I was 33-years-old the first time I experienced living in a home without a tv.

Three stories up an old brick apartment, I entered an AirBNB in Florence, Italy that my wife and I were about to live for the next four days.

It was the second leg of our honeymoon and we were excited to explore the birthplace of the Renaissance.

The wood floors creaked with each step as I explored the studio. A built-in bookshelf stocked with Italian novels and hefty art books lined one of the walls. The pull-out drawers housed the perephenilia of an artist: pens, pencils, brushes, paints, scissors, and glue. There was a small table with two chairs, an oak writing desk looking out at the clay rooftops of the city, and a balcony to get some fresh air while taking in the view of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.

Curiously missing was the tv or any devices for that matter. I wondered how someone could live without a 55" glass screen centering their interior universe.

My wife had developed a fever on the flight to Florence and within a couple of hours she was resting in hopes of a quick recovery. I thought I might explore the city on my own but a massive rainstorm had come in and the Californian in me didn't think to pack an umbrella.

Cracks of thunder broke apart the silence as I tried to figure out what to do. I thought about scrolling my phone or watching a movie to pass the time but that seemed silly. Who pays thousands of dollars to go to Florence only to scroll Instagram to watch other people travel?

But that writing desk looked enticing.

I brought a leather-bound journal with me to document our travels so I could avoid the urge to pull out my phone at every opportunity. I didn't want my memory of the trip to be memories of looking at my phone. I wanted to experience Europe, be present with my wife, and to write about the new environments I found myself in.

So, I wrote. I sat there and wrote in my notebook for hours as the rain pelted the rooftops. It was more writing by hand than I'd ever done in my life.

I would periodically glance out the window to view the grand duomo of the cathedral in the distance and imagine that I was a Renaissance thinker living in the 15th-century.

It struck me that this is how life used to feel before electronics invaded the home. No news feed demanding my attention with scare tactics, no notifications begging me to check in with the world, no tv to distract my mind and avert any inkling of boredom.

It was the first time in my life that I saw how my environment shapes my behavior.

It was precisely because the room lacked digital distractions that I felt so compelled to write in my notebook for hours. The books on the shelf, the art supplies in the drawers, and the architecture outside of the window were all physical nudges to explore my creativity.

But contrast this with the modern environment most of us find ourselves in: smartphones in every pocket, tvs in front of every couch, computers on every desk, ads running on screens while you pump your gas or buckle into a flight.

This is the environment designed to distract from the potential welling in your mind.

Most of the conversation about our modern cognitive fitness and its potential decline are centered around cogntive diets–the type and container of content we consume– and cognitive exercise–the activities we do to strengthen our mental faculties such as reading, writing, and learning new things.

But what's largely missing from this discussion is the absolute necessity of a clean cognitive environment. Because it doesn't matter how many miles you run a day if you're living under the ashes of nuclear fallout–the cancer is coming.

That experience of writing for hours at a wooden writing desk never left me. When I returned home I made some immediate changes.

I bought a wooden writing desk to set up in my own home office. My laptop never touches it. Only my typewriter and notebooks grace its surface.

I started keeping my phone plugged into its charger in a seperate room while I was home so that I can't reach for it whenever boredom strikes.

My study–the room I used to call my office–has since been filled with books, artwork, plants, guitars, and crafting tools that inspire me to create rather than tune out into distraction.

I'm by no means perfect and I definitely don't believe entertainment in the form of tv, movies, or video games is somehow morally bad.

But I do take seriously the need to culitvate an environment that contributes to a flourishing mind.

It's time to cleanse the air of cognitive pollution.

Prompt:

How do you design your physical spaces to cultivate your interior space?

If you don't already, how could you start to today without spending any money?
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