I’ve decided to post some photos today that I really love.
All of these pictures are what I call “accidental art.”
They resulted from a camera misfunction, or a small child took them, or they were otherwise taken accidentally.
I find them highly interesting and artistic.
“purple car” taken by my nephew
“fountain” taken by me accidentally (hipstamic for iPhone)
“river otters” taken by my mom
What do you think? If it’s accidental, can it be art?
for all photos: copyright remains with the photographer and/or keethink.com.
This is where I’m supposed to tell you how much I’ve learned, and how I’m so much smarter or holier now, or whatever. Except I’m honest, so I’ll tell you the truth.
I’m tired of not talking to my friends on Facebook and Twitter. I’m tired of feeling professionally isolated, just as I was getting a little community going. I’m tired of of trying to remember clever things so I can post them after Easter. Also, I’m just tired, because I have two very small children and a teaching gig and a husband and a house and dogs and, oh yes, am in graduate school full time. So I’m just tired.
From a theological viewpoint (mine, at least), there’s no such thing as “more holy” when it comes to people. I’m not more holy at the end of Lent than I was at the beginning, no matter how much I tweeted or prayed or sent prayer-tweets (which I think some people do) or ate chocolate or whatever. I ate a lot of chocolate. That wasn’t my Lent thing, but when I watch the movie Chocolat I think of that, since part of her problem, besides wearing red shoes—the horror!— is that she opens her lovely shop during Lent. (Why does the movie end differently than the book? Can someone please explain this to me?) I also wore red shoes.
At some points, I’ve thought, “Why am I not using my time to pray more? Maybe I should be a monk? Or a nun? Are there female monks? I think just nuns. I’m not Catholic, though. A hermit? Probably couldn’t get my hair done very often. But then I’d have so much time to pray and meditate, and exercise. That would be great! And no one would notice my hair. I should be a hermit!” Then I would realize again that being a hermit is not the point, that the point is living a holy, earthy, compassionate, present life in a very real world. And then I would think, “But crap, that’s really hard.”
What I have learned is this:
1. It’s really good to turn off my internet connection and be present in my own life for a large portion of each day. (Duh.)
2. It’s good for me to have an online community, because they can be encouraging and supportive and incredibly helpful, and I miss them.
3. I can get a lot of homework done when I’m not checking Facebook and Twitter every two minutes.
4. Prayer does not naturally or automatically fill my time vacuums.
5. It’s good for me to do a Social Media sabbatical occasionally, in order to reflect on the purpose of social media (networking, community), privacy vs. transparency (the jury’s still out), and being present in my own life (this is so hard on the best of days, and such a gift when I do it).
6. Facebook and Twitter can distract me from the work of writing, but they also help hone my writing style and creativity with wordplay.
7. There are other iPhone apps besides Facebook and Twitter. Shocking, but true.
8. I’m a much better conversationalist when I’m on Twitter, because the people I follow are so insanely interesting and post the best links. When I’m in that zone, I always have something to talk about.
9. I’m a much better parent when I step away from the phone during the day, even when I think my children are busy doing something else. My attention is precious, limited, and one of the most valuable gifts I can give them.
10. I should have a tenth thing, I guess. Good Friday church service is my favorite church service of the year, because it’s the only time all year that my church does a potluck, and it’s also the most quiet, solemn service of the year. The closet Episcopalian in me really, really loves Good Friday. It puts Easter Sunday in much better context.
So there it is: my social media sabbatical, my Lenten fast, my past six weeks. I’m looking forward to seeing you on Facebook and Twitter tomorrow.
When I hurry around the side of the lobby before the show, I hear the clarinet player warming up. The muscles under the corners of my mouth tighten involuntarily in response, forming lines down each side of my chin like a marionette, or a ventriloquist’s dummy. When I return to my seat, it has moved—we all shift toward the center of the aisle to make room. By the time the concert begins, every seat is filled, including the chairs placed on each side of the stage.
UTD does not offer a music major. The musicians who will perform are scientists and engineers. Dr. Rodriguez introduces the musicians and the pieces in a way that reminded me of Kurt Rongey, the syndicated voice on WRR. He tells us about the pieces, gives us a little tune or lick to listen for. His guidance allows us to anticipate and participate, which are the best things an audience can do. Tonight’s theme is “French Connections,” and all of the composers are either French or have studied in Paris.
