When Music Stops Being Something We Hear

There is a point in listening to music when something changes.

At first, you are listening to a song.

You notice the words. You hear the instruments. You recognize the melody. Perhaps it reminds you of a person or a place or a particular time in your life.

Then, sometimes, something happens.

You stop listening to the music.

You become part of it.

I have always been fascinated by that moment.

We spend an enormous amount of time talking about music. We discuss singers, composers, lyrics, rhythm and technique. We decide what is beautiful and what isn't. We make lists of our favourite songs.

But none of that is actually the music.

It is our attempt to describe the experience.

Music itself is something else.

You cannot hold it.

You cannot put it on a shelf.

You cannot put your favourite song in a bottle and save it for a rainy Tuesday twenty years from now.

You can record it, of course.

But the recording isn't the experience.

The experience happens between the sound and the listener.

Perhaps that is why the same song can mean completely different things at different points in our lives.

A song we barely noticed at 20 can bring tears at 70.

A song that once reminded us of falling in love can later remind us of someone we have lost.

The notes haven't changed.

We have.

And suddenly the music seems to know something about us that we didn't know ourselves.

I think that is one of the great mysteries of music.

It can make the boundary between the individual and the world become wonderfully thin.

Think about sitting in a concert hall.

Hundreds of people are sitting around you.

You don't know most of them.

Yet when the music begins, everyone is listening to the same thing.

For a few minutes, individual concerns disappear.

Nobody is thinking about the grocery list.

Nobody is worrying about whether the lawn needs cutting.

Nobody is wondering whether they sent that email.

We are simply there.

Listening.

Breathing.

Feeling.

The music has gathered us into one experience.

Something similar happens when we hear a song from our youth.

Suddenly we are not 80 anymore.

For a few minutes, we are sitting in a car at 18.

We are dancing with someone we loved.

We are driving home from school.

We are hearing a song for the first time.

Memory has its own orchestra.

Sometimes one note is enough to bring the whole thing back.

And yet we still try to explain music.

We ask, "What does this song mean?"

Sometimes I wonder if that is the wrong question.

Perhaps the better question is, "What does this song make possible?"

Music makes memory possible.

Connection.

Emotion.

Silence.

Movement.

Sometimes even healing.

But like the forest, music reminds us that nothing can be held forever.

The last note arrives.

Then it disappears.

And the silence that follows is part of the music too.

We may wish we could hold that final note in place.

We cannot.

It has to go.

Perhaps that is why music can teach us something about life.

We don't get to keep every beautiful moment.

We get to experience it.

We get to be changed by it.

Then we let it go.

The music ends.

But something remains.

Not the sound itself.

Something inside us.

And maybe that is the essence of music.

Not what we hear.

But what happens to us while we are listening.

The Essence of Things

There are some things in life we spend far too much time talking about.

We talk about happiness. We talk about love. We talk about what makes a good life. We talk about poetry, music, and wonder. We read books about them, listen to people explain them, and sometimes spend years trying to understand what they mean.

But talking about something and experiencing it are two very different things.

I have discovered that when I spend too much time trying to understand something, I am often standing outside of it.

When that happens, I like to go for a walk in the forest or through a park.

There is something about being among trees that changes the way I think. The forest doesn't hurry. It doesn't check the clock. It doesn't seem particularly interested in my schedule.

A tree doesn't look at its watch and say, "I should have grown another three feet by now."

The forest operates on a different scale.

Human time is measured in minutes, hours, birthdays and anniversaries. Forest time is measured in seasons, rings, generations and centuries. Somewhere beneath our feet, the earth is working on an even larger clock.

And suddenly my problems seem a little smaller.

Not unimportant. Just smaller.

I begin to notice things I wasn't noticing before.

A shaft of sunlight moving across the forest floor.

The sound of wind moving through branches.

A fallen tree already becoming home to insects, fungi and new growth.

A bird singing somewhere I cannot see.

Nothing is standing still.

Everything is changing.

Everything is becoming something else.

The fallen tree isn't simply dead. It is becoming part of the forest.

The leaf isn't simply falling. It is returning.

The seed isn't simply buried. It is waiting.

The forest doesn't seem troubled by impermanence. It has built its entire existence around it.

Perhaps that is one of the lessons we find hardest to learn.

We want things to last.

We want the good day to continue. We want the person we love to remain beside us. We want our children to stay young. We want our bodies to remain strong. We want a beautiful moment to remain beautiful forever.

When something wonderful happens, we want to put our arms around it.

Better yet, we want to put it in a bottle.

Label it.

Store it somewhere safe.

But life doesn't work that way.

The moment we try to hold on to something, it has already begun to change.

And perhaps that isn't a tragedy.

Perhaps it is the point.

When I walk through the forest, I sometimes have what I can only describe as a shift in perspective.

I am no longer simply walking through a collection of trees.

I am part of something.

The boundary between me and the forest becomes a little less certain.

