“I’ve been busy. Like, non-stop.”
I must have said that 100 times at a recent reunion in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (or the UP). I talked about how busy I was, how I’d been growing my role, forming a department, building a place for myself in the industry and the world. I talked about how tired I was, how much I needed the break. We’ve all felt it these past years; the pace and pressure have worn away the rose-colored view, making it harder to decompress and focus, harder to connect and experience. My mind flitted away from conversations as they happened, back to projects I left behind and forward to plans for when my PTO was done. This trip was supposed to be my break from the constant drive forward, but my mind was taking its time to slow down.
While my mind ran like the little cousins chasing butterflies, my Yooper family was present in the moment. They were holding space for the day, a memorial to my Great Aunt, Ellie, while catching up after decades apart. We ate and drank, danced and played ball, and enjoyed the long day and warm sun. And every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of someone standing alone, watching the UP summer’s late golden sunset dance with the breeze through the treetops and across the fields. Look again, and they’d be gone, probably back into the battle my father was waging on the dance floor against rhythm and good taste. (It must be a blood feud that wasn’t passed down.) I wondered what had these folks so mindful of the moment — but as I stood to check the stage for casualties, I too found my feet headed toward the field’s edge before finding the barn. Those moments watching the light weren’t wandering; they were chosen moments of peace – moments of intentional emptiness – so the experience to follow could be fully felt and understood.
We all know the deep breath we take before stepping into something big, whether it’s an important meeting or an overgrown garden after two weeks away. The Japanese call this idea of intentional emptiness Ma 間. Kurosawa and Miyazaki used it in their films—scenes of rain falling on empty landscapes before the final battle—peace before chaos so the audience truly sees the coming violence for what it is. Back home in my garden, I could smell the fresh growth, hear the bees buzzing, and feel the textured handles of the pruning shears secure in my gloved hand, ready for the task. Pruned branches open space for new growth. There is balance in nature, in art, in experience. Empty white paper balances black ink brush strokes. We need silence between sounds, or it will all become just noise.
The attendee experience lacks balance. In an exhibit hall bursting with activity and competing for attention, an attendee can easily become overwhelmed and exhausted. We generate excitement to draw them into our spaces and stories, but if connection is our goal, we need to shift their focus – prune their attention. They need a space to rest so the message that follows can be heard and learned. We need to provide balance. We need Ma 間 in our exhibits.
Certain strategies require space to reflect and reset, especially in healthcare exhibits. The constant bombardment of complex scientific content or emotional patient stories can be overwhelming without a place for respite. In planning the visitor’s journey, my design colleague Joe DeLaunay considers the personal impact of each engagement, cultivating an emotional flow that mirrors the physical movements. Entering the space, visitors can clear their minds of what’s outside, preparing them for what’s to come. Some content areas can move quickly with rapid-fire facts, while others may require space so the content can “breathe” – it depends on the intended emotional journey and the observed reaction from the audience. And before attendees exit back into the fray in the aisles, the same intentional rest from the beginning can again settle their minds and allow our message to hold fast. We can have Ma 間 in our exhibits.
Peace is all around us if we choose it. It can be the moment after clicking “Enter Meeting” but before the host lets you in. It can be the seconds when your third coffee before 9:30 am starts dripping from the machine, a slow drizzle becoming a downpour. Or it can be golden hour’s light splashing across a field of flowers. We face so much in this industry and in this world. We can build beautiful exhibits, create immersive engagements, and grow careers and companies that last decades and span the globe. And we can create peace if, for a moment, we reflect before we start building again.