Spacious Solidarity Blog: Day 20

My life pretty much takes place online now. For three weeks to the day my only real, live, physical human contact has been with my partner. Otherwise, everything else has been online or by phone, save the occasional small talk with neighbours, from a safe distance of course.

All my teaching, led meditations, meetings and social gatherings are now on Zoom. Over the past few weeks I’ve connected with hundreds of people on Zoom, as far away as relatives in Chile and as close by as a friend who lives up the road.

When a person enters a room you can sometimes see them coming, through a window or out the door. Or you hear them approaching, their footsteps on the pavement, their voice preceding them as they say hello to someone on the street or finish up a phone call. .

We often feel each other’s presence before we are physically in it. This initial feeling leads on to other feelings, depending on whether we know them or not, depending on whether we like, dislike or feel neutral about them. I’ve taken for granted how much I rely on these feelings to prepare me to meet another person.

On Zoom people simply appear. Or to be more exact, you hear a doorbell sound immediately followed by their face and their voice popping up on your screen. One moment they’re not there, the next they are.

Unless the techs not quite right. If that happens, you might become aware of the potential for them to appear, co-arising with the anxiety that they may not be able to. You may just be left with a faceless, voiceless little black box with a name or a photo on it. That’s almost worse than them never appearing at all or temporarily appearing and then disappearing altogether.

On Zoom, once everyone is “gathered” I often feel a strong sense of connection. But what I miss is the sensations of bodies close by.

Bodies close by sound like footsteps falling, voices ringing, throats swallowing and clearing, mouths coughing, teeth chewing, noses sneezing, bellies laughing, faces crying. When meditating together bodies make the sounds of clothing and blankets ruffling, bones clicking, noses-blowing, butts-shuffling, burping, farting, hiccuping, yawning, sighing, breathing and sometimes the simple soft sound of quiet sitting.

Bodies close by appear complete. They are three-dimensional, 360-degree bodies. I can see the clothes they are wearing and the way they walk, sit, stand and lay. I can see the way their faces change depending on their experience. I can see the way they are looking at me, each other, the room and objects in the space we now share.

I know I am subconsciously registering information about others’ mental and emotional states by the shape of their bodies, how they hold them. I notice what they are doing with their eyes, arms, hands, legs, feet, and heads in relationship with the earth and the space around us, and each other. I rely on this information to help me to “tune in” to people. This conditions how I feel, how I meet them and their energy, how I relate, what I choose to say and do next.

If you’ve ever sat in a room with people long enough, and then briefly left that room and re-entered it, you’ve probably noticed that people smell. The smell of people, which is sometimes not consciously detectable or pleasant, tells us there is someone there and can even tell us something about them.

According to the science of pheromones, a person’s smell may even tell us things as intimate as whether they might be a good sexual partner for us. Who knows what else we are picking up through pheromones.

In a room full of people when something strong has been shared or there’s an awkward silence or tension is building, sometimes I offer to open a window. I offer to clear the air. Somehow, this helps. This can also help with the smell, and the stuffiness. We’ve all been breathing the same air and now we need more.

You can’t open a window on Zoom.

Sometimes I use my body to communicate something. Moving closer to a person who is in distress, sitting down when I want a group to know I’m ready to listen deeply and give things the time needed. I can’t do this on Zoom. On Zoom I’m stuck in one place, tethered to my computer, bound by the rectangular confines of the screen.

Deep internal sensations arise for me in the physical presence of others. There is often a rush of energy, simultaneously arising with a dropping down into the warmth of intimacy.

Sometimes, if I am in a group of people I don’t know well, or something awkward has happened, or I fear I’ve said the wrong thing, I may get a knot in my stomach. I know this feeling and call it fear. Social anxiety is real and can be felt in the body.

On Zoom I can still get these sensations but they are somehow less amplified and don’t last very long. I am in the comfort of my own home. At any time, if I choose to, I can simply press a button and be all alone again, just like that. I could blame my disappearance on failed technology.

On Zoom I can be checking emails, texting on my phone, reading the news, or scrolling through Facebook without anyone knowing.  On Zoom, I can throw a sweater over my unwashed body, still in my PJs, without anyone knowing. I don’t need to brush my teeth before getting on Zoom.

A student recently commented that he finds it hard not knowing who’s looking at him on Zoom. He feels even more exposed than in real, live social situations. All our faces looking at each other all the time and yet we are never actually looking at or seeing anyone. Despite this we are left feeling even more looked at and seen.

I’ve started giving people permission to shut off their cameras and mute their mics. This can help them feel left exposed. But from the teachers seat it can feel even more alienating. Now I don’t know what half the group is doing, whether they are still “with” me, I’ve lost the little information communicated through facial expressions or the occasional “uh-huh”.

On Zoom I love that I can put people into break-out rooms. But I hate that I can’t sit in the middle of a room full of people sharing in twos and threes and sense into the energy of their conversations, picking up words or phrases that give me a sense of the meaning they are making together. I miss knowing when to call them back because I can sense the energy dropping and their conversations coming to a natural close.

There is an indescribable aloneness that follows the pressing of the “open all breakout rooms” button. As people disappear one by one from my screen I am literally hurled into darkness. I can no longer see or hear them, we are no longer connected.  

It’s amazing we have this technology and I’m grateful for it every day. And yet, and yet.

I can’t wait to get back into a room with people. Where we can fully meet each other in our somatic totality, make real eye contact, sit quietly together, and roll around on the floor together being silly and feeling awkward.

I can’t wait to occupy space with others where we can easily talk over each other, break into spontaneous song, and hand one another objects like a drink, some food, a book, a toy. Where we can chant together, light candles together, throw our bodies on the floor in worship together.

Where a quick sideways glance, a wink or a smile can make all the difference between someone feeling included or not.

Where we can spontaneously move in and out of smaller interactions without the contrived finality and walled-offness of break-out rooms. Where we can hug each other hello and good-bye if we want to, reach out a comforting hand, signal to one another through the movement and shape of our bodies what might be too hard to say out loud. 

I can’t wait to be in a room with other people where we can create the magic that is only possible when human bodies occupy the same space, breath the same air, hear the same sounds, see the same sights, smell the same smells, and feel the same warmth of the sun moving across the floor, appreciating the same quality of light.

Sometimes based on some alchemy beyond my understanding, we can even think the same thoughts and feel the same feelings.

I cannot wait until I can sit quietly with others and appreciate the unending unfolding of this humanness, our deeply flawed and profoundly perfect collective embodiment.

I can’t wait to be together again with you.