Being Measured: Oura Rings, Wearables, and the Ecology of Attention

I write this as I’m wearing an Apple Watch and have years of my health data stored in Apple Health. However, sometimes a news item lands not as a surprise but as a low-pressure system that makes you draw connections. You don’t react so much as feel the conditions shift.

This piece in Politico this morning about Oura Rings wearable health devices becoming normalized across military programs (I didn’t realize the DOD is Oura’s largest customer), political circles, and public health messaging produced something like that for me. Not an alarm exactly. Not dismissal either. Something closer to unease, which is often where worthwhile thinking begins.

The Defense Department, Oura’s largest customer, now provides rings to certain soldiers and civil servants as an employee benefit. In Congress, they are a hot accessory for representatives and senators as different as Bronx Democrat Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Idaho Falls Republican Mike Crapo. Besides buying the rings, lawmakers have gone to bat to protect Oura from Chinese and Indian competitors. Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. has made wearables like the Oura ring part of his Make America Healthy Again movement. He says every American should be sporting one by the end of the decade.

Wearable devices promise knowledge. That promise is seductive because it appears modest. A ring measures sleep, my watch measures heart rate, and sensors measure movement or temperature. Each function is framed as assistance, as clarity, as an expansion of self-understanding. These are framed as tools of wellness. And in many contexts, they are exactly that. They help people notice patterns that might otherwise remain obscure. They can support recovery, discipline, and care.

But something deeper is happening alongside these practical benefits. Wearables do not simply measure bodies. They reorganize attention toward bodies. And attention is never neutral. Attention is ecological. It shapes the environments within which perception unfolds.

From a phenomenological standpoint, the body is not primarily encountered as data. It is lived through sensation, posture, fatigue, hunger, and atmosphere. It is encountered through participation in a world rather than through representation. When Merleau-Ponty writes about embodiment, or when Edith Stein considers empathic access to experience, the body appears as relational presence rather than objectified signal. It is not a dashboard. It is a mode of inhabiting.

Wearable analytics introduce a second layer of encounter. The body becomes statistically legible. One wakes not simply rested or tired, but presented with a readiness score or a determination of “how well” you slept (I, for one, often feel like I’ve slept horribly or really well only to be confronted with a piece of data telling me the opposite at 5:30 AM, and it’s a cognitively confusing way to begin the day). One does not feel stress as tension or agitation alone, but as heart rate variability metrics. Over time, these mediated interpretations begin to compete with lived sensation as arbiters of truth.

This does not eliminate embodiment. But it does refract it.

The ecological question then emerges:

What happens when the perception of self becomes infrastructurally mediated?

What kind of attentional environment forms when intimate experience is continuously translated into an extractable signal?

Here, the conversation moves beyond individual devices toward systems. Data does not remain local. It circulates through platforms, institutions, markets, and governance structures (thanks, Peter Thiel). Even when anonymized or ethically managed, biometric data participates in networks far larger than the individual body from which it originates. Bodies become nodes in informational ecologies.

From the standpoint of ecological intentionality, agency is never isolated. It arises through relational entanglements among bodies, technologies, institutions, and environments. Wearables intensify these entanglements. They fold biological rhythms into digital infrastructures, making physiological processes part of broader technological assemblages.

This is neither purely dystopian nor purely emancipatory. It is transformation.

There are real gains to be acknowledged. Preventive medicine. Behavioral insight. Personalized health awareness. These are not trivial developments. But the transformation also raises subtle spiritual and philosophical questions. When self-knowledge becomes increasingly mediated through algorithmic interpretation, how does trust in lived experience shift? When bodily awareness is quantified, what happens to contemplative attention? When vitality is scored, how does one relate to vulnerability?

Traditions of spiritual discipline have long cultivated attentiveness to breath, posture, hunger, fatigue, and interior movement. These practices did not seek numerical validation. They sought participatory awareness. The difference is not technological versus pre-technological. It is representational awareness versus relational awareness.