The first suite is by Claude Debussy: The Children’s Corner. Debussy wrote this for his five-year-old daughter, Claude Emma or “Chou-Chou,” as a gift. Chou-Chou only lived to the age of thirteen, but, as Dr. Rodriguez put it, “she lives on forever in this music.” The piece, written originally for piano, has been arranged for two guitars. This, I think, is what qualifies these pieces as “Musica Nova” or “New Music:” by arranging for different instruments, the piece becomes new and different. The two scientists enchant the audience. They sit close together, with the simultaneous sway and symbiotic breath of practiced musicians. I know what it feels like to enter that world, that time outside of time, performing music, multiple musicians becoming one organism for a few moments, and I envy them. Then one guitarist mops his face with a handkerchief during a rest, and I remember what hard work music is. The second movement is a theme on one of Chou-Chou’s Chinese toys, and it sounds more authentically Chinese than on classical guitar than it ever could on a piano. The last movement is inspired by ragtime, and it is surprising in its familiarity. It is not the tune that we recognize, but the style. The suite ends with a musical laugh of sorts, and the audience laughs along, then applauds. This audience does not clap between the movements. Even the young girl sitting next to me is attentive.
The next piece is by Aaron Copeland, who found his quintessentially American voice while studying in Paris. Copeland’s Piano Blues, transcribed for a piano and three strings, isn’t just blue—it’s dark blue. The piece is deep, moody, and warm; a solitary cup of coffee at a café, an Americano in Paris. Again, by using the “wrong” instrumentation for the piece, Dr. Rodriguez has created a new meaning for the song.
We transition into Donald Grantham’s Son of Cimetiére. Grantham also studied in Paris and teaches as UT Austin. This piece is based on voodoo folklore. If Dia de los Muertes took place in Louisiana, this song is what you would hear. The piano and strings remain on stage, and are joined by a percussionist and a clarinet. This also is a new arrangement for this piece of music, and Dr. Rodriguez compares it to a body that has been stitched together: appropriate for voodoo/zombie folklore. The piece is dancey and bright, and it keeps the percussionist busy with wood blocks, a vibra-slap, triangle, maracas, tambourine, and drums. The clarinetist has quick fingers and the notes are firm, even in the highest register, but the performer has the misfortune of playing the instrument with which I am most familiar. To play a solo clarinet in a jazz ensemble, on a Bayou piece, is a terrifying responsibility, and I applaud her. I do wish once or twice for the confident, round breath and reedy tweet of the old jazz clarinetists, but this is pickiness on my part. The song is a danse macabre, exuberant and highly entertaining.
The next piece is by Darius Milhaud: The Creation of the World. It has the distinction of being jazz performed before Gershwin. It is a suite for ballet based on the African story of creation. Dr. Rodriguez tells us to listen for the refrain that sounds like the tag of the Happy Birthday song (“and many moooore”), but to replace it in our minds with the words “and it was good.” I decide I like Dr. Rodriguez.
The Prelude is strange and unfamiliar, slow, with a cello drone, darkness hovering over the water, but some order emerges from the chaos. Then the Fugue, with its light quick jazz, is a brief story that gets handed around the circle from musician to musician. The Romance is very brief, piano and strings only, but the only way I know to describe it is to say that it sounds like Gershwin. For the Scherzo, everyone is back in for a strange and modern piece like the “Mambo” number in West Side Story—I think Bernstein must have listened to Milhaud. The Final is sparse and somewhat softer than the preceding movements. The clarinet and piano carry the melody, and then pass it to the cello, then the violins. The melody flits around the stage, while the counterpoint reminds us, before the piece gets too pat or pretty, that this is a modern piece, after all. The end of the piece is a kind of cacophony, with wood blocks and jazzy bursts of sound, then the lone viola, low and charming, and a reprisal of the melodic hand-off, a call-and-response. The piece ends on a chord with an unresolved seventh—the seventh day of creation, perhaps?
During the intermission, I read that the pianist is a staff accompanist, which explains his solid but unshowy style. The anticipated soprano, too, is a guest artist, and not a student. She enters in a beautiful black dress with a rhinestone clasp, a marked contrast to the girls seated on the side of the stage who have come straight from soccer practice, shin guards still in place.
