We are always in a hurry, aren’t we? Rushing from task to task, from meeting to meeting, forever seeking the next accomplishment, the next checkmark on the list. The businessman, the go-getter, perpetually leaning forward, anxiously awaiting the last note of this symphony called life. But, of course, the last note is silence. The final rest is the end. Why are we in such a hurry to get there?
Learning an instrument is a dance with time. It teaches us the art of lingering, of savoring the subtlety between each note. In the spaces between the sounds, in the quiet moments of anticipation, lies the music itself. Have you ever heard a great song played too quickly? The romance evaporates, the beauty collapses, and all that remains is a hurried mess—an anxious rush to the end. But music, like life, is not about the end. It is about the journey through each sound, each moment.
Take the song Blackbird by The Beatles. Listen to its gentle melody, the way each note reaches out and touches the next, never hurried, never impatient. “Blackbird singing in the dead of night,” it whispers, and in that whisper, there is a world of stillness, of darkness blooming into light. Paul McCartney didn’t rush through those notes; he let them breathe, each one carrying the weight of silence before it. The silence, you see, is just as much a part of the song as the noise. Without it, there would be no contrast, no depth, no emotion.
To learn an instrument is to confront oneself. You pick up the guitar, place your fingers on the strings, and realize you cannot rush. The sound is stubborn; it demands your presence. It asks for patience, for humility. And you struggle. Your fingers stumble, your mind races, and frustration creeps in. This is where the lesson lies. How do you respond to struggle? Do you quit? Do you grow angry? Do you blame the instrument, the teacher, the world?
There is a discipline in learning to play, a meditation on persistence. You cannot force the music, just as you cannot force life. You must allow it to unfold, moment by moment. The first thousand hours are the hardest. You are clumsy, you make mistakes, and the sound is anything but beautiful. But if you keep playing, if you allow yourself to be vulnerable, to be imperfect, something miraculous happens. You break through. You slip beneath the surface of the sound and enter a new realm.
It is like jumping into the water for the first time. At first, you flail, gasping for breath, disoriented by the weightlessness. But then, you learn to float, to glide, to swim. You discover a world beneath the waves, a realm of fluidity, of movement without resistance. The music becomes an extension of your being, your fingers dance without thought, and you are no longer playing the instrument—the instrument is playing you.
In this new world, you are like a child again, diving beneath the surface, discovering the magic of being submerged. You are no longer trying to get to the last note; you are swimming in the melody, floating in the harmony, playing in the silence between the sounds. You are free.
So why are we always in such a hurry? Why do we rush through life, through conversations, through experiences? Why do we skim over the notes, anxious to reach the end? There is no prize at the end, no final victory. There is only the song, the music that plays between each note, the silence that gives meaning to the sound.
Take a breath. Play each note as if it were the last. Listen to the silence. Learn to be in the moment. For it is in the spaces between the sounds, in the quiet anticipation of what is to come, that life truly sings.
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