Dropping Your Way Through Life

I heard a phrase yesterday. A co-worker was talking to me about her life as a gymnast. To be honest, I don't really remember what she was saying. What I remember is this phrase, "You spend your life falling off the beam and getting up and falling off the beam again." That resonated with me. This idea that we use sports metaphors to describe life isn't anything new, but this one hit home.

I've been missing my guard world lately. For the first time in decades I'm not teaching or a part of a design team. I'm just me. I'm doing me. I'm being the me I've waited a lifetime to be. When you finally reach that point, you start to look at what you have in this amazing way. And when you do that, you find a sense of loneliness. You long for times when you seemed more free or times when you felt more confident. The funny thing about life, is that the more you get what you want, the more you start to lose your confidence. People want and expect more. People don't have empathy for you. People are out to destroy you. So with the expectations, makes me want to be cocooned inside a gym, wrapped in a flag, awaiting for it to open. And when it opens, I want my friends on the other side with a cocktail. I want those people we performed with and taught with to be standing there with my double vodka madras in hand to say, "Hey Girl! What cha doin?"

I've spent a year in the gymnastics world working on safety for the athletes. I've learned a lot and with the learning...comes the drops. I was wondering when that co-worker was talking about falling off the beam, how many times I've dropped a rifle or sabre. I wonder how many thousands of drops I've witnessed as an instructor. Thousands! Thousands of opportunities for me to beat myself up or a performer I taught to look to me for the next, "Do it again." When an athletes days are over as a performer or gymnast or baseball player or football player, I wonder how many realize that every one of those drops and falls would eventually turn them into a person that would find that life is just a series of drops, falls, fumbles, and strikeouts.

When I performed with the Pride of Cincinnati, I hated rifle quads. I don't know why. For some reason I couldn't get the rotation right. I could get triples and fives, but those damn quads. On the finals video you can see this one performer off in the distance throw a lopsided 4ish, maybe fiveish? It's a terrible Shelba moment. I don't know how many people see it on the video, but I know it's there. I caught it, though.  I caught that bitch out of the air and kept moving. It's not a pretty toss and it's not a drop. But I kept moving.

Well holy crap! Isn't that just the epitome for life. "Not quite great, but not a tragedy."

Recently, I've had a rough time. Single mom. Career that is in the public eye. A system that is being built, while we are expected to already have it built. Money. God I hate money. And then there's the ever present...SEX LIFE. Where the hell did that go? Oh right. I got old.

But lately, I've just been thinking about the drops. I've been thinking about every time I dropped and picked it up again and simply, "Did it again." I was never a good rifle. I was a great sabre, but rifle? I was moderate to not so moderate. I tolerated it as necessary equipment of the sport. When I was in gymnastics I hated the vault. But there it was, every meet I was expected to perform. Rifle is life to me right now. I know it's there and I have to get through it. I'm going to pick it up every day, because I have to get better at it. Sitting in the corner however, is the sabre. The sabre is my love. It's light in my hands and rotates around my body like a flower dancing in the wind. It's getting a little old, but it's still there. It's my self esteem and my identity. I've lost the sabre for the moment, but I'm hoping to soon find it ready to dance in my hands, with the beauty of rainbow that surprises us on a hot summer day.

Then there's the flag. The flag is my core. It's my soul. It's been with me all along and was the first to call to me. It was the first to be spun and is able to change it's beauty just by changing the fabric. It changes with my mood. In my life, the flag is my friends. They are always there. They have always been there. They are the ones who I call late at night and don't worry if I wake them up. They are the ones that know me and have always known me. They are the ones that know my passwords. They are the people who know my bullshit and put up with it, until it's time to not put up with it anymore. They are my tough love. They are my history. They are blood.

It's interesting when you classify people as your blood, as they are the ones who have seen you cry and give up on yourself. They are the ones that literally say, "Stop your bullshit. You're better than this." It's the flag. It's your friends who have seen you drop and fall and get back up and say, "Bitch, do it again."

Lately, as I've spent a year in another sport, I've learned how much I love the one I come from. I see the people. I hear the music. I remember the fun times and the outright shenanigans. There were arguments and drama. But it was there. It was all a part of my amalgam of an equipment drop that helped me pick up and try again. The best thing we have as an activity is the ability to drop. I would say the same for any other person that's spends a lifetime throwing the football, swinging at the baseball, or trying for that perfect foul shot.

