Groove

Journal Entry:  Week 7

Continuing from last week’s reflections, I find myself drawn deeper into the relational nature of space production—not as a static medium, nor as a mere container of events, but as something dynamic, rhythmic, and alive. This week, as I think about groove in relation to Lefebvre’s theory of space, I begin to see groove as the connective tissue between presence and movement, between individual agency and collective flow. If space is not a thing but a process, then groove is its tone, its way of holding and releasing, its way of catching and letting go.  

Lefebvre reminds us that space is produced through lived practices, through social relations that are in constant negotiation. But what of groove? If rhythm marks the beats of space—structured, expected—then groove is what allows those beats to breathe. Groove is relational; it is the slight delay before the downbeat, the tension between sync and release, the elasticity of time and movement that allows for adaptation, play, and co-creation. It is a practice of spacing—creating room, making space within space, filling the gaps but never in a way that hardens them into structure.  

Groove, then, is the soft infrastructure of spatial production. If we are to understand space not as a rigid framework but as an ongoing process of negotiation, groove is what makes this negotiation feel embodied, felt, lived. The groove of a street corner, of a market square, of a protest—each has a different tempo, a different weight, a different capacity for improvisation. Some spaces groove easily, allowing bodies to move freely, adjusting to one another with an almost intuitive responsiveness. Others resist groove, locking movement into linear paths, stifling the potential for elasticity, for play.  

I return again to the concept of groundedness, but this time, I wonder: does groove need grounding, or is it itself a form of grounding? To be in the groove is to be attuned—to the space, to others, to the pulse of what is happening around you. It is not about losing oneself in movement but about being deeply present in the act of moving, of adjusting, of listening. Groove catches you—not to hold you still, but to keep you moving in rhythm with something larger than yourself.  

If space is produced, can groove be produced too? Or is groove something that emerges, only possible in spaces that tolerate mistakes, that allow for rhythmic flexibility, that resist the tyranny of efficiency? A seamless, optimized process might feel smooth, but smoothness is not groove. Groove has texture; it holds weight. It creates pockets—pauses, hesitations, anticipations—that allow for depth, for negotiation, for feeling.  

This makes me wonder: what happens when a city loses its groove? What happens when the improvisational potential of space is removed, when everything is planned to the millisecond, optimized for flow but emptied of feel? Groove, after all, is not simply about movement—it is about the potential for deviation, for play, for a collective way of holding space that acknowledges and adjusts in real-time.  

Maybe groove is not something we create, but something we allow to happen. And maybe the real question is: how do we design for groove? How do we build, plan, or imagine spaces that hold room for the unexpected, that don’t just move people through them, but move with them?

Production of Space

Journal Entry: Week 6

Continuing from last week's reflections on relationality, I've been thinking about how this practice extends into the production of space, which is also the focus of our reading in Urban Theory Lab this week: Henri Lefebvre’s The Production of Space.

Lefebvre makes a compelling case that the kind of theory we need today must be unitary, embodied, triadic—a theory that fully grasps what it means to hold one’s ground, to be present in the continuous process of spatial production. He introduces the Time–Space–Energy framework, challenging the idea of space as a static thing or neutral medium. Instead, space is something dynamic—much like fluid dynamics.

We are not just talking about locations; we’re talking about energy flows: the movements, rhythms, pulses, and waves that live vividly inside a space. Space exists, produces, and represents all at once, through every interaction that takes place within it.

As I write, I keep circling back to the idea of groundedness—a concept that arises both in the Presence–Connect–Play framework and in Indigenous ways of being. Groundedness is not merely a physical connection to land; it is about attunement to where you are right now. It is about anchoring yourself in the timely, in the present, in your being.

One might ask: How do we find liberation if we tether ourselves to the ground? Isn’t grounding a form of limitation?
But I would argue the opposite: true connection requires presence—in all its honesty, its innocence, its cruelty.
To be grounded is to be open. To be visible. To be here and there, without pretension or judgment.
In connection, we do not perform. We do not analyze. We listen radically. We acknowledge mutually.

This mutual acknowledgment becomes our foundation—our ground. And it is from here, and only from here, that real play emerges.

