How do you design it so that people can form a space of their

The words of Michael Arad—“How do you design it so that people can form a space of their own, and feel quiet and contemplative?”—rise from a place where grief and creation meet. These are not the idle musings of an architect pondering geometry, but the sacred inquiry of a soul attempting to rebuild meaning from the ruins of loss. Arad spoke these words as he envisioned the 9/11 Memorial in New York City—a site born of tragedy, transformed into remembrance. His question carries the weight of all creation that must coexist with sorrow: how do we shape the world so that within it, the human spirit may find stillness, reflection, and peace?

To design a space where people can feel quiet and contemplative is not merely to arrange stone and water, but to heal the invisible architecture of the heart. For true design, as the ancients knew, is never about walls or form alone—it is about creating places that mirror the eternal rhythms of the soul. The Greeks built their temples upon the hills not for grandeur, but for harmony; the Japanese shaped their gardens not to impress, but to calm. Every civilization that has sought wisdom has understood this truth: that space shapes the soul, and that the beauty of design lies not in the object, but in the experience it awakens within.

When Arad asked this question, he was standing at the edge of collective memory, searching for a way to honor the dead and comfort the living. The memorial he would create—two vast reflecting pools, descending endlessly into the earth—became his answer. The design was simple yet profound: each visitor, standing beside those quiet waters, becomes aware of their own breath, their own heartbeat, their own silence. The rushing water drowns the noise of the city, drawing the mind inward. In that silence, people do not simply observe—they remember. And in remembering, they begin to heal. Thus, Arad’s question reveals the sacred purpose of art: to create spaces not just of beauty, but of restoration.

History offers other echoes of this wisdom. Consider the architect Isamu Noguchi, who designed the Peace Garden in Hiroshima after the Second World War. His task, like Arad’s, was to give shape to sorrow without words. He carved smooth stone forms that invited touch, arranged open spaces where silence could breathe. Visitors did not merely view his work—they entered into it, felt themselves part of its stillness. Through his design, Noguchi answered the same eternal question: How can the human hand build something that allows the heart to rest? These are the spaces that transcend architecture—they become sanctuaries, not for worship, but for remembrance and renewal.

And yet, Arad’s question speaks not only to architects—it speaks to all who shape the lives of others. Each of us is a builder of spaces, whether we raise walls, nurture families, or lead communities. To create a space where another soul can feel quiet and contemplative is to practice compassion in its highest form. It is to say, “Here, you may be yourself. Here, you may breathe.” The wise among the ancients knew that peace begins not with words, but with the environment that nurtures reflection. So too must we learn to design our homes, our conversations, our very lives in such a way that others may find in them stillness and belonging.

In a world that grows ever louder, Arad’s question becomes a call to recover the art of silence. Our cities roar, our minds race, our hearts grow restless under the weight of constant noise. Yet within every human being lies a longing for a space that is truly one’s own—a quiet corner of peace where thought can deepen and gratitude can take root. To “design” such a space, as Arad suggests, is not only the task of the architect but of the soul. It means carving time from haste, finding stillness amid motion, and making room in the heart for contemplation.

Let this then be the teaching for those who listen: Be a builder of sacred spaces, both in the world around you and within yourself. Create rooms filled not just with objects, but with calm. Shape gardens where children may play and elders may rest. Build communities where every person can pause, reflect, and feel that they belong. And above all, cultivate within your own heart the quiet place from which all peace flows. For when you learn, as Michael Arad asked, how to design spaces where others can feel quiet and contemplative, you take part in the oldest and noblest art—the art of giving form to healing, and turning even the wounds of time into places of grace.