The soprano, Rebecca Duran, is Dr. Rodriguez’s goddaughter, and he arranged this piece—six e.e. cummings poems set to music— as a gift to her. He encourages us to follow along with the text, which is printed in the programs. The pieces are arranged for soprano and piano only. The first movement, “tictoc clocks,” is modern and has a “ticking” beat. Dr. Rodriguez says that it quotes Bach, but I am not familiar enough with Bach to catch the allusion. The next three pieces come in quick succession, and they are sweet, languid poems with words about love. Dr. Rodriguez’s arrangement normalizes the phrasing of cummings’ poetry, cleaning up the enjambment of the lines.
Ms. Duran is a true soprano. The higher she climbs, the better I like it. Her mouth is strangely unopen, which has the benefit of clarifying and modernizing the diction of the poetry, but denies us the most lovely and resonant parts of her voice whenever she encounters a horizontal vowel.
At the end of the fourth movement, a resolved major chord is a relief, somewhere to land, but it does not prepare us for what is to come next. Suddenly, Ms. Duran transforms from Serious Opera Singer to entertainer. When she sings, “mr youse needn’t be so spry,” she is Adelaide from Guys and Dolls, and on the last line she puts her hands behind her head and rolls her hips suggestively. The audience can’t help applauding, even though we are between movements. This infusion of sexuality transitions the audience into the final poem, a hilariously lewd rendition of “may I feel said he.” As this was the World Premiere, I wonder whether Dr. Rodriguez was nervous: a risqué symphonic piece is a risky one. But Ms. Duran is genuinely funny, breathing life into cummings’ spare (yet somehow explicit) poem. The audience clearly enjoys her performance, and the premiere is a success.
The final suite is by Gabriel Fauré, the Quintet No. 2 in C-Minor, Opus 115. According to our guide, Dr. Rodriguez, Faure wrote the piece when he was old, deaf, and suffering from aural hallucinations. It has been arranged for the piano and four strings. Dr. Rodriguez describes the piece as “passionate, erotic, and beautiful,” heavenly, music played by angels. I have to agree: it is not at all American, but it is music that sounds like home.
The first movement is voluptuous, rich, full, and textural. This is not music to hum, not a catchy tune. This is music to drown in. I want to roll the sound around in my mouth like wine. The second movement is more of a dancing fountain. The melody jumps from instrument to instrument, and then the plucked strings sounds like drops of rain, filling up clear pools of notes. Streams and falls of notes flow around us.
The third movement is brown and earthy. This is fragrant, loamy music, with sounds like wind and leaves. The melody travels down a path dappled with sunlight. The final movement is strange, spinning, twirling: a long, sweeping, cinematic gust of sound that swirls like an eddy, then rushes on again. Piano arpeggios sparkle around chords from the strings. This movement is a bolt of shining cloth flung out, a full skirt sweeping past, music rustling like silk. The sounds resolve into one lush chord, then the magical half-moment of silence after the music has ended, and the musicians exhale. The thread is cut, and we are released from the spell.
The concert is well-attended and well-received. Dr. Rodriguez deserves accolades for his directorship and guidance of the musicians, in addition to his impressive arrangement and composition. The musicians, too, should be commended for their commitment to their craft. Their musicality and professional attention to detail is remarkable. Overall, a resounding (sounding, sound, all around, round, e.e. cummings would be pround) success.
My social media sabbatical means I have lots more time for online shopping.
√ Easter dress with crossover top (thank you, Old Navy)
√ nursing cami to wear under Easter dress (Tar-zhay)
√ cute cardi (also from Target), because it is invariably freezing cold and rainy on Easter, no matter how nice the weather has been for weeks beforehand
√ “teething bling” necklace, because I’m not buying a nice necklace for the baby to break, and also, how can it hurt that much for a baby with no teeth to chew on your fingers? Ow.
I’ve decided that it’s much easier to give things up than it is to be present or to form an actual relationship with God or keep a regular prayer schedule. That’s not saying you shouldn’t do it; I’m just saying it’s harder than giving up Facebook. I have kind of a bad attitude about this social media sabbatical and Lent right now. This could also be related to the fact that it’s the last few weeks of the semester, and I’m slammed with work. Which I am procrastinating right this second, because otherwise you wouldn’t have this fine post to read.
I should be writing something here about how much this social media sabbatical is teaching me, but I’m just not feeling it right now. I do think I’m going to set some kind of boundaries for myself with social media after this is over, but I’m not sure what exactly.
If you have any brilliant insight, will you please leave it in the comments? Pretty please? Cause I’ve got nothin’.
