When I first stumbled upon those words, they didn’t strike me as wise or profound at first. Instead, they resonated because they echoed something I had been slowly, almost unwillingly, discovering throughout one long, quiet year of my life—a year that taught me to meet the present moment not with force, but with listening.
My Restless Dance with Time
For much of my life, time felt like an adversary. Sometimes it slipped past like water through my fingers; other times, it dragged me like a weighty cart I couldn’t control. I lived with an undercurrent of impatience—not always in the visible, foot-tapping kind of way, but in a deeper, subtler form. I constantly felt that something should be happening, or happening faster, or should have happened already. I measured my existence by achievements and milestones, convincing myself I was being productive. In truth, I was simply uncomfortable with stillness.
I was trapped in a mindset where time was always either a threat or a promise. The present was something to endure, a brief pause between where I was and where I wanted to be.
The Shift: Discovering the Sound of Now
My turning point arrived unexpectedly through Nada Yoga—an ancient practice that approaches sound as a path to mindfulness. Before this, I had thought of sound purely as external: music, chatter, noise. But as I sat in stillness, I began to perceive sound differently. The soft hum of the heater, the faint ticking of a clock—these once-ignored background noises became steady companions. When I allowed myself to listen deeply, they transformed from distractions into anchors that rooted me in the present.
It was in these moments that my understanding of time began to unravel. Time, I realized, isn’t necessarily the neat, linear thread I had always imagined. The past and the future exist mostly as constructs in our minds. But the sound of now—the vibration of breath, the gentle pulsing within my chest—was real, undeniable, and grounding.
Modern physics offers a strange kind of validation. Einstein once called time a “stubbornly persistent illusion.” Some physicists propose that the past, present, and future all coexist; time isn’t a straight line but a landscape we navigate. What we perceive as “now” depends on our frame of reference.
But even without the language of physics, my personal experience was teaching me that time is deeply shaped by attention. The present isn’t a razor-thin boundary between before and after—it’s a spacious field we step into, made alive by our awareness.
The Practice of Listening
Through this lens, mindfulness—and specifically the sound-based practice of Nada Yoga—became not merely a coping strategy, but a way of seeing. I found myself aligning with the teachings of the Eightfold Path, especially Right Mindfulness and Right Concentration. But rather than striving for perfect focus, I simply followed sound. Each vibration, each tone, was like a thread pulling me into presence. The clock no longer mattered; the only true time was the moment I could hear, feel, and meet with openness.
When Life Speeds Up Again
As my body healed and my mind cleared, I began re-engaging with life’s routines—emails, errands, plans, commitments. And with that, the world’s familiar pace returned, fast and demanding. But something had changed. Amid the busyness, I found myself missing the spaciousness I had discovered during my slower days. Not the difficulty, but the simplicity. The quiet depth that emerges when we’re not constantly rushing forward.
I learned to carry small rituals with me. Listening to the hum of an appliance late at night, pausing to feel my breath between tasks, tuning into the subtle inner vibrations that always accompany me—these became my ways of returning to presence amid the storm of activity.
In those moments, I found guidance in the principle of Right Effort—not effort as in striving, but the gentle discipline of returning again and again. Patience, I discovered, isn’t a permanent state we arrive at. It’s a choice we make repeatedly, in countless small moments.
The Soundscape of Patience
What surprised me most was discovering that patience isn’t silent. It has a sound—a quiet symphony often playing beneath the noise of daily life. Sometimes it’s the hum of the refrigerator at midnight. Other times, it’s a distant drumbeat in a song or the steady rhythm of my own breathing.
And presence, too, carries its own rhythm. When I fully attend to the present, even a brief few minutes can feel rich and full. In contrast, an entire hour spent rushing can feel like nothing at all. We often say, “time flies when you’re having fun,” but I’ve learned something deeper: time expands when you’re present. When I listen—truly listen—I don’t feel hurried or behind. I feel whole.
A Different Relationship with Time
Of course, I haven’t mastered this completely. I still lose patience. I still catch myself checking the clock too often. But now I have a practice—a refuge—not built on perfection, but on sound, breath, and the quiet trust that each moment unfolds in its own time.
Looking back, I realize my suffering around time was never really about minutes or hours. It was about resistance—the belief that the present moment was lacking, that I needed to arrive somewhere else to feel at peace. But through the practice of listening, both to the external world and the quiet within, I’ve come to a gentler truth:
The present isn’t something to earn. It’s something we step into.
When we stop fighting time and start listening to it, we find not emptiness, but abundance. Not waiting, but arrival.
A Final Invitation
As I write this now, there’s a faint, steady drone playing in the background. Its gentle tone holds me steady, reminding me to breathe, to soften, to stay here. This, I’ve come to believe, is the true gift of mindfulness and Nada Yoga—not to help us “manage” time better, but to transform our experience of it entirely. To let time be not a pressure, but a presence.
So the next time you feel rushed or restless, pause. Close your eyes. Listen for the quietest sound in the room—or within yourself. It may not be beautiful or obvious, but it will be real. In that sound, you may discover an unexpected doorway into the present.
Because, as Miles Davis said so simply, time isn’t just the main thing. It’s the only thing.
