The Sound Between Notes: Space

Silence is the scariest thing in the room.

Not the boss, not the news, not the shadow in the corner. Silence.

Because when the noise cuts, when the playlist ends, when the phone dies, what’s left?

Just you and the void.

And we’ve been trained to fear the void like it’s a monster under the bed.

Fill it, distract it, scroll it, drink it, anything but face it.

That’s the lie.

That’s the theft of our age: the erasure of space.

Ayurveda whispered the opposite.

They called it Akasha: space, the first element, the stage upon which all others dance.

Without space, fire has no air, water no riverbed, earth no place to settle. Space is not nothing.

Space is womb, temple, holy container.

In the Vedas, creation begins not with noise, but with silence vast enough to hold a word.

In music, it’s the pause that makes the note matter.

But we forgot.

We live like endless playlists with no breath between songs.

Here’s My Confession

I used to fill every pause. Music in the shower, podcast in the car, YouTube while I cook.

I’ve been terrified of what I’d hear if the static dropped.

And when I finally let it?

When I actually sat in the quiet?

The first thing that rose wasn’t bliss. It was grief. Centuries of it. My own, my lineage’s, the culture’s. Silence is a mirror, and it doesn’t lie.

Course correction: create space on purpose.

Turn off the phone before bed. Fast not from food, but from input. Light a candle and sit in the hum of nothing. At first it will feel unbearable. Then it will feel like medicine. Because the void is not here to swallow you. The void is here to birth you.

And here’s the punchline: everything holy begins in silence.

Every mantra, every poem, every heartbeat in the womb.

Noise is the afterthought. Silence is the source.

Let’s stop fearing the space.

Let’s stop filling every gap like we’re afraid of ourselves.

Let’s honor the sound between notes as the music it already is.

Let’s get well.

Love, Meg