On Being Aware of the Pauses

Every symphony begins with silence.  The conductor raises the baton, there is a brief pause, and then he moves his arms, signaling the music to begin.  No one notices the pause, really, but it is this very pause about which I am curious. If we could freeze this pause - freeze the conductor with his baton poised artfully in the air - what would we notice? 

The audience has leaned forward a bit in their seats.  Perhaps they are unwittingly holding their breath.  Their eyes have opened a bit wider and their hearts beat slightly faster.  Perhaps the programmes are held carefully so as not to make noise.  The auditorium is absolutely silent except for one sound - the sound of this pause. 

It is the sound of anticipation, of hope.  It is the sound of every magical moment.  It is the sound of being enraptured.  And it is not only found just before a symphony.

The sound of this pause - so rich with possibility and potential - could easily be found before a conversation between two people if we would take the time to be aware of the sacredness of such a moment.  If we realised that every conversation with every person affects us in some way, the magnitude of the moment would fill the pause before that first word with the very same anticipation and hope.

Perhaps we might lean forward a bit or unwittingly hold our breath.  Perhaps our eyes would open a bit wider and our hearts beat slightly faster.  And perhaps we might notice and see with a new awareness how magical it is to connect with another human being.