Recently, I was beating myself up. It doesn't matter why, but let's just say that the negative Shelba had taken over the positive Shelba and beat her to a bloody pulp. The positive Shelba gave up and said things like, "I'm nothing. I've always been nothing." She forgot where she came from and the rifle that had given her the tough times, the sabre that showed her how confident and great she really is, and the flag that was her base and her friends. I forgot it all. I forgot about the many drops and the outright failures. I forgot how many times I walked into critique expecting to be told how much we sucked, and instead heard, "Wow." I forgot about the friends who had always stood by my side and would do anything for me. I forgot about our collective history of WGI's and DCI's of late night laughter and tears through alcohol strewn Marriotts.

Dropping our rifle is important. We have to fail. We have to beat ourselves up. We have to hear the phrase, "Do it again." For every time a David Baker tells you to do it again, is a time in life you'll need to stand up strong, whether it's in the office at work as you fight for your ideas, with your child's teacher as you fight for their rights, or with your partner when you just simply need to leave it all behind. All of those "Pick it up and do it agains," will be your savior.

You know, I've said this a lot over the years. We are so lucky. We have been given this gift of art and friendship. We've also been given the reality of failure and with that failure, we learn to pick the damn thing up and keep going. The drill is moving at a tempo of 178. You are on the move and there goes your rifle. It went to the left. You went to the right, but you still got it. Your recovered and threw the next toss...on time. Some people saw your error. You might even get yelled at for it later, but you kept going. You dropped and recovered. This is life's metaphor. This is our metaphor for those of us who chose the pageantry arts as life's art. Sometimes, I believe it chose us. It chose us so one day we would know that it was with us all along. It's like the angel on your shoulder telling you it's ok. "It's o.k. to pick it up and try again."

Lately I've been dropping. But let me tell you, "My recovery is one count or less and girl...I'm a diva."

And so are you.
Thank you for dropping. It makes us all better.

...But Music Was His Life

"Mr. Martin Tanner, Baritone, of Dayton, Ohio made his town hall debut last night. 
He came well prepared, but unfortunately his presentation was not up to contemporary professional standards.
His voice lacks the range of tonal color necessary to make it consistently interesting.
Full time consideration of another endeavor might be in order."

I first heard those words in 1990, Buffalo. It was WGI and I was 20. I had never hear of Harry Chapin, but after that weekend, I would never forget him. For most people, the Blessed Sac show revered the most is 1989, Gordon Lightfoot. Don't get me wrong. I adore that show and understand its absolute place in our activity. If You Could Read My Mind, set us on a path that would change everything we did. However, it was 1990 that would stay with me forever. I don't know if it was the lyrics of the song or the performance of the guard, maybe it was a combination of the two, but when I watched the show in prelims I knew I was changed. When WGI 1990 was over, I found myself actually buying Harry Chapin's greatest hits. This song that was released in 1973, would stay with me forever. I would spend the next three decades listening to it and analyzing it. Over time, I found that it mirrored a little of who I was and the activity I loved so much. 

Sometime in early January of this winter guard season, someone had told me that Avon HIgh School was redoing Mr. Tanner. My first thought was simple. "Oh my God." I spent all season avoiding the show on Facebook, avoiding conversations, and avoided every performance on FloMarching. I wanted to see it live, because I wanted to experience it like I experienced the first one. I wanted to experience it the way art should be experienced...in person. There was a time in our activity when we didn't have the means to share shows through social media and to be honest, there are times when I really miss those days. Back in my day, you would hear of a really cool show and have to wait until you saw it in person to know what it was people were talking about. You didn't go into Dayton knowing the nuances of the design or most of the equipment book. You just watched it as a brand new experience, in an arena filled with lovers of the same passion as you. 

"But music was his life, it was not his livelihood,
And it made him feel so happy and it made him feel so good.
And he sang from his heart and he sang from his soul.
He did not know how well he sang; It just made him whole."

