a10d

Locked Up at Tanglewood

How forced phone-free time gave 7,000 of us sanctuary last night.

Meghan Fitzgerald

Jun 21, 2026

They made us do it. With a calm smile, locking pouches, and many hands, they made everyone do it. Even the parents with three kids in a house an hour and a half away. And we all complied.

Last evening, Brian and I celebrated our 20th anniversary in a rather bougie but truly delightful New England summer way. We spent more than we should on cheese and cured meat, hiked around a meadow, then set off to Tanglewood to picnic and laugh along with Jon Stewart.

When I downloaded my tickets a few hours before, I’d noticed a message about phones, but I must have thin-sliced right past it, assuming it was the usual “silence phones/no recording” notice that leaves you to self-govern.

But when we arrived, there were signs, stations, teams, and processes devoted to locking down every remotely intelligent device. All of them. Even Brian’s “dumb” sports watch was deemed smart and got locked up, too.

How? A team in black and neon placed your tech into a Yondr pouch, locked it, and promised to unlock it after the show. Aside from two, designated “phone use” tents at either end of the lawn, phones and smart devices were completely out of play. No photos. No apps. No calls. No checking anything.

A moment’s panic and pushback

At first, I lauded the approach. We’ll really be present!

Then it sank in: my kids couldn’t reach me. I felt more cornered than I’d have expected. Our 15, 13 and 11 year olds were hanging out together with no way to reach us if they needed to. Was there a general number to call? Did anyone think of that use case when they designed this draconian system?!

So I stepped into the phone-use zone, called the kids, and reminded them to reach out to neighbors if they needed anything. Brian pointed out that we were too far away to help quickly anyway, and that parents had been coming to Tanglewood for about 90 years—only a sliver of that time with kids able to interrupt the experience with a text or call.

So I locked my phone back up, left the zone, and set off to be present.

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No Photos?

We have a habit of taking photos in our favorite spots on the lawn—one, facing the lake and mountains, the other near a tree with a memorable 90-degree pivot in its trunk. So we felt both an itch and a sense of loss there.

That said, the photo I’d have taken last night would have become number 19,619 in my Photos app. I love looking back through photos, but there are just so many of them. It made me want to dig out our digital camera, or even go back to film. Would a little friction make the photos we do take even more special?

Even better: this morning, back home with coffee, I’m actively savoring as I recall and list the details that made the night memorable (see below). I’m confident many would have been diminished, or missed altogether, if my phone had played a role.

More good stuff

As a student of attention, I was fascinated to watch the effects of Yondr-induced presence, both in me and in my crowd-mates.

The first evidence came outside the bathrooms. I held the pouches while Brian went in, and in what couldn’t have been more than ninety seconds, I reflexively reached for my back pocket at least 20 times. It was stunning. I found myself visualizing the NY Times Spelling Bee and wondering what number was circled in red next to my Substack icon.

I noticed other waiters were just as unsure where to put their gaze in this found time. I tried smiling at people and got several smiles back—moments I know would’ve been lost otherwise.

On my second trip, I watched a trio of women, likely in their late 20s, staring into a flower bed, watching bumblebees land on the flowers. So sweet. Would that have happened with phones in between them and the bees? Maybe. But probably not with the same quality.

We overheard plenty of chatter about how it felt—”kind of freeing,” “really weird”—not having a phone. We asked our neighbors what time it was, and they didn’t know either. I guess it’s “now,” we laughed. Not bad.

Maybe it was the setting, or the admiration we all had for our host, but people really didn’t seem to mind. We saw a lot of eye contact. A lot of raised heads. And we felt our own presence. It was kind of awesome, really.

What next? I’m inspired…

Next week, I’m inviting friends to drop in and “Brick-Nic” in a local park.

What’s that? Just made it up, but it’s a phone-free picnic.

Why’s that? We need to get outside and enjoy the weather—with the kids home and Brian and I both working from home, it’s healthy (i.e. much needed) for all of us. We have lovely parks we rarely use. And we need friends, many of whom are starting to flee our college town for the summer. Low lift, high reward.

“Brick” refers to a device we’ve been experimenting with— The Brick. We’ll bring it and let people download the free app and use it to decide which other apps on their to turn off for the picnic. They can also just leave phones in the car. The idea: take concrete steps to be present for the whole picnic, and share a tool that might interest friends who want to do that at home more, too. See how it feels.

Most importantly, we’ll eat and hang with friends and be out in nature. Maybe we’ll find that old camera in time to capture a photo. Even if not, we can savor the stories afterwards. What could be better?