This distinction matters because the stakes are ecological. Attention shapes behavior. Behavior shapes environments. Environments shape futures.

If we come to understand our bodies primarily through optimization metrics, we risk narrowing our interpretive field to efficiency and performance. But if wearable technologies are held within a wider horizon of relational awareness, they may instead become companions to reflection rather than replacements for perception.

The task ahead is not rejection nor surrender. It is integration with discernment.

We should ask:

How do we use measurement without being defined by it?
How do we allow data to inform perception without displacing embodied knowing?
How do we remain addressable by the more-than-human world when our awareness is increasingly mediated through technological mirrors?

These questions are not just policy or privacy debates. They are spiritual and ecological inquiries. They concern how persons inhabit bodies within technological worlds.

Unease, in this light, becomes instructive. It signals the presence of transformation that has not yet been fully metabolized into understanding. It invites patience rather than reaction. And perhaps most importantly, it calls us back toward attentional practices capable of holding complexity without collapsing into certainty.

The future of wearable technology will not be determined only by engineers, legislators, or markets (or the military-industrial complex, hopefully). It will also be shaped by how individuals cultivate awareness of their own embodiment within relational ecologies.

And that work begins, as it often does, by noticing how we are already being measured… and how we choose to measure what matters.

When Agency Becomes Ecological: AI, Labor, and the Redistribution of Attention

I read this piece in Futurism this morning, highlighting anxiety among employees at Anthropic about the very tools they are building. Agent-based AI systems designed to automate professional tasks are advancing quickly, and even insiders are expressing unease that these systems could displace forms of work that have long anchored identity and livelihood. The familiar story is one of replacement with machines and agents taking jobs, efficiency outpacing meaning, and productivity outrunning dignity.

“It kind of feels like I’m coming to work every day to put myself out of a job.”

That narrative is understandable. It is also incomplete.

It assumes agency is something discrete, something possessed. Either humans have it or ai agents do. Either labor is done by us or by them. This framing reflects a deeply modern inheritance in which action is imagined as individual, bounded, and owned. But if we step back and look phenomenologically, ecologically, even theologically, agency rarely appears that way in lived experience.

However, agency unfolds relationally. It arises through environments, histories, infrastructures, bodies, tools, and attentional fields that exceed any single actor. Whitehead described events as occasions within webs of relation rather than isolated units of causation. Merleau-Ponty reminded us that perception itself is co-constituted with the world it encounters. Edith Stein traced empathy as a participatory structure that bridges subjectivities. In each of these traditions, action is never solitary. It is ecological.

Seen from this vantage, AI agents do not simply replace agency. They redistribute it.

Workplaces become assemblages of human judgment, algorithmic suggestion, interface design, energy supply, and data pipelines. Decisions emerge from entanglement while expertise shifts from individual mastery toward collaborative navigation of hybrid systems. What unsettles people is not merely job loss, but the destabilization of familiar coordinates that once made agency legible to us.

This destabilization is not unprecedented. Guild laborers faced mechanization during the Industrial Revolution(s). Scribes faced it with the advent of the printing press. Monastics faced it when clocks began structuring devotion instead of bells and sunlight. Each moment involved a rearrangement of where attention was placed and how authority was structured. The present transition is another such rearrangement, though unfolding at computational speed.

Attention is the deeper currency here.

Agent systems promise efficiency precisely because they absorb attentional burden. They monitor, synthesize, draft, suggest, and route. But attention is not neutral bandwidth. It is a formative ecological force. Where attention flows, worlds take shape. If attentional responsibility migrates outward into technical systems, the question is not whether humans lose agency. It is what kinds of perception and responsiveness remain cultivated in us.

This is the moment where the conversation often stops short as discussions of automation typically orbit labor markets or productivity metrics or stock values. Rarely do they ask what habits of awareness diminish when engagement becomes mediated through algorithmic intermediaries. What forms of ecological attunement grow quieter when interaction shifts further toward abstraction.

