It happened during savasana, the final resting pose of a yoga class. I had done this countless times before, but on that day, something shifted. I was unusually still. No fidgeting. No planning what came next. I was present. Completely.
In that silence, I didn’t think about presence. I experienced it.
And what struck me was this: to be completely present meant I could only hear one note of the music. Not the melody. Not the rhythm. Just a single sound, suspended in time.
For a moment, I wondered—does being fully present mean you miss the music altogether?
Then I realized something deeper. Life is a series of moments, just as music is a series of notes. What gives music its beauty isn’t any one note on its own. It’s the memory of what came before and the anticipation of what might come next. That’s what creates harmony. That’s what brings meaning.
Each step on the Camino is a single note. Each conversation, each sunrise, each blunder and breakthrough is another. On their own, they may seem small. But when you look back, you begin to hear the shape of something larger. You begin to recognize the movement.
We don’t always notice the music we’re making while we’re in it. But we can practice. We can pause long enough to hear one note clearly. We can trust that another will follow. And over time, we can look back and hear the whole piece.
This is why I return to the trail. Why I sit in stillness. Why I write. Each of these is a way of tuning in, a way of remembering that we are always composing something, whether we realize it or not.
So when the world gets loud, or the pace of life pulls you forward too fast, try to find that one note again. Let it ring. Let it be enough. Then let it lead you to the next.
What recent moment felt like a single note that stayed with you? Share it in the comments or take a few minutes to reflect in your journal.
