School’s back in session. Earlier and earlier every year, it seems. Us “old ones” never darkened the door of a school until after Labor Day.
Sometimes the early start is disorienting—not a difficult state for me to reach lately. Especially since I was away for a couple of weeks, and the first day happened while I was gone. I’m out of touch with the calendar.
Our backyard borders the high school’s backyard. This means early morning squeal of bus brakes, an uptick in traffic—some vehicles manned by just-licensed teens (requiring me to dust off the quadratic equations and something from physics about time and velocity before I dare cross the road to get the mail), and afternoon marching band practice.
When the Midwest August gives us a rare stretch of humidity-free, breathable weather, I turn off the AC and open the windows, much to my window-sill-loving cats’ delights. In the afternoons, the marching band metronome—or some kid on a xylophone with impeccable timing—serenades me through the screens, carried to all corners of the house on tufts of fur.
The Hubs and I often take advantage of the high school’s walking track that circles the sports fields and loops between the two main parking lots. This time of year, we catch glimpses of football practice, soccer games, and the marching band practicing in the parking lot. Working on formations and timing, the directors standing on scaffolding waving their arms and counting off beats. And the tick, tick, tick of the metronome.
It’s Friday evening. The Hubs is otherwise occupied, so I walk solo. I usually put in earbuds and let the environment melt away, just me and the track and something a little upbeat. But this evening, I don’t feel like music. After a difficult week, I’m in an exhausted funk, and I need some on-purpose, reset thinking.
And I need time to beg Little Miss Muse to drop magic onto the work-in-progress (WIP) so we can get it done already.
I reach the edge of the track nearest the parking lot and notice the marching is split into groups. Wind instruments in the grass inside the track. Percussion in the parking lot. The kids are dressed in red shirts and black shorts.
And I think to myself in all my disoriented, discombobulated wisdom, “Wow. Dress rehearsal.”
But I thought the marching band had more formal uniforms than that. Perhaps they’ve introduced a dress code. (I’m really, really in a funk…)
I walk on.
There’s a bit of a dip in the terrain, and on the up-swing, I reach the football stands and the farthest parking lot. Lots of cars. Lots of folks heading into the stands. Popcorn. Something sweet on the air, probably cotton candy or the shaved ice truck spilled its syrup…
The thought slowly occurs to me—very, very slowly, “Oh. Not dress rehearsal. There’s a game tonight.”
Now I’m alert. Like really, really alert.
A game means random fireworks, and my poor nervous system can’t handle that. Startling, loud noises cause my brain to bypass all reason. My feet cast themselves in concrete. My diaphragm seizes, and I stop breathing, frozen. The only thing that moves during these spells is the sweat running down my neck.
It’s unpleasant. So I pick up the pace.
Get the steps stepped, get the thoughts thought, and get home.
As the home team players make their way to the field, I step into the grass to give them space. They roughhouse and bump into each other, helmets in hand, adrenaline already surging. The visiting team’s coaches huddle at the far end of the parking lot. Cheerleaders pour out of a bus, all pompoms and ponytails.
I round back toward the first parking lot and encounter the color guard. Red flags twirl and swirl at the hands of girls in black dresses.
A few more steps and I’m right in front of the wind instruments. Some of those horns look like they weigh more than the small-framed kids trying to play them.
The instructor barks, “And five, six, seven—”
In almost unison, one note (almost the same note) erupts from a dozen instruments.
“You gotta know what note we’re starting on—”
I continue, dodging clusters of chatty women wearing “Band Mom” t-shirts.
“Five, six, seven…” A different instructor to the percussion kids. “Watch your feet—”
As I do another lap, I hear both directors telling the kids to go again and again, counting off the timing. “Five, six, seven…”
I think about those two bits of advice:
- Know the starting note.
- Watch your feet.
I’m about to make a glorious connection between these statements and the conundrum of what I want life to look like—I can feel it in my bones. But I reach the back of the football stands and remember the possible impending fireworks. Notes I don’t want to hear.
I watch my feet pick up the pace.
Get the steps stepped, get the thoughts thought, and get home, Beth.
Other side of the track, I reach the color guard again. One gal loses control of her flag. “I spun the wrong direction.”
Her friend replies, “Well, spin it right.”
I reach the wind instruments. “And five, six, seven…” followed by a little more unison on a little better note.
“Control your air. Know when to breathe.”
The percussion kids: “And five, six, seven…” followed by drums and cymbals and sounds I can’t place because I’m walking too quickly to pinpoint them. The director yells, “Count off the beats.”
I put this group of students behind me to take a final lap and contemplate the snippets.
- Know the starting note.
- Watch your feet.
- Spin it right.
- Control your air; know when to breathe.
- Count off the beats.
As I hurry past the bleachers, popcorn, and the ever-filling far parking lot with its busses and pre-game commotion, it dawns on me.
These kids have no idea the life application they’re receiving from their marching band directors. They’re too young to know that those five little bits carry a lot of oomph. Maybe it’ll dawn on them when they have their respective midlife crises.
I ditch the WIP thinking, try to ignore that time’s ticking closer to someone shooting off a bottle rocket, and reflect on personal goals, health, relationships, the writing life—all of it has been examined from every angle during the last couple of years.
I often don’t know where to start. I’m tripping over myself. Spinning out in the wrong direction. Holding my breath, waiting for the next shoe to drop. Counting all the downbeats.
Dark, funky days feel like they’ll last forever, tanking moods and eating away at valuable creation time. I’m coming out of that slowly, trying to ride this living-only-once vibe.
But it takes practice—evidently of the marching band variety.
“And five…”
Live life. Find your starting note and begin where you are.
“Six…”
Even if it’s out on the edge—just watch your feet.
You only get to do this once—so spin and twirl and if you drop the flag, pick it up.
“Seven…”
Breathe. Controlled, directed breath. In. Out. With your whole being.
Count the beats—the upbeats.
Then go again.
“And five, six, seven…”
