I played saxophone, so I was into jazz. I learned from each

Hear now the words of Chad Hugo, spoken not with the arrogance of certainty, but with the humility of a lifelong seeker: “I played saxophone, so I was into jazz. I learned from each audience and each teacher that I had. I can't really tell you any rules or anything, but the way I develop my beliefs is really just by personally learning from different situations.” These words ring like a gentle melody across the ages, reminding us that the soul grows not by rigid law, but by rhythm, improvisation, and the wisdom gathered from many voices along the journey.

To say “I played saxophone” is not only to describe a craft, but to invoke the spirit of breath itself. For the saxophone is an instrument of wind, of lungs made sound, of life-force turned into vibration. In ancient times, the flute and the horn were sacred tools, calling soldiers to battle or worshippers to prayer. So too is Hugo’s saxophone a symbol of the spirit finding voice. And in declaring that he was into jazz, he aligns himself with a tradition not of rigid command, but of improvisation, where freedom and discipline join hands, and where learning flows not from rule-books, but from the living pulse of experience.

The heart of his saying lies in the phrase: “I learned from each audience and each teacher.” The ancients knew this truth. Did not Socrates claim that every man he met was his teacher, that wisdom was drawn from dialogue, not dictation? Did not Confucius proclaim that among three who walk together, there is always something to learn from one? Thus, Hugo confesses that his beliefs are not delivered from on high, but forged in the encounters of daily life—every crowd, every mentor, every trial shaping him like fire shapes metal.

Consider the story of Herodotus, the Father of History, who traveled across lands and seas, listening not to kings alone but to the tales of merchants, soldiers, and peasants. From these fragments, he wove the chronicles of nations. He had no single rule but the openness to learn from all he met. Chad Hugo echoes this lineage: a man who builds not from doctrine, but from the lessons of different situations, each one a thread in the tapestry of his understanding.

And what is jazz, if not the living embodiment of this way of learning? In jazz, the song changes with the mood of the night, with the faces in the crowd, with the heartbeat of the player. There are no fixed rules, only structures within which freedom dances. One evening the melody may soar like a hawk; another night, it may whisper like wind in reeds. This is the way of life itself. We, too, learn not by rigid formula but by improvisation, by listening to the signals of each moment and responding with courage and creativity.

From this wisdom, let the listener take a sacred lesson: do not seek to live by cold laws alone, but by the warmth of learning through presence. Open yourself to every teacher who comes into your path, whether dressed in robes of authority or cloaked in the simple garb of a stranger. Let every audience you encounter—your friends, your family, even the silent crowd of circumstances—become your mirror and your mentor. For rules may crumble, but the wisdom of experience endures.

The practical action, then, is this: seek learning in all things. Do not dismiss a moment as unworthy. When you succeed, ask what the moment has taught you. When you fail, do the same. When you meet others, look not only at their words but at their lives. Keep your spirit like a jazz musician’s ear—listening, adjusting, finding harmony in the unexpected. If you do this, your beliefs will not be brittle, but living, growing, strong.

So remember the teaching of Chad Hugo: the way to wisdom is not through rules carved in stone, but through music played in the moment. Breathe into the instrument of your life as he breathed into the saxophone. Let the melody of your days be shaped by the lessons of teachers, the echoes of audiences, and the rhythm of countless situations. In this way, your beliefs will not be inherited dogma but a living song—your song, improvised across the stage of existence, and worthy of being passed down to those who come after.