The Space Between

You know what I find strange? We create specialized spaces in which we can operate on a certain level, fooling ourselves into believing that we cannot behave in the same manner anywhere else. Let me explain. I am a dancer.  I used to go to ballet class three times a week, at the very least. I would get dressed in my dance clothes, do my hair, and drive over to the studio, where I would take a class for about an hour and a half. Occasionally, I would practice at home, but never for the same length of time, incessantly. When I practiced at home, I would dance around my living room, improvising, instead of following my teacher's carefully planned exercises and instructions.

The studio was a place for dance, and when I transplanted that activity to another location, my home, it altered its nature. The studio was the place for training since it was a designated area we had all agreed upon; each day of class, we met: me, the teacher, and my fellow students, all united in a common purpose and sharing the same understanding.

I still attended classes at a dance studio up until this January. Because of time and financial reasons, I made the decision to stop taking formal dance lessons, at least for the time being. Instead, I've started practicing on my own, going to the dance studio on campus when I have time, and warming up, improvising, choreographing a little. It's less formal, but I still have to set aside a time when I can visit the studio, inhabit the space so that I can be in the right mindset. It got me to start thinking about what exactly I mean when I say I am a dancer.

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Our lives are compartmentalized and systematized to a point which we may not even realize. We have study spaces, eating spaces, living spaces (even designated as just that--nearly every house has some type of space referred to as the "living room"), music spaces, performance spaces, hiking spaces...I could go on. We section off the amount of time spent in these spaces as little marks upon our calendar, signifying portions of our lives spent at one activity. Even now, I am sitting on a couch in my sleeping space, typing away at an entry for my blog, which is a space for...what, exactly?

I've never known exactly what it is I wish to achieve with this blog, but that's a story for another time and place. Or is it? We are told repeatedly, no matter which classes we take and which school we attend, to focus, to attend to our writing as a stylized expression of thought, to center in on a certain topic. As if the human brain were anything less than frantic, distracted, obsessed, and eager to get it all out of the nearest orifice. Writing, I would argue, isn't meant to be focused. Nothing is. We can't artificially compartmentalize our thoughts, any more than we can section of our activities into little pockets of time and space. For if we succeeded, what would lie in between? A path, a common void? Yet we know from experience that the space between is often the most valuable. It is paved with gold and the sun shines bright. Birds sing, penetrating the silence.

Dedicated to Tara Turnbull~2/15/2011