The Demon of Stuff
I went to a dance meditation class on Zoom this morning. I was the only American in the class. In my work life, where there are many more Americans on screen, I am used to seeing entire lives going on behind the person on the screen — if they haven’t blurred their background, that is. Sometimes I amuse myself by trying to notice all the book titles or little knick-knacks and things in the room around each person. So much stuff.
Today, there were peaceful bare walls, a few dark wood beams, a glimpse of woven ceiling, but not a knick was knacked anywhere in the spaces of my fellow dancers. I felt a little embarrassed by my own screen. My laptop camera was pointed towards my desk/bookcase: covered in papers, the top shelf stuffed with books, and the second shelf an arrangements of some things that don’t really have a purpose, other than to spark joy, I suppose. (I smile every time I see the David Tennant-as-Doctor Who bobblehead that was a gift from my brother.)
The contrast between my stuffed-out space and my fellow dancers’ open spareness was distracting enough that I found myself unable to drop into our dance practice. I spent time instead wondering things like: “Should I move my laptop so the camera points a…