So here’s what I’ve got: if you didn’t give up shopping for Lent, there’s a killer sale going on right now over at Land’s End. 30% off everything PLUS free shipping—you can get a steal in the overstock dept and add on the discounts and free shipping. Use promo code FAMILYSHARE and pin 6319 when you check out. I don’t get anything for telling ya; I’m just sharing the love.
I suck at doing this Lent thing. So far, I have used reading, shopping, online shopping, shopping for lipstick, Netflix Instant, Words With Friends, eating, and working as substitutes for social media. I have been total crap at using my time to meditate, pray, and be present.
I’ve used a great deal of time shopping for an Easter dress, because OBVIOUSLY the point of giving things up for Lent is so you will have more time to look for an Easter dress online!
I’ve been a total grouch this last week. I am tired, and I’m missing the outlet that Twitter and Facebook provide. I can vent there, safely. I don’t post gory details, but it’s ever-so-helpful to be able to say “Aaaargh, I’m frustrated with my kids/classes/life/dogs” and have people respond with support and encouragement. Without that pressure valve, I’m not venting, and the pressure builds up. I feel mean. I am mean.
I also feel like everyone is missing the benefit of my hilarious commentary on the universe. Or, as I refer to it in my head, “Magnanimous Me.” I picture myself as a Steve-Carrell-voiced cartoon character who bestows her wisdom upon the world via status updates, and right now, the world (because clearly everyone in the world reads my Twitter feed and Facebok status updates) is missing out. Can Steve Carrell voice a female character? Yes. Yes, he can. Very well, so it turns out.
Where was I? Ah, yes. I like the “language” of Twitter and Facebook. They are conversations with their own rules, and I like playing with those rules to create tiny little stories.Blogging isn’t exactly the same thing. The medium is the message, and all that (yes, yes, I’ve read McLuhan).
What if this Sabbatical ends up being a totally failed experiment? If that’s the case, I’m going to be really bummed about missing six weeks worth of (virtual) human interaction. I don’t like failing. Even though failing is, generally, learning, and I do like learning. May I shouldn’t call it failing – maybe I should call it practicing. I should probably remove “failing” from my vocabulary.
I keep bringing myself (I have to keep bringing myself, always already) back to this: what if it DOES succeed? What are my parameters for success? Or, better, yet, what do I want to learn? If learning is the goal, is failing better than success?
I have no idea.
(Also, I think I just referenced Derrida and Despicable Me in the same post.)
What I do know is that I’m clearly trying to avoid SOMETHING, or I wouldn’t be filling up my time and distracting myself so much. The goal is to get to whatever it is I’m trying to avoid. It’s not even about social media right now. It’s about never sleeping, too much work, too much to do. I’m getting carried along with the current. Social media was just a coping mechanism. Of course, that’s what Lent is all about, isn’t it? Getting rid of your coping mechanisms so that you can see what’s really going on.
Right now, my life feels like a basketball game that’s gained momentum in favor of the other team. I used to play in high school, and that was the worst feeling: to feel the momentum of the team, the crowd, rolling over you toward their victory and your loss. I’m trying to use this Sabbatical to call a time out, to get my team in position, to run the play. I want to post up under the basket, to feel the rhythm of the passing of the ball, watch for the opening, set the pick. Let my muscle memory kick in, feel like I’m in that place where I know what the heck I’m doing.
I want to feel like I’m in my groove, in familiar territory, on my own court. I want to say to whatever it is I’m trying to avoid: “I’m on the home team, and this is my house and you will not run roughshod over me.”
Time out. Whistle. Hands on knees. Gasp for air. Sip of water.
Long exhale.
One of my goals for this social media fast/sabbatical was to be more present in my daily life, to pay attention to what I am doing and who I am with at any given moment rather than shifting my gaze to a virtual community.
So far, that’s been happening, more, but it still requires some effort on my part. Giving up Twitter doesn’t magically help me become engaged with what’s happening in front of me. My capacity to be distracted is immense. My ability to zone out is not to be discounted. This week I started reading a book that called Women Food and God: An Unexpected Path to Almost Everything (recommended to me by the magic algorithms of amazon.com) which has a chapter titled “Never Underestimate the Inclination to Bolt.” In the chapter, the author talks about a silent retreat she attended where she attempted to hire a helicopter to come pick her up in the middle of the Joshua Tree State Park desert, because she couldn’t handle being alone inside her own head for so long.