And rarer still is acknowledgment of the material ecology enabling this shift.

Every AI agent relies on infrastructure that consumes electricity, water, land, and minerals. Data centers do not hover in conceptual space. They occupy watersheds. They reshape local grids. They alter thermal patterns. They compete with agricultural and municipal electrical grid and water demands. These realities are not peripheral to agency, but are conditions through which agency is enacted.

In places like here in the Carolinas, where digital infrastructure continues expanding exponentially, it seems the redistribution of agency is already tangible. Decisions about automation are inseparable from decisions about energy sourcing, zoning, and water allocation. The ecological footprint of computation folds into local landscapes long before its outputs appear in professional workflows.

Agency, again, proves ecological.

To recognize this is not to reject AI systems or retreat into Luddite nostalgia. The aim is attentiveness rather than resistance. Transitions of this magnitude call for widening perception (and resulting ethics) rather than narrowing judgment. If agency is relational, then responsibility must be relational as well. Designing, deploying, regulating, and using these tools all participate in shaping the ecologies they inhabit.

Perhaps the most generative question emerging from this moment is not whether artificial intelligence will take our agency. It is whether we can learn to inhabit redistributed agency wisely. Whether we can remain perceptive participants rather than passive recipients. Whether we can sustain forms of attention capable of noticing both digital transformation and the soils, waters, and energies through which it flows.

Late in the afternoon, sitting near the black walnut I’ve been tracking the past year, these abstractions tend to settle. Agency there is unmistakably ecological as we’d define it. Wind, insects, light, decay, growth, and memory intermingle without boundary disputes. Nothing acts alone, and nothing possesses its influence outright. The tree neither competes with nor yields to agency. It participates.

Our technologies, despite their novelty, do not remove us from that condition. They draw us deeper into it. The question is whether we will learn to notice.

Doomsday Clock Eighty-Five Seconds to Midnight: An Invitation to Attention

The news that the Doomsday Clock now stands at eighty-five seconds to midnight is not, in itself, the most important thing about this moment. The number is arresting, and the coverage tends to amplify its urgency. But the deeper question raised by this year’s announcement is not how close we are to catastrophe. It is how we are learning, or failing, to attend to the conditions that make catastrophe thinkable in the first place.

What the Clock reflects is not a single looming disaster but a convergence of unresolved tensions from nuclear instability, ecological breakdown, accelerating technologies, and political fragmentation (not to mention our spiritual crisis and the very real scenes we’re seeing with our own eyes in each of our communities with federal authorities and directed violence here in the United States).

These are not isolated threats. They form a dense field of entanglement, reinforcing one another across systems we have built but no longer fully understand or govern. The Clock does not merely measure danger. It reveals a world stretched thin by its own speed.

One risk of symbolic warnings like this is that they can tempt us into abstraction. “Eighty-five seconds to midnight” can feel cinematic, even mythic, while the realities beneath it, such as warming soils, poisoned waters, eroded trust, and automated corporatist decision-making, remain oddly distant. When risk becomes spectacle, attention falters. And when attention falters, responsibility diffuses (part of the aim of keeping us distracted with screens and political theater).

This is where I think the Clock’s real work begins. It presses on a crisis not only of policy or technology, but of perception. We have grown adept at responding to emergencies that suddenly emerge, and far less capable of staying with harms that unfold slowly, relationally, and across generations. Climate disruption, ecological loss, and technological overreach do not arrive as single events. They address us quietly, repeatedly, asking whether we are willing to notice what is already being asked of us.

In earlier posts, I’ve suggested that empathy is not first an ethical achievement but a mode of perception, or a way “the world” comes to matter. Attention works in a similar register. It is not merely focus or vigilance. It is a practiced openness to being addressed by what exceeds us. The Doomsday Clock, at its best, functions as a crude but persistent call to such attention. It interrupts complacency not by predicting the future, but by unsettling how we inhabit the present.

