Sonic Yoga
Listening, Drawing, and the Art of Beginning Again
Lately, my studio has sounded like a mix of Devo, Talking Heads, and breathing. Yes, I realize it’s quirky and a little old-school — but I don’t care. Those sounds still make me feel alive, and they keep the pen moving. I’ve been thinking about rhythm, mindfulness, and the small rituals that hold a life together.
This post introduces Sonic Yoga — the moment when drawing, music, and motion merge into one meditative act — and a new miniature series that grew from that same flow.
I didn’t always listen to music while I drew. For years, I needed silence — as if sound might break my concentration or scatter my focus. But lately that’s changed. Now I draw with music playing, and it changes everything. Each rhythm triggers something different in my body — tension, calm, nostalgia, even joy. Sometimes memories flood in; sometimes it’s just a pulse in my chest or a shiver in my hand. That’s the real journey I’m on: learning to notice what each sound does to me, to draw through it instead of around it.
Drawing, for me, has always been a form of listening. When I sit down to work, I’m not forcing an idea into being. I’m tuning in — hearing the pulse beneath the paper, the small hesitations, the moments when a line decides what it wants to do next. That’s Sonic Yoga: the act of aligning yourself to that invisible frequency — of letting the drawing breathe through you.
Recently, that practice has begun to take a different shape. I’ve been going through folders, boxes, and archival sleeves — rediscovering work that’s been waiting for years. Some pieces were nearly done. Others were old experiments that still hum with potential. And alongside them, new drawings have begun to emerge, smaller and more immediate.
That’s how this new Mini Series began — a hybrid body of work that merges old and new, creation and transformation.
Maybe it’s quirky. Maybe it’s old-school. But it’s mine — and that’s enough. This whole practice, this Sonic Yoga, is about listening for whatever rhythm pulls you back to life — whether it’s a Talking Heads bassline, a Devo chorus, or the scratch of a pen across paper.
Sometimes I think about Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime.” The lyrics are absurd, and that’s what makes them perfect. “Same as it ever was,” “There’s water at the bottom of the ocean” — it’s the sound of someone naming confusion out loud and somehow finding meaning inside it. That’s where I am too: looking at the mess, the loss, the exhaustion, and still finding a beat somewhere under it all. Maybe Sonic Yoga is just that — learning to breathe inside absurdity, to find a pulse even when life feels upside down.
Sometimes that rhythm shows up louder — like Linkin Park’s “Bleed It Out,” a song I used to play on repeat while mountain biking the same trail, pushing through exhaustion just to feel alive. I listened again tonight, sitting still instead of riding, and realized the impulse hasn’t changed. It’s still about movement — burning through what’s stuck, finding release. Maybe Sonic Yoga is that too: transforming the rush of motion into something steadier, a rhythm that moves through you instead of away from you.
And then there’s Deftones’ “Rickets” — the kind of song that makes you feel everything and nothing at once. It hums like tension under the skin. The words barely register; it’s more about the texture, the pulse. It’s that moment in the studio when the pen hovers just before the next move — not knowing if it’ll tear the page or open something new. Their sound baffles me — it’s too much sometimes — but when I can handle it, it’s pure electricity.
Then comes “Johnny” by Kittie — a song that hits somewhere deeper, where anger and sadness overlap. It’s not just heavy; it’s a cry that knows exactly what it’s saying. I can’t always listen to it, but when I do, it strips away every layer of pretense. It reminds me that sometimes rhythm isn’t about beauty or precision — it’s about surviving the noise inside your own head.
Right after that chaos came “Numb/Encore” by Linkin Park and Jay-Z — an unexpected pairing that somehow works. It’s disciplined and wild at once, verses trading like breath. While it played, I picked up Deborah Haynes’s “Beginning Again: Reflections on Art as Spiritual Practice.” Her words hit differently this time — no filler, just precision. Maybe that’s the balance I’m looking for too: the edge of noise meeting the clarity of practice, a collaboration between chaos and calm.
And then some songs just make me laugh — like Rob Zombie’s “Foxy Foxy.” It’s pure swagger, ridiculous in all the right ways, and I love it. There’s this woman’s voice teasing, “Can’t you make it harder?” and he growls back, “Oh yeah.” I never know if it’s sexual innuendo or just performance art, and maybe that’s the point. Like the album title “Educated Horses” — what does that even mean? It’s nonsense and poetry at the same time. After everything heavy or reflective, a song like that reminds me that art doesn’t always have to mean something profound. Sometimes rhythm just wants to strut.
Postscript
Later that night, I sat down with a bowl of popcorn, thinking about everything and trying not to overthink any of it. I opened Spotify, hit shuffle, and Devo’s “Patterns” came on. I couldn’t stop laughing — the timing was too perfect. I’ve been listening to Devo again ever since the concert, prepping for it, and rediscovering their sound. It wasn’t lifelong fandom so much as a renewed obsession — a reminder that the weird rhythms I love on paper started with the music that jolts me awake. And right after “Patterns,” the next song was “Pump” by the B-52’s — a new one, from the same concert lineup. It felt like the universe saying, “See? You’re still in the groove.” Maybe the trick isn’t escaping the pattern, but learning to dance inside it.
Later, “Electric Guitar” by Talking Heads came on — that strange song that sounds like a dream unraveling through rhythm. It reminded me again that the weirdest patterns are sometimes the most alive.
Then “Deep” by Pearl Jam — a reminder that sometimes you have to sink all the way down just to feel the floor again. For years, Pearl Jam was my absolute favorite band; it’s almost as if I couldn’t listen to anyone else. Coming back to them now feels like reconnecting with an old part of myself — the one that knew how to feel everything through sound. The difference is that I’m hearing it with new ears, new eyes, new rhythm. It isn’t just a return; it’s a re-entry, with vision restored.
And just when I thought the night was finished, the B-52’s “Rock Lobster” crashed the playlist — a reminder that absurdity can still save you. After all the depth and reflection, sometimes you just need to shout nonsense and move your body.
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✦ Closing Note
Thanks for reading — and for listening with me. This practice continually evolves, but the rhythm remains the same: listen, breathe, draw, and begin again.
If the piece resonated with you, feel free to share it or leave a comment — I’d love to hear what you’re creating or listening to these days. You can also follow my ongoing Aspie Art Journey and new miniature series on Instagram (@jeffbrackettart)
Flash Sale of Minis — $25 each, shipped.
