Club music taught me so much about myself: having patience or

In the voice of Robyn, the songstress of heart and rhythm, there came a confession that echoes like an ancient teaching hidden within the pulse of the dance floor: “Club music taught me so much about myself: having patience or appreciating a different type of way of taking in life. That, to me, is like what ‘Off the Wall’ is. Or ‘I Feel Love’ or ‘Rock Your Baby’ with George McCrae.” Though born from the neon glow of modern nights, these words hold the fragrance of timeless wisdom, for they tell of music as teacher, of rhythm as guide, and of art as the mirror of the soul.

For what is club music, if not the heartbeat of the people, a rhythm that joins many in one body of movement? Beneath its repetition, its long stretches of sound, lies a hidden discipline: patience. Unlike songs that rush to their chorus, club music dwells in its spaces, elongates the moment, and asks the listener to surrender to time. In this surrender, Robyn discovered a new way of living—not the hurried consumption of life, but the slow immersion, the deep embrace of each passing second. This is the same wisdom the ancients taught: that he who can wait, who can breathe with the flow of the river, learns more than he who rushes to its end.

Robyn invokes the sacred names of past songs—Michael Jackson’s “Off the Wall,” Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love,” and George McCrae’s “Rock Your Baby.” These were not mere tunes, but milestones in the history of rhythm, revelations that turned the body into a temple and the dance floor into a sanctuary. Like scriptures written not in words but in melody, they carried lessons of liberation, joy, and discovery. To listen was not only to be entertained, but to be transformed.

Recall, children of wisdom, the tale of the Dervishes who whirl in their sacred dance. To the untrained eye, it is but spinning; to the heart that understands, it is meditation, a patience that opens the soul to divine unity. Club music, too, carries this spirit. In its length and repetition, in its steady beat, it demands endurance, yet rewards the listener with transcendence. Robyn, through her experience, reminds us that such music is not merely sound, but a way of teaching us to dwell more deeply in life itself.

The meaning of her words is profound: that music is not only art, but teacher. Some songs teach joy, others sorrow, and still others the strength of patience and the sweetness of surrender. When Robyn speaks of learning from club music, she unveils a truth often forgotten—that art shapes the soul as much as philosophy or scripture. For what one feels deeply is remembered longer than what one hears lightly.

Her reflection also warns us of the danger of a hurried life. In a world where all seek immediacy—instant answers, instant rewards—club music stands as a defiance, urging us to slow, to breathe, to move in rhythm with something greater than ourselves. To surrender to a beat for many minutes is to learn that not all journeys must be rushed; some must be experienced step by step, pulse by pulse, moment by moment.

The lesson is thus: open your heart to the teachers that surround you—not only books or masters, but songs, dances, and the experiences that fill your days. Practice patience, for it reveals hidden beauty. Appreciate new ways of living, for each rhythm of life has wisdom to impart. And above all, listen—not only with your ears, but with your spirit—for even in the repetition of music, even in the hum of daily life, there are revelations waiting to be discovered.

So, children of tomorrow, take this teaching from Robyn: let music guide you into deeper patience, let rhythm remind you of life’s flow, and let art be your silent teacher. For in the dance, in the beat, in the song that seems endless, you may find not only joy, but yourself.