and doze off for my afternoon nap.
***
It started out as a fantasy—something I could never dare do but had a lot of fun thinking about. When I was playing with the idea, my guilt as a mom and wife sometimes edited the fantasy to just intentionally forgetting my cell phone at home every so often. Then every day. But that wasn’t enough to sustain me.
When had it happened that I couldn’t be out of the house alone, in peace? I was a prisoner to everyone else’s whims, and the cell phone enabled it. Years ago, I gave out my home phone as a contact number, and my cell only to friends and family. So when I was out, I was free from the business of life. But slowly it had become the contact number for everything: doctors’ offices reminding me to make appointments, calls from the heating company to schedule a cleaning or from the gardener, or from the pest control company, or the AC maintenance. Dentist reminders, gutter cleaning scheduling. Guilt calls from my mother, my mother-in-law, neighbors who need a favor. Could I give myself a day free of my phone—the conduit to all my misery? Without it, I wouldn’t be shackled.
But if I let myself go further with the fantasy, it would be time away from time, from the clock, from society imposing itself on me. From the world as we know it with its Target runs, where I have to park in an indoor parking lot, around and around up through the maze of concrete and darkness, and I have to remember to close all the windows, lock the doors, take my keys, my phone, remember my space number, pay for parking after factoring how long I need at the store, find a bathroom, grab the bar I left in my car in case I forgot to plan for lunch. Then, I sit in traffic, rush to the next errand. Fill up the car with gas. Plan our social schedule for weekends: Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday brunch. Steve liked to see friends on weekends. The endless loop where I mainly felt anxious at the fast pace of the world in which I lived. But really, nothing was going on. Just lots of fillers that ate up my time and broke my peace.
Over the last few weeks, I had been spending my nights watching reruns of the TV shows I grew up with: The Brady Bunch, Three’s Company, The Love Boat. They comforted me because they took place before the technology explosion. I was envious of the character’s lives: a telephone attached to a kitchen wall, the handset attached to a cord. How civilized! People gathered around a radio, listening to news or for a score in the baseball game. How quaint! Even watching the characters use fax machines made me nostalgic because the machines were finite physical units that functioned from a set place. All of this older technology made life easier. They were enough. And they didn’t overreach and chase you wherever you went with invisible circuits. Why couldn’t they have stopped then, before cell phones and the internet? Things were good enough in the 70s. I wasn’t cut out for the current world.
Another modern “advancement” that wore on me: I was expected to remember my passwords from different sites, to take care of life: pay bills, schedule appointments, order stuff for the house. Passwords I’ve been asked to change, to add characters to at the end. Was it an exclamation mark I added? How many? I kept meaning to make a list of all the passwords. I sometimes felt my brain was contracting into something mechanical, robotic. And the twenty-four-hour news cycle made me feel like I was meant to know what was happening every moment. Every time a notification pinged, my jaws clenched, my neck tightened. I knew I could turn off the notifications, but never got around to it.
A few months ago, I read an article that stuck with me about a young man who just disappeared, went off the grid, and wasn’t discovered for nineteen years. He stole food from neighbors during the day when everyone was at work or school. Small amounts: a loaf of bread, a bag of pretzels, some fruit. Things that wouldn’t be missed. And he occasionally helped himself to odd necessities like an extra blanket, a sweatshirt, a pair of boots. A new toothbrush, a magazine, a book. He was only discovered after nineteen years when he broke into a summer camp to raid the refrigerator and was caught on camera. For all those years he survived, thrived on very little. And because he was alone, he never got sick. He had very few needs. And he had values. I know he stole, but apparently, he once returned a book and magazine when he was finished with them and took a different book, a week-old newspaper. I was fascinated by this, by how we can be okay with so little and opt out of our high tech, over-scheduled world.
But there was one big difference: I was married and had responsibilities here. So I couldn’t, I told myself. Still, I kept the article and glanced over it every so often, and I read parts of it when I was alone. And each time I felt a gentle tug of hope.
In moments of me feeling disconnected to the world around me, to the systems and structures and mechanics in place, I thought: Maybe I could. Would it really matter? My husband Steven came home from work most nights at 8:00 or 9:00. He was exhausted, wolfed down dinner, worked out, and fell asleep in front of the T.V. We were just going through the motions. My kids were away at college and hardly called anyway. Why did I have to be on standby for a what if scenario. As a writer, I can work from anywhere. And I write by long hand, so no need for a laptop.