I breathe in what the trees have helped create.

The trees breathe in what I have breathed out.

We are participating in the same exchange.

For a moment, the distinction between "me" and "everything else" becomes wonderfully blurry.

That is when wonder arrives.

Not because I have finally figured everything out.

Quite the opposite.

It arrives when I realize I haven't.

I have completely missed the point.

And somehow, in admitting that, I begin to understand it.

Maybe that is true of music.

Maybe it is true of poetry.

Maybe it is true of love.

Maybe it is even true of happiness.

We spend so much time trying to define these things that we sometimes forget to experience them.

Perhaps the essence of life isn't something we can capture.

Perhaps it is something we enter.

Something we notice.

Something we participate in.

Something we briefly understand before it changes again.

The forest doesn't give me an answer.

It gives me something better.

It gives me another way of seeing.

And sometimes that is enough.

Because we are not standing outside the great mystery of life trying to solve it.

We are already inside it.

We always have been.

The Last Dance: Don't Stop Dreaming

What would you do today if you knew that, very soon, one of your dreams was going to come true?

Would you make a phone call?

Start writing?

Book the trip?

Plant the garden?

Call an old friend?

Take the first step toward something you've been putting off for years?

Or would you simply smile and say, "Well, it's about time!"

There is something powerful about having a dream and showing up for it every day, even when nothing seems to be happening.

Dreams rarely arrive on schedule.

They don't knock on the door and announce, "Today's the day."

Most of the time, they arrive quietly.

One small step.

One conversation.

One page written.

One application submitted.

One phone call made.

One afternoon spent learning something new.

One more attempt after the previous one didn't work.

And then there is another way to pursue a dream.

You can show up for it every day while sauntering through life, winking at the unexpected, laughing at your mistakes and giving out plenty of hugs along the way.

That's when something interesting happens.

You begin to enjoy the journey rather than simply waiting for the destination.

I think that is an especially important lesson as we grow older.

We are often told that retirement is the final phase of life.

The language itself can make it sound like we're approaching the end of a journey and should settle down, put our feet up and wait for the credits to roll.

I'm not buying it.

I prefer to think of our later years as the last dance.

Not the last dance because life is necessarily about to end, but because we have reached the part of the dance where we know the music, understand the rhythm and have finally learned that we don't have to perform for anybody.

We can dance our own dance.

For many of us, our younger years were filled with obligations.

Get an education.

Get a job.

Raise a family.

Pay the mortgage.

Build a career.

Save for retirement.

There was always something next.

Then one day we retired, and somebody handed us the strange gift of something we hadn't had enough of for decades:

Time.

At first, that can feel wonderful.

Then it can feel a little frightening.

Because once the obligations disappear, we have to answer a question we may have been avoiding for years:

What do I want now?

That's where dreams come back into the picture.

Perhaps you still have one.

Maybe you've always wanted to write the book.

Travel somewhere you've never been.

Learn to paint.

Play music.

Build something.

Volunteer for a cause you care about.

Reconnect with an old friend.

Spend more time with your grandchildren.

Start a business.

Teach someone what you know.

Or perhaps your dream is much simpler.

Maybe you want to wake up tomorrow morning and have a reason to get out of bed.

There is no minimum age for dreaming.

And there is no expiration date on curiosity.

So, imagine, just for a moment, that you knew for certain that one of your dreams was going to come true.

What would you do today to prepare for it?

Do that.

How would you celebrate?

Start celebrating.

Who would you tell?

Write them a note.

You don't even have to mail it yet.

Why would you be grateful?

Say it out loud.

Who helped you along the way?

Thank them.

And who could you help achieve something they still dream about?

Help them now.

That last question may be the most important one.

Because as we get older, our dreams don't have to be entirely about ourselves.

We have accumulated something incredibly valuable: experience.

We have made mistakes.

We have recovered from disappointments.

We have learned things the hard way.

We have discovered what matters and, perhaps more importantly, what doesn't.

Why keep all that wisdom locked inside our heads?

Pass it along.

Help someone write their first book.

Encourage the person who is afraid to start over.

Teach a grandchild something you know.

Invite someone who is lonely for coffee.

Tell a younger person about a mistake you made and what you learned from it.

Give somebody permission to dream bigger.

That may be part of the magic of the last dance.

You aren't dancing alone.

You are carrying people with you.

And maybe that's why we shouldn't spend our later years simply looking backward.

The past deserves to be remembered, celebrated and sometimes even laughed about.

But the past isn't where tomorrow lives.

Tomorrow is still waiting.

There are still people you haven't met.

Places you haven't seen.

Books you haven't read.

Stories you haven't written.

Meals you haven't shared.

Hugs you haven't given.

And dreams you haven't chased.

So don't wait for everything to be perfect before you begin.

Show up.

Take the step.

Make the call.

Write the page.

Buy the ticket.

Plant the seed.

Ask the question.

Say yes.

And while you're doing it, saunter a little.

