Observing the Rests

Silence.

Filling every concert hall before the first notes ring out.

Silence.

Uniting audiences of every political affiliation, race, language, age, and background in concert halls around the world.

Silence.

Uniting musicians of every political affiliation, race, language, age, and background as they look to the conductor and await the first upbeat.

Silence communicates and carries as much anticipation, yearning, and emotion as the music it precedes—or follows.

People often say that music unites people, but it can also be said that silence unites people. Without silence, we would not be able to appreciate sound. We enter into silence first. It prepares us to absorb the beauty of the music that comes after.

Growing up, my parents often shared stories from their days as music majors in college, where they met and eventually married. My dad, a tuba player, had some of the best stories.

One of my favorites involved a piece in which he had roughly 400 measures of rest followed by one solitary note. He complained endlessly about that note and thought very little of its significance—until the performance where he accidentally fell asleep and missed it.

The conductor never let him forget it.

It was a powerful lesson. He learned not only the value of a single note, but also the importance of counting and observing every rest that came before it. Without those rests, the note itself would have had no meaning.

The most skillful composers are often remembered for their creative use of silence.

Think of the iconic opening of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Pay attention to the rests between those famous notes. Without those brief moments of silence, would the opening be nearly as recognizable? Probably not.

Or imagine John Williams' Jaws theme without those eerie pauses that leave audiences on edge, anticipating what comes next.

Even popular music relies on silence. DJ Khaled's All I Do Is Win simply doesn't carry the same energy without its dramatic pauses and breaks.

And perhaps one of the greatest examples of all is Whitney Houston's rendition of I Will Always Love You. When the music suddenly stops before the final chorus, the silence creates a moment so powerful that it is almost impossible not to sing along when the music returns.

As a musician, I've noticed silence carrying more weight for me the older I get.

When I was first learning the violin, the world felt quieter. Cell phones were still a novelty, and I spent very little time in front of a television. Today, notifications, social media, and endless streams of information seem to fill every available moment. Because of that, I find myself appreciating the ceremony and quiet of concert halls more than ever.

That familiar announcement before a performance—"Please turn off your cell phones"—carries a certain authority and even a sense of reverence. For a brief period of time, everyone is invited to be fully present.

More than ever, I find myself learning life lessons through the music I play.

Where is the silence in my own life?

Am I taking the rests necessary to reflect before and after the busy passages? Am I allowing space to process, breathe, and listen? Or am I rushing from one measure to the next, afraid to pause?

As in music, perhaps we would be wise to observe the rests.

The music we make is often more beautiful because of them. And while we are resting, we can listen to the music of others—those whose melodies have been written into the spaces where we are silent.

After all, silence is not the absence of music.

Sometimes, it is part of the song.