I realize my inclination to bolt is always there. Whenever I sit down to work or write, I immediately have the urge to get on Twitter or Facebook, because if I do that, I can procrastinate working just a bit longer. This week, without social media, I’ve turned to eating as a way to procrastinate work. I ate an entire batch of Toll House cookies in three days (Toll House cookies, by the way, are the pinnacle of Western civilization. “I thought classical rhetoric was the pinnacle,” said my husband. “Nope,” I said, “it’s Toll House cookies, for sure.”). But I keep procrastinating, keep eating, keep bolting, rather than doing the hard work of being alone with my thoughts (that’s what writing is, of course —being alone with your thoughts).
I have also found that I feel like I don’t have anyone to talk to (not true, of course, but that is what it feels like). I miss my online community, because they listen to me and respond. And then the inevitable thought: does that mean I’m using social media as a substitute for prayer?
Yikes.
What might that mean? Does that mean social media is, at least in the short term, as satisfying (or perhaps more so) as prayer is? Instant gratification, instant confirmation, instant reassurance. That’s what social media gives me, anyway. Prayer is harder work.
I have found that prayer is not virtual, but more like an “IRL” relationship (what online folks call “in real life,” or, more disgustingly, “meat space”). A prayer relationship with God is one that builds over time. It can be frustrating, painful, excruciating. It can be joyful, delightful, fulfilling. Sometimes it is all of those things at once. Sometimes it is none of those, but just dry, or lonely, or boring. Prayer does not “naturally” come to fill up the space what social media, or food, or any other Lenten fast leaves. It is hard, and because it is hard, I want to bolt from it.
I need to read this again: Practicing the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence. He talks about being present where you are, and in that present, praying. This is the exact opposite of bolting. This is what I’m wanting from my social media sabbatical.
As great as Toll House cookies are, they’re not what I want out of Lent. OK, they’re not all I want.
There are two problems I’m having with blogging about my social media sabbatical.
The first problem is the Biblical prohibition about talking about your fasting. Whenever I think about that prohibition, I think about a certain guy who attended college with me. Let’s call him Matt (because that was his name). I distinctly remember Matt in the cafeteria, loudly announcing to anyone within shouting distance that he was NOT EATING today, that he was FASTING. He made this announcement while carrying a tray full of multiple glasses of juice, chocolate milk, and a milkshake. I don’t want to be that guy.
The other problem I’m having with blogging about this sabbatical comes from a school of thought that a friend of mine calls the “at least you don’t have brain cancer” mindset. This mindset is the idea that if anyone else, anywhere in the world might have a harder time at life than you do, you shouldn’t complain/discuss/express any emotion whatsoever regarding your situation, because at least you don’t have brain cancer. I have often wondered whether this mindset, upon meeting someone with brain cancer, would then come up with a new “worst case” scenario, so that even the person with brain cancer would have no reason to complain. I try really hard not to subscribe to this mindset, but sometimes I succumb.
Now you know why I’m having trouble talking about my social media sabbatical. So now I’ll try to talk about it, anyway.
The first week has gone pretty well. I removed Twitter and Facebook from my browser bar and from the home page of my phone. My fingers get itchy sometimes when I pick up my phone and realize I’m looking for something that isn’t there. Occasionally, I feel strangely lonely. I also feel that in some way, I’ve lost my “voice.” I’ve been having these online conversations with people who affirm and engage with my writing, and without that social aspect of writing, I’m not sure what I have to say. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, but I am trying to figure it all out.
I have also realized how encouraging social media is to my work and intellectual life. I have an online community that shares links, quotes, help, and feedback. That community is helping me overcome my “imposter syndrome,” has encouraged me to submit papers to conferences, and has helped me realize that I’m part of the community (not an outsider) and that I have something to say that people want to hear. That’s a good thing, and I’ve missed it this week.
I’ve realized that social media does, on occasion, take me away from my family. I need to be down on the floor playing with my kids more that I am checking my phone for status updates. I want to marvel at my nursing baby rather than be distracted by emails. As I mentioned last week, I want to be present. I’m trying. It’s something I need to practice, and this social media sabbatical is helping me practice. I’ve had more fun with my kids this week than I have in a while. By the end of the six weeks, I hope to figure out what kind of balance works for me.