Wink at life.

Laugh when things don't go according to plan.

Give out hugs.

Celebrate the small victories.

Help someone else along the way.

Because perhaps the secret isn't getting every dream to come true.

Perhaps the secret is loving the process of becoming the person who is still capable of dreaming.

And when the music eventually slows, I hope we can look back and say:

"I didn't spend my final dance sitting on the sidelines.

I got out there.

I danced.

I dreamed.

I loved.

I helped.

And I enjoyed the music while it was playing."

So, what dream is still waiting for you?

Maybe it's time to show up for it.

The music is playing.

Let's dance.

Keep Dancing With Life

Challenges in life don't always arrive with a warning.

Sometimes they sneak up on us.

A phone call we weren't expecting. A health problem. The loss of someone we love. A friendship that quietly disappears. A change in our finances. A spouse who needs more care. A move we never planned to make. A retirement that turns out to be very different from the one we imagined.

At first, we may wonder, "Why me?"

But perhaps there is another question worth asking:

"What can I do with this?"

I have come to believe that the challenges we encounter in life can become invitations to grow, change and discover something about ourselves we didn't know was there.

That doesn't mean every challenge is a gift. Some things that happen to us are painful, unfair and simply difficult. We don't have to pretend otherwise.

But we can decide what we do next.

And as we get older, what we do next often begins with communication.

One of the greatest challenges of aging can be becoming disconnected from other people.

We retire and lose the daily conversations that came with work. Friends move away. Some pass on. Family members become busy with their own lives. We may become less mobile. We may stop driving. Technology changes faster than we can keep up with.

Suddenly, the world can become a quieter place.

That's when communication becomes more than exchanging information.

It becomes a lifeline.

A phone call can remind someone they haven't been forgotten.

A coffee with a friend can turn an ordinary Tuesday into something worth remembering.

A conversation with another older adult can reveal, "I'm not the only one going through this."

And sometimes, talking about a challenge is the first step toward finding a way through it.

When we were younger, many of us had an interesting relationship with work.

We worked hard because we expected something in return.

A paycheque.

A promotion.

A pension.

Recognition.

And if we were honest, we often thought we weren't being paid enough!

But some people discovered something else along the way. Work wasn't simply about earning money. It was a way to dance with life.

Work introduced us to people we would never otherwise have met.

It gave us problems to solve.

It gave us opportunities to create.

It occasionally pushed us outside our comfort zones.

And sometimes, without realizing it, we became rich in ways that never appeared on a paystub.

We became rich in friendships.

Rich in experiences.

Rich in stories.

Rich in confidence.

Rich in knowing that we could make a difference.

Retirement changes the rules.

Nobody is necessarily handing us a job description anymore. There may be no boss telling us what needs to be done on Monday morning. There may be no paycheque waiting at the end of the week.

But life hasn't stopped asking us to participate.

In fact, it may be asking us to participate differently.

That challenge you've been facing might be an opportunity to learn something new.

That health limitation might require you to discover a different way of doing something you once took for granted.

That empty calendar might be an invitation to reconnect with people.

That problem in your community might be an opportunity to volunteer.

That story you've been carrying around for years might be worth writing down.

That person you've been meaning to call might be waiting to hear from you.

The dance continues.

We just have to learn the new steps.

And sometimes we stumble.

That's okay.

Nobody expects an eighty-year-old to dance through life exactly the way they did at thirty. The music has changed. Our bodies have changed. Our responsibilities have changed.

But we can still dance.

Perhaps the real danger isn't facing challenges as we grow older.

Perhaps it is deciding that because we are older, we should stop trying new things, stop meeting new people, stop asking questions and stop imagining what might happen next.

Don't let a challenge convince you that your story is over.

Let it remind you that there is still a story being written.

Talk to people.

Ask questions.

Tell someone what you're struggling with.

Listen when someone else tells you about their struggle.

You don't always need to solve the problem. Sometimes being willing to sit beside someone while they face it is enough.

And don't underestimate what can happen when two people start talking.

A problem becomes a possibility.

An idea becomes a project.

A stranger becomes a friend.

A setback becomes a new direction.

A difficult chapter becomes a story you eventually tell with a smile.

We spent much of our working lives trying to become financially rich.

Perhaps retirement gives us the opportunity to concentrate on becoming rich in other ways.

Rich in relationships.

Rich in experiences.

Rich in curiosity.

Rich in purpose.

Rich in laughter.

Rich in stories.

And rich in the knowledge that, despite everything life has thrown at us, we are still here.

Still learning.

Still connecting.

Still contributing.

Still dancing.

So, when the next challenge arrives, don't immediately ask, "Why is this happening to me?"

Take a breath.

Pick up the phone.

Talk to someone.

Then ask yourself:

"What might life be inviting me to do next?"

You may not like the music.

You may not know the steps.

You may even step on someone's toes.

But that's all right.

The music is still playing.

Keep dancing.