“In the Space Between”

There’s a particular quiet that follows a big chapter. It’s not silence exactly — more like a hum beneath everything. After years of full calendars, constant communication, and creative urgency, the stillness feels unfamiliar. You think it will be restful, but sometimes it’s just… spacious. And space can feel both beautiful and strange.

I’ve been sitting in that space lately — after handing over leadership of CMA2, after years of shaping and tending a community that has meant so much to me. It’s a new rhythm, one that asks different things: less directing, more listening. Less building, more being.

It doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like motion that’s paused mid-step — like standing between shorelines, watching the tide shift. There’s purpose in it, even if it hasn’t yet introduced itself.

When I traveled to Scotland earlier this year, I remember walking through the mist just outside Falkirk. The air was damp and clean, the kind that blurs edges and softens everything you see. The paths wound and turned, and I didn’t always know where they led — but that uncertainty felt oddly right. Maybe that’s what this moment is: a kind of internal landscape, a place to wander without rushing to arrive.

Back in my studio, I feel it again — the pull to start something, the hesitation to define it. Small pieces scattered on the table, waiting. A fragment of slate, a bit of glass, a shimmer of an idea. I’m learning that being unsettled isn’t the same as being lost. It’s an invitation — to notice what’s quietly forming beneath the surface.

The space between isn’t empty after all. It’s just waiting — like a mosaic before the grout, a life rearranging itself into its next pattern.

Maybe that’s the gift of this in-between time — learning to be at home in the space between endings and beginnings.