Learning to Listen

Lately, I’ve fallen in love with jazz. That sentence surprises me as much as anyone.

For most of my life, music has been a faithful companion; looking back, I can almost trace the chapters of my life through the genres I loved. In the 80s, it was pop—bright, energetic, adventurous, and full of possibility. In the 90s, country music wrapped itself around me like a comfortable blanket; its stories felt familiar, speaking of love, heartbreak, family, and home in a way that made me feel deeply understood. Then, the 2000s brought a steady stream of Top 40 hits, the perfect soundtrack to busy years filled with work, responsibilities, raising children, and simply trying to keep up with life.

Somewhere along the way, however, instrumental music began quietly finding its way into my playlists. And now? Now I find myself sitting with smooth jazz.

I have surrendered my evenings to artists like Richard Elliot, Rick Braun, Vincent Ingala, and Norman Brown. Their music feels rich enough to hold my attention, yet spacious enough to leave room for my own thoughts and feelings. Perhaps that is what I love most about it: there are no lyrics telling me what to feel, no story I am expected to follow, and no voice leading me toward a conclusion.

There is just the music—the rise and fall of a saxophone, the warmth of a trumpet, the gentle conversation of a guitar, and the sudden surprise of a note I didn’t expect. It is a melody that wanders and then, somehow, finds its way home.

When I was younger, I thought music was entertainment. Now, I think it is communication. Every song begins with a feeling. A composer sits with joy, sorrow, wonder, longing, excitement, peace, or love, and transforms those emotions into notes and rhythms. They create something invisible that carries a piece of their inner world.

Years later, a stranger presses play. The artist and the listener may never meet, yet something remarkable happens: one heart speaks, and another heart recognizes itself. Perhaps that is why music can move us to tears without a single word being spoken. The artist is not merely playing notes; they are sharing an experience, a memory, a longing, or a celebration. And if we are willing to listen, we become witnesses to it.

Lately, as I’ve been listening to smooth jazz, I’ve become acutely aware of the emotions hidden within the chords. Richard Elliot’s soulful saxophone doesn’t simply play a melody—it seems to ache, celebrate, whisper, and rejoice with the depth of an old friend sharing stories late into the evening. Rick Braun’s trumpet carries a beautiful balance of strength and tenderness; there is confidence in his playing, yet also a softness that reminds me that vulnerability and strength are companions, not opposites. Meanwhile, Vincent Ingala’s music feels playful and optimistic, carrying an energy that makes me smile as his melodies dance rather than march. And Norman Brown’s guitar feels warm and inviting, like sitting on a porch with someone who has nowhere else they need to be.

I’ve spent years listening to Elliot and Braun—what a powerful, rich, and sophisticated pair of artists to be introduced to a genre by. Yet, I am thoroughly enjoying getting to know the new musical friends who have joined them.

The funny thing is, the more I listen to jazz, the more I realize it feels a lot like life. There is structure, but not complete predictability. There is familiarity, but also surprise. There is anticipation without certainty, alongside moments that soar and moments that quietly settle. A good jazz musician doesn’t cling desperately to every note; they trust themselves enough to discover the next one only when it arrives.

Lately, I’ve been trying to live that way, too. Less gripping. Less chasing. Less needing every answer before I take the next step. Instead, I want more listening, more trusting, and more allowing life to unfold.

Maybe that is why jazz feels so right in this season of my life. It reminds me that not every experience needs to be explained, not every feeling needs to be analyzed, and not every path needs to be mapped before we begin walking it. Sometimes, we are meant to simply listen, to wonder, to feel, and to be present.

Perhaps every season of music we are drawn to reflects something happening deep within us. If that’s true, then jazz is teaching me that it is beautifully human to allow the soul to feel. Music reminds us that we are never truly alone in our joy, our longing, our grief, our hope, or our wonder. Someone else has stood exactly where we stand, felt what we feel, and left us a melody to prove it.

Perhaps that is the true gift of music. Not that it entertains us, but that it connects us—heart to heart, soul to soul, human to human.