There is a moment before sound.
Before the bow touches the string.
Before vibration.
Before anything can be heard.
It’s a moment most people don’t notice — but it’s there. A breath. A readiness. A quiet tension where something could happen, but hasn’t yet.
Lately, my life feels like it’s been living there.
Not in motion.
Not at rest.
Just… poised.
I’ve noticed how uncomfortable that space can be. How quickly I want to fill it. Explain it. Push through it. We’re taught that pauses are empty, that stillness means stagnation, that if nothing is happening, something must be wrong.
But the violin doesn’t rush that moment.
The sound doesn’t come from force — it comes from contact, from pressure applied with care, from patience in the approach.
In my own life, I keep trying to skip the threshold.
I want clarity without sitting in uncertainty.
Resolution without tolerating tension.
Music without the quiet that makes it possible.
And yet, every time I rush, the sound is harsh. Thin. Untrue.
The space between bow and string isn’t wasted time.
It’s where intention forms.
It’s where the body listens.
It’s where the instrument prepares to resonate.
I’m learning — slowly — that some seasons aren’t meant to be played yet. They’re meant to be held. Tuned. Felt.
Nothing dramatic is happening here.
Nothing to announce.
Nothing to fix.
Just a pause that asks to be respected.
And for now, I’m trying to trust that the sound will come when it’s ready — not when I demand it.