And then one day I found myself packing my backpack. I threw in a few things every day. First, a bunch of socks, underwear, a few T shirts, sweatpants, leggings, a sweater, a fleece. The next day, ponytail holders, a hairbrush, Vitamins, a few novels I’ve been meaning to read, my knitting needles and a bunch of wool yarn, protein bars, almonds, rice cakes, peanut butter, hiking boots, a hat, a rain jacket, a flashlight, extra batteries, a lighter, a candle, a sleeping bag, a piece of tarp I found on the floor of the garage, a portable tent the kids used to use to sleep in the backyard. The next day, a few empty notebooks and pens, some soap, shampoo, toothpaste, moisturizer, fingernail scissors. An extra sweatshirt, pepper spray, and a pocketknife.
And I hid the bag in the back of my closet. The thought of the bag brought a smile to my face when I lay in bed trying to read as Steve lay next to me, busy on his phone, scrolling news reports, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter.
***
I wake up to a rumbling stomach and try to remember how many protein bars I have left. Could I ignore the hunger a little longer? I decide to take a walk while it is still light. It is the beginning of summer, and the days are long. I put on my hiking boots and walk. I have always had no sense of direction, needing my GPS or Waze to get anywhere. But after a week here, I have learned to find my way back to my tent. I focus on the treads my boots make on the ground, the types of bushes and trees I pass along the way, the smell of the moss, the mushrooms, and the color of the different wildflowers I pass. I used to think something was wrong with me because I could never figure my way around the highways, the side streets in my neighborhood even though I have lived there for years. But now I realize there was nothing special to pay attention to along the way. I am alive in the woods. I am alert.
I hear a rustling of leaves, and my heart begins to pound. I berate myself for taking this crazy risk with only a pocketknife and an old container of pepper spray for defense. But before I can react, a golden retriever stops a few feet away from where I’m sitting. Stares at me with open and innocent brown eyes. He is dirty and matted, but I can still see his golden hair. I put out my wrist to let him smell me. He sniffs my wrist and licks it. He must smell my food because he sniffs around my open bag of pretzels. I hand him one, and he gobbles it down. He’s not wearing a collar. I am relieved.
He stares into my eyes. He’s telling me something. I don’t know what, only that it’s profound and that it matters. Something about the place we both find ourselves, the beauty of the world even within its limits of space and time. That this moment counts, and we are meant to be together now.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and I am startled at the sound of my voice. I haven’t spoken to anyone other than myself in a week. There’s a hesitant crackle in my voice. But I go on.
“Who are you? Where are you from?” And I like the sound of my voice as it starts to sound more fluid, like a trickle of water in a river that bounces into a current. It’s smoother now and sounds like silk.
That night, he sleeps at my feet, and his body warms me up. I have a friend. And that’s what I name him: Friend. I talk to him like he’s a person. But he’s better than a person. He is silent, but he is communicating with me. I am whole. This is what I need. A warm companion.
The next morning, we take a walk, in search of a river or stream. I bring my soap and brush. I need to bathe him. We find one a few miles away, and it feels like Friend is leading me there, like he knows he’s getting a much-needed bath. I lather him up and the dirt falls off of him into the river. I see his blond fur. It looks like stalks of wheat. I cut off the matted parts of his fur with my fingernail scissors and use my brush to unravel his knots. It feels nice to care for him. My kids don’t need me in a physical way anymore; and there’s something satisfying and comforting about the physical caring for another.
***
Even though I dreamt of leaving Steve and my life at home, I didn’t think I would really do it. Wouldn’t dare. I wasn’t a character in a movie; this was real life! Until one night when Steve came home from work asking why he couldn’t reach me all day.
“I tried calling you a few times today.” His voice was sharp.
“Yeah, I turned off my ringer so I could concentrate on my writing.”
“But all day? I tried you a few times.”
“I guess most of the day.”
“That’s crazy. You need to be reachable. What about the kids? What if they called?”
And the next day, he called me from work to ask that I call Verizon because our WIFI was slow. After being on hold for fourteen minutes, my heart began to race. My skin was prickly and hot, and I felt like I’d pounce or burst. I wanted to howl. I hung up and went to run my errands. A drop off at the dry cleaners, a stop at Target to pick up Soda Stream cannisters, a pharmacy run for Steve. I came home car sick from all the stopping and going, and I took a nap.
The next morning, I lay in bed and thought of the backpack sitting on the floor of my closet, hidden behind my long skirts. I smiled to myself. I could do this. All it would take is . . . me doing it. And the gray, clotted, thickness that sat in my throat and coursed through my veins yielded to a lightness that flowed. It was now orange and yellow and gold. My saliva that normally tasted metallic now tasted like vanilla, cinnamon, and cream.
