The Art of Space

I’ve just arrived back to the States from 10 months of living overseas, a dream I’ve held for as long as I can recall.

Half of that time was spent in Italy while the other half was spent in the UK, mostly based in Scotland for the past five months. I imagine I’ll be writing more about my experiences and learnings as I metabolize it all, but for now I’ll share with you a few photos from my last week in Scotland, traversing bits of the west coast, along with some reflections on a topic I’ve been contemplating recently - ‘the art of space.’

Choral music accompanied my writing, so I’ve included one of my favorite pieces called The Seal Lullaby by Eric Whitacre, which helped guide the contemplations below…

I’ve had the great pleasure of singing in choral groups for most of my life. From Austin Children’s Choir to school and church choirs to University of North Texas’s Concert Choir to the New York Chamber Choir. These have been absolutely amazing opportunities for which I am forever grateful. Some of my most ethereal and divine experiences have been while singing with these groups in grand cathedrals and concert halls.

There’s a profound moment, when the last note of a piece has been sung, and the conductor’s arms remain held in the air. This hold can be as long as the conductor wishes it to be.

The audience waits.

The choir remains still.

The song has ended.. but not really.

The only movement in the room is the invisible resonance and vibrations swirling across the acoustics. These moments of held stillness are as much a part of the piece and of the performance as the song itself.

The echoes of sound and whispers of interweaving harmonies float in this liminal space.

Then, slowly, the conductor lowers their arms.

A slight up-turn of the lips and small head-bow to the choir to say, “well done.”

*Applause.*

I have goosebumps reliving some of these moments in my mind. The palpable emotion, when time stood unshakably still.

One moment in particular I will never forget was singing Danny Boy with the New York Chamber Choir. Our conductor was Irish and that song held a very special place in his heart. When we finished the last note, he held the pause and tears gleamed in his eyes. “Thank you” he mouthed to us.

That was one of the most sacred pauses I have felt.

I was mesmerized by the waves of long grass being blown by the wind underneath the water in this lochan (small loch/lake).

Shifting now from the space in music.. I’ve become quite curious about the existence of space in communion with others. When we actually allow for silence to be part of a conversation. To invite in spaciousness.

Why is it that pauses in conversation can sometimes feel awkward?

I’m still learning how to gracefully ride waves of silence in the presence of others.

To luxuriate in the in-between.

During my last week in Scotland I was lucky enough to be guided by a wonderful, new friend, and his very sweet pup, on some incredible hikes along the west coast. There were long periods of silence as we traversed the hills, which allowed for the landscape to be an integral part of this experience. Neither of us tried to fill these silent moments for the sake of filling a silent moment.

We listened.

We absorbed the winds, the breathtaking views and crashing waves in the distance. Constantly navigating precisely where to step so as not to twist an ankle or sink into random rabbit holes or soggy spots, which I did somewhat regularly, followed by bursts of my own laughter. This level of attention required a stream of communication with the land. There was an ever-present dialogue amongst all of us.

The potency of Scotland’s landscapes exemplifies the art of taking and making space.

You may be familiar with this saying, “take space, make space,” especially in the Zoom sphere where we’ve had to become more sensitive to the sometimes vulnerable and awkward feelings of “when and how should I speak?”

When we pause, we make space, giving others the opportunity to express themselves and for things to percolate. If we’re constantly speaking or listening to someone speak, how and when will we actually process anything?

If we’re constantly moving and going, when will we ever just reside in the stillness of our own bodies?

Countless times during my walks and hikes in Scotland, I caught myself pausing to take in a scene, a flower, the formation of a tree’s bark and branches, the sunset, the presence of someone beside me.

As a yoga and embodiment teacher and as an artist, taking space and making space is crucial.

The pauses are vital.

What does it feel like to be in a pose, or just in your seat, and really be there?

What does it feel like to breathe into the entirety of your ribcage? The front ribs, side ribs and back ribs. And then move that down into your belly.

How does that expansiveness feel?

Then, there’s taking space. Using your voice to speak and share. Moving in big or in small ways.

There’s a delicate balance to be found between the taking and the giving.

Walking across hills, climbing and leaning into trees and swimming in some of Scotland’s natural bodies of water, I often thought about my footprints. Both physical and energetic.

I wondered where my ancestors had left their footprints. Sadly, I don’t know the exact locations of where my ancestors are from in Scotland. All I know for sure is the depth of sensation in my own felt-connection with this land.

I loved looking back at my footprints in the white sand as I ran across the beaches. Knowing that soon, my footprints would be washed away.

I thought about the energy I was embodying while traversing these lands.

I was being given so much. Everything.

What was I giving in return?

How was my inner landscape affecting the outer?

Scotland gave me countless gifts.

One of the primary gifts being a greater awareness and appreciation of space.

The space of landscape, the space within, the space in-between and the space I take up in the world.

Groundlessness

One Step, One Breath at a Time