Okay, you tell me. I’m right on the brink of there’s no turning back. So here’s what happened. The other day, on one of those gorgeous snowy wintry afternoons (I know I’m in the minority but I do love winter and those big white floppy flakes) I was walking in Gay Head ( I know its Aquinnah but I’m slow to change) and I was snapping pictures with my iPhone (I know there is no snapping with iPhones) and I came upon the perfect shot and when I went to take it, the thing said cannot take photo. I was beside myself. Frustrated. Angry at technology. Angry at myself for not dumping the old photos into the computer so there would be room. Just plain p-oed.

And then something strange happened. More than strange. Bizarre and frightening. I kept walking. And as I’m walking I’m thinking, wait a minute, wait just a New York minute. Just because you couldn’t take the picture doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the thing that attracted you in the first place. I kept walking and talking to myself.

So what just happened there? You valued the picture more than the actual experience. The act of picture taking, preserving a lovely scene to add to your collection of 5,000 other pictures was more important than seeing, being and having the moment.

That blew my mind. So I turned around and went back and I stood still and I looked. It was Lobsterville Beach which looks like Stonewall Beach these days with a sea of rocks. And all of them were halfway covered with the accumulated snow. They looked like little beings with white caps. I took it in and smiled and continued my walk.

But I was blown away by what had just happened. When had I made the switch from being in the moment to recording the moment?

It reminded me of a New Yorker cartoon. There are two doors. Outside the first door there is a line around the block and outside the second door there is no one. The door that has all the people waiting says Lecture on Heaven and the door with no one says Heaven.

The thing about the iPhone is that I fought getting one with a sledgehammer. I looked with disdain at everyone walking around talking to who knows who. I shook my head in dismay at a café once while watching four young women all on their phones, none of them actually with each other. What’s happening, I said with apocalyptic fear in my voice. No one is really relating anymore to actual people. It’s as if everyone is living once removed. Then in what seemed like an hour later I got my own phone. And I became THEM. I fell so in love with it, you could carve my initials on a tree with a heart and an apple. I can take videos of my grandson and send them to my sister. I can text my son and he answers immediately. I can call anyone from the car and make a new plan. It starts my day and it ends my day. What is it? Well for starters the immediate gratification is a drug. It’s so seductive you can’t help but get hooked. All those years that I thought I was holding out not succumbing to the trend (another word I hate), now I was holding on to my phone, walking into the library, driving into town, getting on an airplane, even putting it on the table in a restaurant, just like those girls I had so worried about.

So while I was turmoiling over the situation I made a semi-decision. That’s it! I am done with the phone. I will use it only for emergencies and for my kids and my husband to communicate with me. I could even do something more radical, I thought, and cancel my contract. Yes, that’s it. That’s what I will do. Otherwise I can see the future. The implants into the brain, the inability to experience anything first hand, the lecture on heaven.

And then suddenly the little devil rang. Its not supposed to ring in Aquinnah. It was my friend Lorie. Wow! she’s on the boat. She’s arriving. Where should we eat? Home? I could make us my stir fry salmon, or we could go to...

I told you I was right on the brink.

Nancy Slonim Aronie is the author of Writing from the Heart (Hyperion) and the founder of the Chilmark Writing Workshop on Martha’s Vineyard.