I sent Steve a text that I unexpectedly needed to travel for a work assignment. I would likely be gone a few weeks; I’d be in touch. I sent the kids a loving text filled with many emojis, saying the same. I cannot take my cell phone, I told myself. That would taint everything. But at the last minute, the anxiety that had settled in my stomach became heavy and crushing. The old familiar chorus of what ifs screamed in my head. Without even deciding to, I grabbed my cell phone.
And I drove upstate for three hours in the direction where my girls used to go to sleepaway camp. My neck and jaws loosened as I drove past the suburban sprawl and onto the tree-lined highways. When I felt far enough away, I got off at an exit, drove until I found woodsy streets, and what looked like a campground. I parked at the campground, and for a moment I obsessed about whether I should take my cell phone. Did it really matter? It would die anyway. But I knew it did matter. That it would serve as shackles. And before I could change my mind, I quickly put it in the glove compartment. Then I grabbed my bag and walked a few miles until I was deep in the woods.
***
Friend and I swim together every day in the river when it starts to feel hot outside. There is no set time. We just go when we want to. The water feels like velvet on my skin. We swim until we’re tired. We are weightless, serene. As we swim, I notice there are plenty of fish in the river that we can try to catch later for dinner.
We lie on a flat rock and let the sun dry us. Birds chirping, insects humming. I am listening to the sounds that the world is making, not just hearing it in the background. I sit up and give Friend a kiss on his head.
And in his eyes, I see myself. A free spirit who needs to be outside in the wild, on my own terms. Hungry, but adaptable. A bit of a mess, but okay enough. Both of us satisfied with this simple form of togetherness. Not stifling, not controlling. We just are.
Later, we sit in my tent, the silence enveloping me. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. I could stay here forever. I have all I need. A peacefulness settles.
The anxiety that has plagued me for most of my adult life has started to slowly fade away. I always assumed my anxiety was hormonal: from my period, from pregnancy, nursing, and eventually perimenopause, or maybe some messed up biological makeup that I was cursed with. I tried therapy and meds, but it never fully helped. But now. That constant voice in my head warning me to be vigilant, to check this and that, to follow up on this, to worry about that so it wouldn’t happen. That has started to disintegrate. The things that sucked my time and gave me stress also are no longer. They have been replaced with the sound of birds chirping, leaves rustling, the scents of soil and flowers. Long blocks of time that are unaffected by the tyranny of the clock. I only know how long I have been in the woods from counting the fourteen sunsets. I brought my Xanax with me just in case. But I haven’t even thought to use it once.
Occasionally, over the next week or so, the second-guessing creeps in, and I ask myself why I couldn’t have made changes in my life without retreating into the woods. What an extreme act! Isn’t there a middle ground? But I didn’t know one. It was that chaotic world where I did not belong, where I could not breathe. Or this.
The nights are still warm, but I know that will soon change. I begin to gather firewood. Every day I grab a bunch until I have a several stacks piled high right outside my tent. I begin to weave a blanket and am glad I thought to pack my needles and yarn. It feels good to create something tangible. My fingers move fast, seemingly working apart from me. What begins as a square expands, swells until I feel its warmth slowly travel down my leg. I think back to my time in the Girl Scouts, at overnights at sleep-away camp and remember what they taught us about staying warm while camping in the colder months. I gather leaves, grass, and pine needles that I can put under the floor of my tent for insulation. I walk to the river and gather moss. Press it down on the soil under my tent so it will grow and serve as further insulation. I feel a lightness as I work, a stillness. I am one with nature, with everything around me. I am not separate. I am not alone. I feel a closeness to G-d that I haven’t experienced since I was a little girl. Gratitude. He created all we need in nature. The rest is just us complicating things.
Every day I meditate. Finally. After trying in vain for months. And without the silly app on my phone. No, it’s organic. Just listening to the birds’ chirp, a gentle breeze blowing through the trees, takes me out of my head. And there is so much to listen to out here.
In one afternoon, I read most of one of the books I brought along. Slowly, savoring each beautiful phrase. What now? I sometimes ask myself. How long could I do this? And I know the answer: as long as I choose to.
–
Tamar Gribetz’s short stories have appeared in 3cents Magazine, Halfway Down the Stairs, The Hunger, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Poetica Magazine, Manifest Station, and Blood & Bourbon. Tamar teaches Legal Skills at Pace Law, where she also serves as the Writing Specialist. She lives in Westchester, New York, where she is at work on other short fiction and a novel.
© 2025, Tamar Gribetz
Halfway Down the Stairs 