The Notes Between the Music

I'm currently reading Present over Perfect by Shauna Niequist, which I am about halfway through and already highly recommend. I read this particular paragraph the other day, and this idea really grabbed me:

"Whatever it is that you clutch onto with angry fists, that you grab like a lifeline, when you release that thing, when you let it go, that's when you'll hear the notes between the music. That's when you'll feel the groove, the rhythm you were made to feel, that you've covered over a thousand times with noise and motion and fear and all the things. When you hear it, you'll realize it sounds a lot like your own heartbeat, the rhythm of God, of life, pumping in your chest, the most beautiful song you've ever heard."

The notes between the music. I love that.

Earlier in the chapter, Shauna mentions that her husband is a musician. "His all-time favorite base players play relatively few notes, and the beautiful thing they make is all about the space between the notes--that's the groove."

I'm no musician, but I know enough to take this metaphor and run with it. I know that every rest and every space between notes is necessary to create the intended sound. And I love the idea that maybe seasons of silence and waiting are a necessary part of the music my life is making. For me, the last ten months have felt like one giant space between notes. The longer the space gets, the harder it is to remember what the last note sounded like, and the harder it is to believe that the song isn't just over. But I'm believing for the music. I'm choosing to believe that this space is only a space, that the song isn't over, and that the best is yet to come. I'm choosing to relax as best as I can, to listen, and to trust that I'll hear it.

Believing that feels like hope, and not the exhausted, grasping, about-to-give-up kind.

It feels like the beautiful kind.