I’m also praying more. If you are interested, I’d recommend the YouVersion Bible website or smartphone app, along with the daily reading plan (within YouVersion) called “Lent for Everyone.” It has a daily reading from the book of Matthew, along with a devotional by N.T. Wright, a scholar and writer for whom I have much respect.
That’s week one. I’ll keep you posted.
Beginning tomorrow (Ash Wednesday), I’ll be giving up Twitter and Facebook for forty days, or the period of Lent. I’m not Catholic, but I love the rhythm of the year that the Catholics (and Episcopalians) observe. I love the mental & spiritual exercise of Lent. I also love the concept of the Sabbath—even though I don’t do it well (I’m not Jewish, either).
The truth is, I’m completely addicted to Facebook. As a stay-at-home-mom half the time, and an isolated grad student the other half of the time, Facebook gives me an online community that I can access any time, anywhere, on my phone or computer. I love the instant gratification of it, the voyeurism of seeing what other people are doing, the narcissism of coming up with clever posts for my friends to read. I love the affirmation of the little red box that pops up to tell me I have a message, or that someone “likes” my status. I love it. LOVE it.
I also love Twitter, which I know not everyone enjoys, but I have built up a community of fellow academics and book lovers, and the links and comments and jokes they share make me feel like I’m not a lonely grad student, but part of a larger academic community. I’ve been nursing my baby since he was born in October, and when I’m sitting there in the dark, I check Twitter on my phone, and I feel connected.
So why give it up for a month? Because I find that I’ve been neglecting my real life. I find myself grabbing my phone when I should be listening to what my child has to tell me. Because I’m checking Facebook instead of doing my homework, which means I end up staying up way way way too late, which makes me grumpy. I want to unplug from my online community for just a little while,so I can focus on the precious family right in front of me. And so I can get my stinkin’ homework done.
So you won’t see me on Twitter, or Facebook, except maybe possibly on Sundays. Why Sundays? Because traditionally, during Lent, Sundays are not fast days. That’s why there are 46 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday – because Sundays aren’t for fasting. (Interesting, isn’t it? Not sure if I agree with it completely, but it is nice to know this tradition has a built-in “safety valve.”)
So where will you see me? Well, aside from my temptation to write Tweets on index cards and drop them on the ground in public places, or run into coffee shops and shout my status updates, you won’t see me on Facebook* or Twitter.
I will be blogging right here, probably more than usual, about this sabbatical and other things.
*My blog automatically posts to Facebook, so my Facebook friends may see links to updates there. Otherwise, you might want to sign up for the RSS feed here, if you want to follow along. I will also be staying out of my RSS reader, which can be a huge time suck. I will be checking email, and using my phone. My goal with this media fast is not to eschew all electronics, but to be present. Twitter and Facebook and my blog roll take me out of the present. I want to be present for my children, my husband, and my self. I’ll also be praying more (that’s sort of the point of Lent) and, hopefully, running more (more than “none,” that is).
I may participate in the Wednesday night First Year Composition chat (#FYCchat) on Twitter. I haven’t decided about that. It’s one hour per week, and it makes a big difference in my work to get tips from everyone there. I’ll also still read my husband’s blogs, The Highest Standard and Run Gianni Run (although I have links that go directly to these, so that I won’t be tempted by my RSS reader to fall down the crafting blog rabbit hole). I may try to get caught up with Reading Through the Great Books – that might be what I read during those late-night feedings. All this to say: I’m not cutting out everything, and my media fast might not look like yours, but this is what I’m going to do.
It’s not because I think Facebook or Twitter are bad – on the contrary, I really, really like them, and defend them often. I just need to be present, to be where I am, so to speak, both mentally and physically. If you need to talk to me, you can probably find me. (And if you Direct Message me in Twitter, I’ll get it via email).
Say a prayer for me: this is going to be way harder than the year I gave up drinking soda.
I have a new treadmill desk. Check it out:
Now I can walk on the treadmill (slowly) and type or read. Since I’m a PhD student and a TA, I spend a lot of time reading and typing. This way, I can walk while I work.
We (and by “we” I mean mainly my husband) built a treadmill desk. Since we had most of the materials, it cost less than $20 (we bought foam, velcro, & wood screws). If you have some sheet goods (wood or MDF) lying around, you should be able to build something similar on the cheap (or, like me, ask very nicely for someone to build it for you). If you have to buy some MDF, you can still build it for less than $50. Oh, and it helps if you already have a treadmill.
