Texting misses the human dimension

My smartphone leaves me feeling — well — not very smart.

A decade ago, I was happily using my flip phone — then — as if awakening from a dream — I saw folks walking around with fingers dancing at lightning speed on their phones.

I finally took the plunge and bought my first smartphone seven years ago. But skill is not for sale, and I found I was “all thumbs”— but not in the right way — when it came to texting.

Even texting with my index finger challenged me. I envy my friends — who look as cool as teenagers as their thumbs quickly fly on the keyboard.

When I upgraded to a newer phone a few years ago, voice recognition came to my rescue. Since I’m seldom at a loss for words, I love this new way of texting.

I text to confirm appointments, send quick messages to friends and family, and OK Instacart purchases. The convenience and speed of texting can’t be beat.

But that’s as far as it goes. Texting misses the human dimension.

My mind roams back to March of 1978 — years before texting.

I planned to fly to Kansas City to attend a Marriage and Family Therapist’s Conference. As the day approached, I felt panicky.

Why?

I’d always loved flying. I’d made numerous trips to California with all four kids and never broke a sweat. This trip felt different. This was the first time I would pull away from the comfort of domesticity in over 20 years.

I knew I would be unmoored from familiar surroundings.

I also knew I had to talk to someone before my flight. I called my friend Judy and asked if I could come by.

She welcomed me at her door, and we sat at her kitchen table.

As soon as words came out of my mouth, my voice quivered, my eyes welled up, and I sobbed.

We talked for about an hour. I should say I spoke, and Judy listened. My worries about my job, school, and family poured out.

Judy heated a can of

Campbell’s vegetarian vegetable soup, and we shared the solace of its warmth.

The hour spent with Judy lifted the weight I carried.

I always feel better after a good cry — especially with a supportive friend or therapist.

The following day, I flew to Kansas City, met kind, engaging people, and was glad I attended the conference.

I’m also glad texting wasn’t on the scene at that time.

A text can’t comfort the human heart.

Or provide a listening ear.

Or share a warm cup of Campbell Soup.

I realize texts and emojis are not intended for pouring one’s heart out. Or for being vulnerable.

When we receive a text, how do we hear the pauses in conversation when a friend or family member feels sad?

How can we hear joy in a text? Expectation? Confidence?

I wonder if we’re missing something as we talk less and text more.

Readers, what do you think?