Scott,
Where I am, it is early Thursday morning. I have been on the road for eight days and will be out for twelve of the next fourteen. All of this is to explain why I failed to write an e-zine yesterday, and by struggle, I mean it did not happen. First time in twenty years.
I am sure many of you didn't notice that I missed our weekly chat, but it is all I could think about as yesterday slipped away. So I sit here at a Starbucks, unable to sleep, watching the sunrise, and writing to relieve my guilt.
Although my choice of profession might indicate otherwise, I am not a narcissist. I am fully aware that your Wednesday came and went, utterly unaffected by my absence. In fact, perhaps my absence and less cluttered inbox made your day a bit easier, which is always my goal.
But that thought doesn't help relieve my guilt.
I could tell you that my uneasiness is tied to wanting to provide value, which I do. I could probably convince you that my guilt has something to do with professional responsibilities and hitting deadlines, which it does.
But, in the end, if I were to be honest, it is likely tied more to my own feelings of self-worth than anything else.
I believe that most professionals are personally invested in their work. I do not think music educators are unique in this way. For many working adults in America, the lines between inside and outside the office are blurred and morphed in ways they don't always see or understand. I also believe that this is magnified in our country - where your value and time need to be quantified and measured in ways that dehumanize and degrade us in very real ways.
As I said, I do not believe that this is unique to music education. But, in my experience, the personal investment and blurred lines are on another level.
Why?
I have said on many occasions - I am a band director and a man. Which means I have an ego, and it's a big one (insert laugh).
Yes, we stand on stages and receive thunderous ovations. We are ranked, rated, and reviewed in ways no other educators are. We produce a product, a show, and create art. All of which is to say, a very real part of us is invested in everything we do to an almost unhealthy level. You sacrifice your days, nights, and weekends to create an experience and make a difference. You worry about every missed note, opportunity, and child.
It's not about ego or money. It's about value. Yes, value for our students, but perhaps just as significant, how we see ourselves as people.
By and large, this profession is fueled not by performances and productions, but by a belief that what we do matters (and it does) and is making a difference (and it does). It drives us in ways that are hard to explain or quantify, but it is real nonetheless. It drives us, consumes us, and, for many in our profession, is how we measure our self-worth. It is our passion.
I have repeatedly said that if I have to choose between pedagogy and passion, for my boys, I choose passion. Because while pedagogy makes for a better ensemble, passion inspires us to be better people.
Passion comes from purpose - a belief that what we do and who we are matters. That our time on this planet will not go unnoticed or unappreciated. That we will have left the world, and the children in it better than we found them.
That is our blessing. That is our burden.
That is why I sit here in the middle of the night writing to you.
At least I think it is.
- Scott
p.s. My editor is sleeping - so forgive any typos, grammer, or other nonsensicle thoughts.