Mr. Tanner speaks to me, because I'm guilty of trying to suppress what it is about me that makes me whole. And in the song, Mr. Tanner did just that after he was told that he should find another endeavor. I've always been a tech and when you're a tech, you spend your time in the marching arts behind the scenes of genius and that can become lonely. That loneliness has often turned to self doubt as I've surrounded myself by these artists who have talent I'll never realize. My own critic, the internal one that tells me I'm not good enough, silences my passion, just like the critics silenced Mr. Tanner. 


When you spend all weekend clapping through counts, there are times when you are lost in a world that doesn't seem real. You reach Monday morning and actually question where real life begins and where it ends. That's how we all feel after a weekend in Dayton. We get back to Monday and look around and can't believe there are people who don't understand that feeling of passion, of art, and of friendship. I always get back to work on Monday after Dayton and it doesn't matter how I explain it, I can't seem to get people to understand the history...my history. 

Ron Comfort, one of my best friends in the world, always asks at the end of WGI weekend, "How was your Dayton?"  A long time ago we realized that we can all be in the same city or same arena, and have completely different experiences. Dayton is different every year and I can never understand how someone could have a bad time. Even when my guards tanked I managed to find my joy, whether is was in the arena on Saturday night or in a hug of a friend I haven't seen in years. This year I had a completely different experience. It was prefaced by the fact that I have a new job where I work around people who believe their sport is the best. They believe in their activity and the life it has given them. They talk about it all the time. My job is one where passion meets the soul of the sport as they (we) literally fight everyday for its survival. I have found that the conversations of gymnastics is no different than the ones I have about color guard and drum corps. Passion is passion. We just all find it in different places. So this year, I was at work during prelims and watched much of it on FloMarching between meetings. I broke my rule and watched Avon, but I also shared it. I brought co-workers around my computer to watch what it was that I loved. These people who have watched Simone and Aly compete at the Olympics, watched Avon High School with me. Their reaction? Well...let's just say it was what I was hoping. Jaws dropped open and admiration from one sport to the other. "This is a high school?" They asked question after question.  I shared the love of color guard and it made me happy.I made it to Dayton by Thursday night and just in time to see some good friends and a few Independent A guards in Cincinnati. As the weekend continued I made sure to see as many guards I could...A, Open, World. I saw every class at some point during the weekend, admiring the art and the hard work. I enjoyed being a full time audience member for a change, because it allowed perspective. I was able to see friends and have a drink or two (or three or four), without anything holding me back from the experience. I never even acknowledged the scores or placements as I spoke to friends. I just wanted to enjoy their presence. I wanted to hang on to the moment.


"He came home to Dayton and was questioned by his friends.
Then he smiled and just said nothing and he never sang again,
Excepting very late at night when the shop was dark and closed.
He sang softly to himself as he sorted through the clothes."

Over the many years I took guards to Dayton, some seasons were better than others, as we have all experienced. There were times that what I thought was art, others thought was trash. I've said the phrase, "I'm done," more times than I care to count. For a little over three years now, I've been trying to find my way back. There were times I guess, I was looking to find my way out. There are many reasons for the soul searching, that included words such as discouragement, disbelief, skepticism, and exhaustion. Some of what I felt was a longing for the return to a time when we were a bit smaller as an activity and when I knew less. Some of it was my own personal need to expand my own horizons. The reasons aren't important. What's important is that somewhere alone with my thoughts, I sang softly to myself as I sorted through the clothes and within that song, I found my way back. 

"And it made him feel so happy and it made him feel so good.
And he sang from his heart and he sang from his soul."

And as for Avon? I didn't clap. I didn't cheer. I simply sat in awe. It was as if I was looking at a painting I had longed to see my entire life. It was flawless and what made it such, was the weekend that led up to that performance. Guard after guard came to win. The craft that so many have toiled over led to standing ovation after standing ovation in Dayton. Watching Avon allowed me to visit the past and the craftsmanship of 40 years of imagination and art. Through Avon I saw every designer, technician, choreographer, and performer that came before. When they were done, a simple tear fell down my face. I knew I had found my way back. When an activity such as this gives us all so much, it's important to have a moment where it all just flows over you. No analyzation. Just peace and reflection. 

To all the performers, designers, technicians, and choreographers of 2019. Thank you. 

To the Avon performers. You helped build a bridge where the past merged with the present and led us to the future. You will never be forgotten.