The wall we all hit at some point during the pandemic was digital. It was a wall of video meetings, Slack threads, text chains, and emails. A wall built from Netflix and Disney+, Facebook and TikTok, Instagram, and the endless onslaught of urgent tweets. It was the wall in our hands, on our desks, and beside our pillows, a wall that we turned to for salvation but kept smacking into and then wondering why on earth our bodies were so damn beat at the end of each day. The wall was the full unleashed reality of the digital future as it completely consumed our lives.
At first, we tried to deal with it by turning to other digital distractions: documentaries and livestreamed concerts, binge-worthy series, YouTube surfing videos, Roblox and Fortnite and other immersive video games, trivia with friends and online improv, Zoom cocktails and virtual happy hours—but these left us feeling more drained. The exhaustion simply enveloped us. Our eyes were red and dry. Our heads ached. Until, that is, we reached out beyond the wall for the first time in weeks, put down our phones, and seized an analog alternative. We grabbed what was near: a paperback novel on the shelf, an old jigsaw puzzle in the back of a cupboard, a bag of flour whose value was now priceless. We built Lego cities and learned to do woodwork. We fixed bicycles and mucked around in gardens. We tinkered with guitars and amplifiers. We started sourdoughs, first because all the yeast was sold out and then because we became obsessed with its primal, fermenting joy. One Saturday, I painted a Bob Ross–inspired watercolour landscape and then spent three hours making chocolate eclairs. We turned away from digital and sought solace in things we could touch, feel, and sense with our whole bodies.