If connection allows a socially constructed space to form, then play is how energy flows through it.
Play is hydrodynamic. It moves in waves: sometimes predictable, sometimes surprising, always shaped by its context.
A collective liberation is never careless—it is not play without awareness.
On the contrary, it is play that responds deeply to the world around it. Play is dialogical. It listens, adjusts, improvises.

How can we even play without something or someone to play with or off of?
Play must be relational: between you and an object, you and a person, you and the ground, you and the music.
Even when we “play alone,” if we zoom in closely—what’s really happening? Are you playing with your thoughts? Your emotions?
Does one part of your body play with another?

Even in solitude, play is a negotiation—a movement between parts of self, between context and consciousness.
Always relational. Always dynamic. Always grounded.

Relationality

Journal Entry: Week 5

This week, after reading Shawn Wilson’s Research Is Ceremony: Indigenous Research Methods, I found myself deeply stirred by the question: What does an Indigenous mode of research mean when studying community resilience? Wilson writes that, throughout his work with Indigenous communities, many have emphasized that a “relational way of being” lies at the heart of Indigenous identity. For Indigenous peoples, identity is not a singular, internal construct—it is grounded in relationships: with the land, with ancestors who have returned to the land, and with future generations who will also come into being through it.

Rather than seeing ourselves as individuals in relationship with others or the environment, Wilson writes that we are the relationships we hold and participate in.

As someone shaped by urban living and the rational structures of the Western sociological tradition, I paused. How do we—modern researchers, trained to distill, observe, and categorize—come close to grasping this kind of relational ontology?

But then, I thought—no, I do know what this means. I’ve lived it before.

Much like the framework I reflected on in last week’s entry—Presence–Connect–Play—I’ve come to know relationality intimately through community dance practice. The dance floor has long been my site for understanding complex intersections: of trust, care, interdependence, and timing. When we move together, we build relationships through our bodies, through space, and through rhythm. The connections are not theoretical—they are lived, felt, and constantly evolving.

Wilson’s visualization stayed with me:

"Imagine that you are a single point of light. Not like a light bulb, or even a star, but an infinitely small, intense point of light in an area of otherwise total darkness or void. Now in the darkness of this void, another point of light becomes visible... You form a relationship with that other point of light, and it is as though an infinitely thin thread now runs between you and the other..."

As more lights emerge and relationships form, a web begins to take shape—not just around you, but as you. Slowly, these threads become your physical body. Other lights form their webs, and those too take shape, until the world itself becomes visible—not as isolated objects, but as dense knots of connection, history, and context.

This metaphor rearranged something in me. It reminds me that everything I see and touch—every place I research or hope to understand—is already a thick knot of relationships: from the past, present, and future. And I, too, am one of those knots.

Wilson concludes:

"Our reality, our ontology, is the relationships. This is our epistemology. Thinking of the world as a web of connections and relationships. Nothing could be without being in relationship, without its context."

In that light, to study community resilience is not to measure outputs or isolate variables. It is to witness a living web—one built across time, space, and being. To research is to relate, and to relate is to become.

Presence - Connect - Play

Journal Entry: Week 4

“Presence–Connect–Play” is a simple three-part framework often used in Authentic Relating communities to describe a progression of how people can deepen their connection and creativity with each other. 

“Presence” begins by landing in the here-and-now, not merely planting our feet but also receiving feedback from the ground—like dancers who feel the earth’s support and allow their own inner pulse to generate movement and connection. In "Connect", we recognize there is someone else in the relational field, with an experience every bit as layered and vibrant as our own. As we acknowledge and invite their perspectives, we weave our unique realities together, co-creating a dynamic exchange that unifies physical sensations, emotions, and thoughts into a cohesive flow. Finally, "Play" emerges when these foundations of presence and connection open a gateway to spontaneous, creative exploration—an embodied, yet cognitive invitation to discover new relational possibilities. 

As we connect this framework to “Land as Liberation,”  we move toward a wholeness connection to the ground and the other beings on this ground, defragmenting the many parts of ourselves into a single, integrated expression of consciousness—and in doing so, we expand not only our personal awareness, but also the shared space in which authentic connection thrives.