Not gorgeous, but it works!
I’ve seen other treadmill desks online. Here’s one you can buy, the TrekDesk Treadmill Desk. And here’s one you can build that is freestanding – it doesn’t touch the treadmill. We opted to build one that sits on the treadmill hand rests, like these. As you’ll see in the pictures below, we used foam (from the craft store) to reduce vibration. The result is an awesome and totally useful (if not especially attractive) working space for yours truly.
Why the treadmill desk? Well, I had NO desk before—I worked with my laptop on the couch or kitchen table or where ever. And I just had my second baby, so I’m hoping this helps me drop some more of this pesky baby weight (the weight is what’s so pesky, not the baby). I also have approximately zero time to work out. Possibly negative time. Treadmill desks have been shown to help you lose some serious weight without even thinking about it. Sign me up for that!
My treadmill is in the living room/den. With the treadmill desk, I can exercise, work, and keep one eye on the boys all at the same time. If that’s not multi-tasking, I don’t know what is.
I’ll show you how we built my desk. You’ll need to measure and adjust the desk to fit you, your space, and your treadmill.
First you’ll need a board that goes across the treadmill hand rests. You’re going to want two holes in this board so that you can run the velcro straps through to secure it. You can make the holes with a drill and a paddle bit; the holes only have to be big enough to run the velcro through.
Here’s a pic of the bottom tier, before we drilled the holes for the velcro:
Speaking of velcro: I highly recommend hunting down this “one strap” velcro. We bought it at the big box (Lowe’s), and it’s PERFECT for this project.
Our desk is two-tiered, so you’ll want to measure like crazy. Our top tier has a cutout so that I can see the readout on the treadmill while I’m standing at the desk.
On the sawhorse
Make sure that the cutout isn’t so big that your laptop will fall through it!
Here’s a top view of the cutout:
A bit weird looking, with the shelf liner & my laptop on it, but the idea here is that the cutout allows me to see the readout, sort of.
Our second tier is six inches higher and several inches deeper than the bottom board, which gives us quite a bit more work space on the top layer.
It is held up by wedge-shaped pieces.
Put screws though the top & bottom boards into the wedges to assemble.
Make sure you can access the treadmill controls (I access them by sticking my hand in between the two tiers.)
Vibration control: We bought a square of 2″ thick, high-density foam at the craft store. It was marked $8, and I had a 50% off coupon, so we got it for four bucks. We cut pieces of foam to go on top of the hand rests, which is the only place the desk actually touches the treadmill.
We also put a piece of foam shelf liner (the thin white piece) under the green high-density foam, just for extra insurance. Nothing is glued together, but you could glue it if you wanted to.
Next, take your strips of velcro and secure the desk to the hand rests and to the front bar, as shown. Make the straps as tight as you can. This makes the desk extra secure.
For extra security, take some shelf liner (I like the white foam kind) and cover the top of the desk with it.
This reduces vibration, keeps your laptop from sliding and even keeps pens & pencils secure! So far, anyway.
I thought I wanted a keyboard down on the bottom tier, and so I velcroed an old Mac keyboard to the desk with industrial strength velcro. Turns out my husband was right (yes, I admit that he was right) and the bottom tier was too low for a keyboard. You can still see the black velcro dots.
But the bottom tier is integral to the structure, and it’s great for storing a book, notepad, or pencil.
As you can see, the cupholders are still accessible on our desk (featuring my pink SIGG bottle).
That’s nice if you can swing it.
Tips for using the treadmill desk:
1. Don’t go faster than 2.0 miles an hour. It causes too much vibration and it’s REALLY hard to type. In fact, 1.0 is just fine. Little by little, the miles add up.
2. Don’t eat brownies while walking on the treadmill. Just go sit down and eat the brownie.
3. Make sure you have enough shelf liner to cover the top of the treadmill desk before you decide to take pictures for your blog. You might want to use spray adhesive to hold it down.
Another great thing about the desk is that it helps you time your work sessions. If you set the treadmill to go for 45 minutes, then when the 45 minutes are up, it stops. Then you have to decide: Do I want to just stand here? Do I want to start the treadmill for another few minutes? Should I just finish up what I’m doing and be done with it?
I’m still in the honeymoon phase with my desk, but I’ll keep you posted on how it goes.
Let me know in the comments if you have any questions about the desk! Or about the brownies. They were delicious, by the way.
