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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 different direction?” or “Should I go get my shoji screen out of the closet and put it up so they don’t have to stare at my stuff?”
No one was staring at my stuff. No one was judging my stuff — except for me.
The thing about diet culture is (here comes the slightly tenuous connecting segue) — it tells you a completely false tale about what should be retained and what needs to be lost at any cost.
furniture and objects and knick knacks — keep
cellulite and love handles and that little bit of soft flesh at the top of your arm — destroy! annhiliate! lose at any cost!
And so I have learned to get comfortable with stuff. Stuff in closets I never see that somehow should be a comfort just to have. Stuff on all the shelves. Stuff in drawers that I never open. Stuff that I have “just in case.”