And here is where something genuinely hopeful emerges.

The Clock is not fate. It has moved away from midnight before, not through technological miracles alone, but through shifts in collective orientation, such as restraint, cooperation, treaty-making, and shared commitments to limits. Those movements were not perfect or permanent, but they remind us that attention can be cultivated and that perception can change. Worlds do not only end. They also reorient.

Hope, in this sense, is not confidence that things will turn out fine. It is the thing with feathers and the willingness to stay present to what is fragile without turning away or grasping for false reassurance. It is the discipline of attending to land, to neighbors, to systems we participate in but rarely see or acknowledge. It is the slow work of empathy extended beyond the human, allowing rivers, forests, and even future generations to count as more than abstractions.

Eighty-five seconds to midnight is not a verdict. It is an invitation to recover forms of attention capable of holding complexity without paralysis. An invitation to let empathy deepen into responsibility. An invitation to notice that the most meaningful movements away from catastrophe begin not with panic, but with learning how to listen again to the world as it is, and to the world as it might yet become.

The question, then, is not whether the clock will strike midnight. The question is whether we will accept the invitation it places before us to attend, to respond, and to live as if what we are already being asked to notice truly matters.

“Wait, you’re playing Pac-Man?”

We finished up with our science lesson this morning and sat down at the kitchen table for a snack. This is usually when the five-year-old has “tablet time” (we’re not the type of parents that abides by the “Screen Time!” mantra or severely restricts device usage…).

As I was putting snacks out, I noticed he was playing Pac-Man. PAC-MAN. “Wait, you’re playing Pac-Man?” I asked in that sort of parental stunned manner that even a five-year-old recognizes as a question that warranted an immediate response. “What is Pac-Man?” he responded. I’d loaded a few classic games on his tablet a few weeks ago but didn’t think he’d necessarily take to any of them just yet.

“You’re playing it!” I said. “Oh, he said… I call it Bubble-Eater.” Fair enough.

I sat down and we enjoyed some Pac-Man together. He’s almost better than I was as a middle schooler emptying quarters into the Pac-Man machine at our local skating rink on a Friday night. It’s been a while.

This all makes me reflect on how we often put emphasis on things that really don’t matter in our marketing. Our son doesn’t care about the name “Pac-Man” but enjoys the experience, the music, and the sound effects. If you’re of a certain age, you can close your eyes and imagine those sound effects right now.

Often when I’m working with clients on a new project, there will be unlimited amounts of time and energy spent on seemingly massive details that in the end only matter to the actual organization (or more often, specific committee members).

In reality, it’s the sound effects that stick with people and transcend generations. Focus on the details that matter and not the ones that you think matter. “I know my business better than anyone” is often the death knell of a marketing campaign.

Attention and the Web Worker (or Affiliate Marketer)

I waste too much time.

I know this, but I’ve been working on it. My time is pretty valuable and I’ve spread myself pretty thin between ReveNews, AffiliateFortuneCookies, GeekCast, this site, my affiliate sites, my consulting gigs… not to mention my baby, wife, family, dogs and Nascar watching.

Attention is a particular problem for people in the affiliate marketing industry because we don’t have one job where we work for one person.

One of my favorite web personalities is Merlin Mann (who I suggested as an Affiliate Summit keynote candidate), and his new vid hits on this attention problem.

So, this video is more aimed to general web workers, but it’s definitely appropriate for those of us in performance marketing:

http://blip.tv/scripts/flash/showplayer.swf?enablejs=true&feedurl=http%3A%2F%2Fthemerlinshow%2Eblip%2Etv%2Frss%2F&file=http%3A%2F%2Fblip%2Etv%2Frss%2Fflash%2F648550&brandlink=http%3A%2F%2Fthemerlinshow%2Eblip%2Etv%2F&brandname=The%20Merlin%20Show

(Via 43Folders.)