I’M NOT OLD, I’M JUST A LATE BLOOMER
I'MMMM BAAAACK. Did you miss me? I missed you! No, really I did. Anyway...
Just so you know,
I am a runner. I'm just slower now.
I am a reader. I now need glasses to do it.
I am an active person. It just hurts more the next day.
I still travel a lot, but it's getting harder. (yesterday was BRUTAL)
Why? Because I'm getting old(er).
Yes, any semblance of color has left my hair years ago, and it sits above a forehead that appears to have accumulated several new topographical features. Somehow, the person in the mirror looks older than the person doing the looking.
You would think it's my glasses. But first, I need to remember where I left them. All six pairs of them. It's a constant game of hide and seek. A game I lose more than I win.
I do not THINK of myself as old. I do, however, notice a decline.
I run a little slower. Recovery takes a little longer. Things that once required a good night's sleep now seem to require a good night's sleep, stretching, ibuprofen, hydration, and possibly a consultation with a medical professional.
With age, there is an unavoidable and unmistakable decline. Declining hearing, eyesight, and well, just about everywhere else I look and feel.
Despite all of this, apparently, my best work is yet to come. As author David Brooks says, I am not in decline; I am just a late bloomer.
In his recent article in The Atlantic, "You Might Be a Late Bloomer," Brooks argues that some people do not live their best lives until they are much older, after they have experienced life and made mistakes.
Brooks writes about people whose greatest contributions didn't happen early at all. Cézanne struggled for decades. Julia Child didn't even attend cooking school until she was 37. Harland Sanders was apparently in no particular hurry to become Colonel Sanders. Yet, we have somehow convinced ourselves that if our career hasn't achieved notoriety by 30, we may have missed our window for success.
Society looks for early success as evidence of a bright future (like all those 30 Under 30 lists), but early failures can lead to an onslaught of senior success.
I know plenty of music educators who felt that way. I know I did. You scroll through social media and see your peers conducting an all-state ensemble, presenting at a national conference, publishing a book, or winning Teacher of the Year. They post pictures on their socials bragging about their success, standing next to a pile of trophies and plaques, while you spent Tuesday afternoon explaining for the 147th time that forte does not mean "play like you're angry at the building."
It's common to wonder if you're falling behind, but I am learning that my path is unique. It's about growth, not speed, and the turtle teaches us that slow and steady wins the race. Some of my best ideas have come in more recent years, and I am beginning to see a sphere of possibility that does not include running for the next plane - which will inevitably be delayed.
Maybe you're a late bloomer, like me. Your years of experience are allowing you to see things you might not have seen when you had better eyesight, hear things you may not have heard when you were younger, and do difficult things with less effort than when you were more physically capable.
One of Brooks's most interesting points is that late bloomers often aren't simply early bloomers who got delayed. Their difficult experiences allowed them to develop differently. They wander. They experiment. They fail. They collect experiences that don't seem particularly connected at the time. Then, somewhere down the road, those experiences begin talking to each other. The strange collection of jobs, mistakes, interests, mentors, bad decisions, accidental opportunities, and spectacularly mediocre Tuesday rehearsals starts becoming something that looks suspiciously like wisdom.
Sound familiar? It does to me. In fact, it's the soundtrack of my life. I wander, experiment, and fail as good or better than anyone else I know.
Music educators should understand this effect better than most. We literally see kids bloom at different speeds. We've all had the sixth grader who picks up the clarinet and somehow sounds like they've been secretly practicing since birth. We've also had the kid who spends two years sounding like a goose arguing with a lawn mower—until one day something clicks.
Yes, we see future potential in our students, but we oftentimes don't see it in ourselves. We offer grace, space, and hope to those in front of us but fail to do the same for the person in front of the mirror.
Why are we so willing to extend that grace to our students but so reluctant to extend it to ourselves? Perhaps in our quest for (musical) excellence, we do not afford ourselves the luxury of failure - we won't tolerate a wrong note or rhythm from our students, so why would we be any more tolerant of mistakes that we ourselves make?
Brooks explains and names this as "diversive curiosity"—the tendency to explore broadly before settling deeply into something. I love that idea for music teachers. You taught elementary music when you thought you'd be a high-school band director. You started a jazz band/chamber group, sponsored a club, volunteered for a school committee, and ran a leadership retreat with no training or experience. Every concert you teach music you have never conducted, with kids who have never played the music, and attend a festival in front of judges who have never heard your group.
Early in my career, I cared a lot about whether the ensemble sounded good. Ratings mattered. Performances mattered. Recognition mattered. I'm not going to pretend they suddenly don't. I still like winning. I still like excellence. I still think B-flat should occasionally resemble B-flat. However, after more than three decades in music education, my definition of a successful rehearsal—and a successful career—has gotten considerably larger.
I think late bloomers eventually discover something early achievers sometimes have to learn the hard way: external validation is a short-term fuel source. There will always be another ensemble that sounds better. Another director getting more attention. Another program with better facilities, bigger budgets, newer uniforms, more private teachers, and apparently a brass section recruited directly from the Blue Coats. If your sense of worth depends on keeping up with all of that, you are signing up for a race with no finish line.
Late blooming means spending our younger years building our résumé. If we're fortunate, we spend our remaining years building ourselves.
Maybe that is what blooming actually looks like—becoming more fully the teacher—and person—you were capable of becoming all along.
Yes, I am older, so I...
Run slower. But I see more.
Need glasses to read. But I understand more.
Am less physically agile. But I'm more mentally flexible.
I guess I am a late bloomer. How about you?
Have a great week, friends. I am glad to be back.
Have a GREAT week,
Scott