Hey friends:
The December writing break has always been a welcome one for me. The absence of a looming deadline lets my mind wander freely—a little too freely, if we're being honest.
Then, as if out of nowhere, the deadline is there again. I should have seen it coming. I know how a calendar works. And yet, I don't. So here I am on January 5th, with nothing to write about and out of my writing rhythm.
As you read this, you may be experiencing the same thing. You knew the second semester was coming. It does every year. But, over the holidays, you put it out of your mind until there it is, staring you right in the face like an unexpected cold arctic blast, chilling you to the bone and making you wish for the warmth of summer. The shock of it all can be pretty jarring. (Can you tell I am in Bismark, North Dakota, right now, where it is -7 degrees?)
Trying to get my mojo back, seeking some inspiration and perhaps a little nostalgia, I found myself revisiting old posts from this exact week; it is interesting to see the differing topics and how my thoughts and writing style have evolved (or regressed, depending on your perspective and my caffeine intake).
For instance...
Last January, I wrote about the Changing Faces of Our Football Fields, in which I reflected on access—specifically, the disparities in opportunities for students in athletics and the arts. It reminded me of a persistent truth: advocating for music education is never finished. Every year, we refine our arguments, statistics, and strategies, but at the heart of it is a timeless message—music matters.
The year before, my muse was James Patterson and Our Middles. Inspired by James Patterson's thoughts on the art of storytelling, I wrote about how the "middles"—the unglamorous, often tedious grind—are where the real magic happens. This could be said of rehearsals, curriculum planning, or anything else we pour our efforts into. Sure, beginnings are thrilling, and endings are triumphant, but the middles? That's where the artistry is forged. Even as trends in pedagogy and performance evolve, the grind of the "middles" remains the same. And honestly, the "middles" of any band rehearsal might be the world's greatest patience-builder… for directors.
In one of my more lighthearted pieces in 2018, Block Chain Reduction, I compared the resurgence of retro retailers like Tower Records to the potential "comebacks" in music education. Traditional approaches to teaching—think solfège drills or marching fundamentals—were out of vogue for a while but seem to be returning. Turns out, what's "old-fashioned" often proves timeless. Call it retro, call it vintage, but I call it effective. Are we sure those faded Kodály posters aren't hiding the secret sauce? Everything we once rolled our eyes at as "old school" is now "life-changing pedagogy" on TikTok. Full circle, folks.
But 2015 is one of my favorites. The Long Mile and the Even Longer View was a Rose Bowl Parade-inspired piece. It recounted the calls and messages I receive from my students every January 1st as they relive their Rose Parade memories, watching the next generation create their own. Specifically, the literal long march bands endure and it's metaphorical parallel to our teaching journeys. Progress in music education, whether for individual students or entire programs, is a marathon, not a sprint. I am continually amazed that even after 25 years, the impact of that event remains. They don't remember the long days of training and many blisters that ensued, just the lessons they learned and the peers they shared the experience with.
One truth stands out as I leaf through these reflections: while our world and profession change at a remarkable rate, our mission remains steadfast. This enduring mission of music education, to inspire, educate, and empower students through the power of music, is what keeps us inspired and motivated in our work.
At its core, music education is about serving students.
Our job is to give students the space and grace to express themselves, connect with others, and navigate life's highs and lows. Trends in pedagogy may shift, budgets may rise or fall, and the world may throw us a pandemic or two (I hope not), but the heart of what we do doesn't change. We're here to help kids discover who they are and grow through the power of music. This enduring mission is what keeps us connected and committed to our work.
Like the broader world, music education is a cycle where the old becomes new, and the new eventually becomes old. It's both comforting and humbling to see how the lessons we learn and teach have this uncanny ability to come back around. Despite the changes, the instruments we play and the music we perform have remained the same for hundreds of years.
This continuity is a testament to the timeless impact of music education, which has an immeasurable and lasting effect on the young people we serve, and it's something we can all be proud of.
So here's to 2024: polishing yesterday's brass and helping students shine for tomorrow. And if that means dragging out the Kodály posters or dusting off some Sousa, so be it. Everything old will be new again, and we'll still be here, doing what we've always done: helping young people grow and instilling the joy and resilience that only music can bring.
And that's nothing new.
Have a great week!
Scott