The Sound That Stays

Daily Inspiration

I was sitting in my office. It was quiet, except for the soft summer wind rustling the leaves outside and the low hum of the ceiling fan overhead. I had been traveling for weeks, but now I was home. For the first time in a long time, I was sitting still. The desk was clean, the coffee warm, and Remi, our dog, was asleep by the door.

He had been sick. We thought it was serious. My partner cried when he wouldn’t eat. I said it was probably just a bug, but I didn’t believe it. Not then. We drove him to the emergency vet late that night. I remember the silence in the car. The sound of the turn signal. Her hand holding his collar in her lap. The smell of antiseptic in the waiting room. The way the vet said it would be alright—like maybe she believed it, maybe she didn’t.

It turned out to be a stomach thing. Nothing more. But the fear stayed with me, tucked in some corner I couldn’t reach. That sort of fear doesn’t shout. It waits. It watches you when you sleep. When I got home that night, I took off my shoes and turned on the lamp by the window. I sat down. I didn’t know what to do. So I turned on music.

Smooth jazz. I’ve always liked the sound of it. It doesn’t ask anything from you. A slow saxophone, a piano that doesn’t show off. Like rain on pavement. It reminds me of New York in the fall, the way the city slows down after a storm—or a warm summer day like today. I let it play, and for the first time in weeks, I took a deep breath.

I opened my notebook. There were stories I wanted to write. But I wasn’t in the mood. Not really. The year had worn me out. Too many people had passed away. Friends. Family. People who had been in the room last year and now weren’t coming back. We tried to help. To be there. Bring food. Say the right words. Sometimes we sat in silence. That helped more than any speech.

I started writing something else. Just a note, really. Not a story.

“There’s something about soft jazz—
a slow sax, a quiet piano—
that mends what words can’t reach.
It doesn’t rush.
It just stays.
And somehow, so do you.
What’s your healing sound?”

I posted it on Substack Notes. Just a thought. A whisper to the people who might need to hear it. I’ve been doing that more lately. Short notes. Not full stories. Just things I’ve felt, seen, or remembered. Little pieces of truth, floating like driftwood. I don't know if it helps anyone else. But it helps me.

The music kept playing. My mood started to shift. Like a tide coming in, slow but steady. The room felt softer. Even Remi’s breathing seemed calmer.

I read something once. I can’t remember where. Maybe in a book, maybe online. It said that music and fire have always helped people heal. That they’re the oldest tools we have to connect with each other. A fire to sit around. A rhythm to move to. You don’t need to understand the words. You just feel it.

And then, scrolling through Substack, I came across something called “Why I Stopped Listening To Music” by someone named Pearl. The title caught me. I clicked.

Why I Stopped Listening To Music.

She wrote about how music used to be her escape. Hours every day. A shield against pain. A way to not feel so much. But then she stopped. Not all at once. Slowly. Like shedding a coat you no longer need. She said she began to face things instead. Hard things. Real things. And she started listening to herself instead of the songs.

By the end, she didn’t cancel her Spotify because she hated music. She let it go because she didn’t need it anymore.

That hit me.

I sat back in my chair and looked out the window. The music was still playing. A saxophone again. Maybe the same song, maybe a different one. It didn’t matter. The meaning had changed.

Sometimes we need the sound to drown things out. And sometimes, we need silence to hear what we’ve buried.

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Discover the heartfelt stories of John Rinaldo—author of Remi’s Journey, Rediscovering Vancouver, and Dancing Letters. Each book inspires hope, healing, and wonder. Available now on Amazon.

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Pearl asked her readers to try going without music for 24 hours. To see what they find in the quiet. I thought about that. I’ve done it before. On long walks in the woods. No headphones. Just the sound of wind and my feet on the path. Once, I stopped to watch a deer drink from a stream. It didn’t run when it saw me. Just lifted its head, blinked, and went back to drinking. That felt holy.

I remembered something else too. Something about silence being good for your health. It lowers blood pressure. Helps you sleep better. Makes your thoughts clearer. And it can help you hear yourself, which is the hardest thing to do sometimes.

When I do yoga, I don’t play anything. No mantras. No playlists. Just my breath and the room. That’s enough.

I kept reading. Another note popped up, this one by someone named V S Uma. “A Simple and Humble Approach to Comfort.” She talked about how music makes a home feel like home. How hearing your favorite songs in the kitchen—without headphones—makes everything feel warm. Human.

A SIMPLE and HUMBLE APPROACH😌😊

That’s true too.

There are two sides to it. Music and silence. Sound and stillness. We need both. We are both.

I looked over at Remi. He opened one eye, stretched, and went back to sleep. Dogs know how to be still. They don’t chase noise. They wait. They stay.

I’ve learned more from that dog than I have from most people.

The summer hadn’t gone how I wanted. It never does. Life doesn’t care about plans. It breaks them. Replaces them with things that hurt and teach and shape you, all at once. This year had been hard. We lost people. We cried. We carried others. We forgot to carry ourselves.

But in that moment, with the music playing and the dog sleeping and the room full of soft light, I didn’t feel lost. I felt found.

There’s healing in the ordinary. In writing a few words and sending them out into the world. In making coffee. In taking off your shoes. In realizing the dog is okay. That you are too. For now.

That’s enough.

I wrote another note before bed.

“There’s a sound that finds you when you stop looking.
It doesn’t try to fix you.
It just sits beside you until you remember who you are.”

I didn’t post it. I just wrote it down. Some things are only for the page.

The music ended. I turned off the lamp. The sky outside had turned a deep blue. I listened to the quiet for a while.

Then I went to bed.

-Rinaldo

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Inspiration for This Story.

This story was born from a quiet morning at home after weeks of travel and emotional weight. The summer had been heavy—filled with loss, uncertainty, and the sudden illness of our beloved dog, Remi. In that stillness, with smooth jazz playing and the comfort of familiar surroundings, I began to reflect. A single Substack note—short, honest—sparked deeper thoughts on healing, silence, and the rhythms that hold us together. Reading others’ reflections on music, solitude, and comfort reminded me that inspiration often comes not from the extraordinary, but from the soft, ordinary moments where life speaks the loudest.

—John V. Rinaldo

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