NOT THINKING ABOUT SOMETHING MEANS YOU HAVE IT
(The entire East Coast is back in school this week, so I decided to release this as a bonus edition)
I recently read a blog post by Scott Clary that quantified something I have been thinking about for years.
He said: "The difference between having money and not having money isn't what you can buy. It's whether you think about money at all."
He went on to explain that "When you're broke, every decision comes with a calculation. Can I afford this? Is this worth it? What else could I do with that money? The thinking never really stops."
What does this have to do with you?
As a teacher and speaker, I have espoused the belief that success is how YOU define it, not a set of judges. In the last week alone, I have stood in front of more than 1500 students and teachers and shared some variation on this same message. That's just this week.
I share this message with ease and confidence, not just because I believe it, but because I have experienced success, so I no longer beholden to it.
Let's revisit Scott Clary's quote, but think about it as a music teacher and program manager.
When your program is broke, every decision comes with a calculation. Can I afford this? Is this worth it? What else could I do with that money? The thinking never really stops.
This concept applies to time as much as it does money. Reread the paragraph again, but instead of money, use the word rehearsal time.
The bottom line is, it's easy not to think about success once your program has had it. Until then, it consumes far too much of your teaching bandwidth.
It's never about winning or ratings, AFTER you have won and gotten the highest rating. But before? That can be a different story.
If you've ever taught in a struggling program, you know exactly what that feels like. You think about everything. You think about every kid who walks out the door. Every instrument that doesn't get returned. Every parent who sends an unkind email. Every feeder-school student who chooses something else. Every concert that feels half full. Every budget line. Every rehearsal. Every empty chair.
When you're trying to build something, your brain is constantly doing the math.
Can we afford to take this trip? Can we keep this class alive? Can we recruit enough kids to justify the section? Can I convince this student to stay? Can this drill writer take us to the next level? Can I somehow make one more thing happen with less time, less money, and fewer staff than I had last year?
If that's where you are right now, I want to say this clearly: That's exhausting.
It also doesn't reflect your worth as a teacher.
Incredible educators lead programs with 30 kids. Incredible educators are trying to rebuild after years of turnover. Incredible educators are starting at new schools. There are incredible educators in schools where the schedule works against them, the budget is thin, the feeder system is weak, and there is no history of success - YET!
Sometimes success comes slowly.
Sometimes it comes painfully slow.
Sometimes it feels like you are pushing a piano uphill.
I know how discouraging that can be.
The danger is that we start believing the size of the program or the score measures the size of your impact.
It doesn't.
A struggling program is filled with kids who matter. A small ensemble does not mean a small impact. A kid who finally plays eight good measures still matters. The student who comes to school because your room feels safe still matters. The parent who tells you, "This is the first time my child has ever stuck with anything," still matters.
Impact is not a number and can never be fully measured.
Now let's revisit Scott Clary's idea.
If you are fortunate enough to lead a program that has become successful, something strange can happen.
You stop doing the calculations. Not because you've stopped caring, but because the things that once consumed your thoughts begin to feel automatic.
The kids show up.
The parents volunteer.
The program has a reputation.
The feeder schools send students.
The culture seems established.
Success slowly convinces you it doesn't need maintenance. But it does.
Every year. That is true whether your program has 40 kids or 400.
And maybe that is where the struggling director and the successful director have more in common than we realize.
Both are building. One is rebuilding something visible. While the other is building something invisible - something only they can see.
Both require intention. Both require humility. Both require YOU!
Have a great week,
Scott