The musician arrived at the idea accidentally. He spent years studying notes. Which belonged in a chord. Which created tension or resolution. He could discuss modes, substitutions, and harmonic movement. Yet practising piano one afternoon, he noticed an unexpected similarity. When he first began meditating, he assumed his goal was to stop thinking. This proved as successful as trying to stop rain. Thoughts continued arriving, plans, memories, judgments. Fragments of conversation from twenty years earlier.

The instruction, according to the books, was just notice them and return one’s attention to breathing. He found this frustrating until realizing he already recognized this when listening to music when improvising. A note appears. Then another. Then another. The notes themselves are not the music. A skilled improviser shows no panic just because some particular note arrives. You hear it, acknowledge it, and discover what follows. Dissonance is no disaster. Sometimes the beautiful phrases begin, apparently, as “mistakes”. Is thought not the same?

He began noticing much suffering came not from the thoughts but his reaction to them. One arrived and he followed it into anxiety. Another, he built a whole scaffolding supporting it. A third resulted in spending an afternoon defending himself, but it was just imaginary accusation. During improvisation, however, he would never behave like that. No need to convene a meeting over a strange note. One simply listens. Over time the distinction between practising music and practising awareness grew thinner. He heard mind differently. What changed was the listener.

Years later, a student asked him what meditation taught him.

“Mostly,” he said, “that thoughts are a little like notes.”

The student waited for something more profound.