The Poetry Of Rhythm

There’s a rhythm to life that cannot be rushed. Some days, it moves slowly, measured in quiet mornings, the soft hum of routine, the gentle cadence of prayer. Other days, it accelerates in bursts of laughter, the rush of activity, the unplanned moments that catch you by surprise. And somewhere within that ebb and flow, there exists a rhythm for love, subtle, deliberate, and almost imperceptible.

I’ve noticed it in fleeting moments, in gestures so small they might be overlooked if you weren’t paying attention. A glance that lingers longer than it should. A message that arrives at the exact moment your mind drifts to someone. A shared silence that feels unusually full. These are the signs of a rhythm quietly aligning, of hearts that may already be moving toward each other even before we fully realise it.

Waiting for someone who matches your rhythm isn’t about impatience or longing in the obvious sense. It’s about attuning yourself to the subtle beat of your own life, so that when someone enters, you can move together without missing a step. Sometimes, I feel it in my own life, the gentle tug of presence, the almost imperceptible awareness that someone may already be sharing the space between the ordinary and the extraordinary.

There’s a poetry in this kind of waiting. It asks for attentiveness, not desperation. Awareness, not anxiety. It invites you to notice how your heart responds to small things: a shared joke that lingers longer than laughter, a gesture that feels intentional, a pause that seems to say, I am here, and I see you. These moments, fleeting and quiet, contain more weight than a thousand grand declarations.

I think about rhythm in everyday life: the quiet mornings with coffee and Scripture, the evenings spent walking alone through streets lit softly by lamplight, the music that lingers long after the song has ended. In all of this, there is a space that could be shared, a tempo that could be matched, a harmony that might be discovered. Perhaps, even now, someone is learning to move in step with mine without words, without fanfare, simply by noticing the small things that matter.

Waiting this way is an act of faith. It trusts that God is orchestrating timing with precision far beyond our understanding. It trusts that the one whose rhythm aligns with yours will appear at the right moment, not too soon, not too late, but perfectly timed. And when that alignment happens, it is effortless. Conversation flows like water, laughter rises naturally, and silences do not feel empty. The rhythm matches. The heartbeat matches.

Sometimes, I catch myself imagining what it would feel like to walk through life with someone who moves at my pace, not rushing, not dragging, simply keeping step alongside me. Perhaps it is imagination, perhaps it is memory of a fleeting moment that felt more profound than explanation. Perhaps it is the quiet stirring of something already in motion, a rhythm too subtle to name but too powerful to ignore.

And so I continue, mindful of my own steps, attuned to my own rhythm, living fully in the present while leaving space for the harmony that may come. There is no rush, no pressure, no desperation, only a quiet anticipation, the kind that hums softly in the background of ordinary life.

For the poetry of waiting is not in longing alone; it is in the readiness to match, to move, and to notice when the rhythm finally finds its counterpart. Perhaps it is already happening. Perhaps someone is moving alongside me, in step without revealing it, shaping a story that is mine to live, and to recognise when the time is right.