Hope. It's What We Are Given

Have you ever wondered what sustains this activity of ours? Think about this for a minute. Color guard is an activity that when you step out of the gym and enter the light of the world, no one really understands what we do. To us, we are the activity that backed up Lady Ga Ga at the Super Bowl with lighted air rifles. To us, we are the reason people tune in to the Macy's parade every year. To us, we are the reason football players have something to do on Friday nights. To us, we are the reason the world turns. 

Let's be honest, though. With the many advances we have made as an activity, the reality is that outside of the gym we are simply just flags in a gym. Do you remember that phrase? I remember the first time I ever heard it. I was judging a local show when a guard instructor had a virtual meltdown in critique when he realized that his show was not going to be the work of art he had hoped it would be. He cried. He pouted. He even begged for more points. And in the not so distant distance, a GE judge said, "I understand that you are upset, but try to remember that it's just flags in a gym." Flags in a gym. That's all it really is when you think about it. Flags in a gym. Usually rifles. Usually sabres. Sometimes something really strange, but in all reality at the end of the day, it's just flags in a gym. But my friend, we know that it's oh so much more than that. Our little flags in a gym is really the way we as a tribe express hope.

Inside the flag that spins and the snap of the rifle catch is the reason we sustain ourselves and the reason we've been around since someone looked at a flag waving on pole and thought, "I wonder what would happen if I spun that?" Hope is what moves us from the football field to the gym; season after season. It is hope that brings us back in January after a defeating April and then allows us to focus on a field of silk during the crushing hot summer days of band camp. 

Hope is who we are and can be a lesson for those lost in life not knowing where to turn. If you watch Disney movies like I do, you see that there is a common thread that runs through all of them and sometimes that thread is painfully obvious, but other times there are hidden gems that make you hope for this two dimensional cartoon of a character to survive and find their way in the darkness of the world. Take Dori for example. Dori only wants to find her parents. She goes through great lengths to reunite, but the true hope comes when you see that her parents left seashells along the ocean floor to guide Dori back home. Their hope guided her home. Hope is the indescribable feeling that tomorrow will be better; that there is something out there that exceeds this moment that which you are experiencing right now. They say that it is when we give up hope is when our soul decides to die. When my grandmother was about 80, she met a man at church and formed a friendship to the point where she called this man her boyfriend. When he passed away, I could see hope leave my grandmother and it was then I realized that even the elderly need that hope of love that sustains our very essence of being. 

Hope is what pushes us during the pressure of March to get to the championships floor in April. No matter how bad things have gone, there is a hope that something at championships will go better than it has gone so far. That dream of what to come propels us to push harder and go beyond what we could have ever imagined. With hope, we stand up, stand proud, and look into the eyes of the judges and say, "Watch this."

When life goes awry and the skies turn dark on our lives, it's color guard that keeps us going. Among death, disease, sadness, and despair; it is hope that takes up back to the gym, because it is in the gym where we feel safe. We are among friends and those friends are who we call our family. Desmond Tutu, the great South African social rights activist once said of hope that there is a light despite of the darkness and hope lets us see that light. When our jobs aren't going well we have the gym. When our marriages fall apart, we have the gym. When we lose our faith in humanity, we still have the gym. 

We always have the gym. I write this today, because being in the gym makes me lose my sense of desperation happening in the world. Never in my lifetime have I seen such sadness and anger that embodies the country the way it does right now. I have worked in human services my entire adult life and have seen despair in the eyes of the homeless mother and fear in the kids sentenced to prison for minor drug offenses, but never have I felt so lost among my fellow man as it is a feeling we all seem to share right now. I'm afraid for our future and I'm afraid for my son. Will he ever have to go to fight an unjust war, because our leaders are preaching fear and lies? Will he have health insurance? Will he be properly educated? In the midst of the anger that builds up inside of me is hope that sits inside a gymnasium of kids waiting to be taught and waiting to be judged. They pour their hearts out while their hands sweat through worn tattered gloves. My hope stems from a new generation of instructors who just want to make their mark on the activity and I feel such joy watching them bring their show ideas to life. When I'm in the gym I lose all sense of reality of the outside world. I can go through an entire weekend from wheels up to wheels down and never once think about the hatred spewing out of Washington, because the gym is my oasis. On any given Saturday in March, I can feel like I have always felt with good friends and good times, because our pageantry activity is timeless. With the after rehearsal cocktail and long night chats about how to make the activity better, we lose ourselves with each others creativity and absolute passion. Over time, some friends have passed on and others we just simply moved on, but the memory is there and with that memory is those of us who won't give up creating until our time to pass has come. 

Generation after generation have taken the floor to have their one moment in front of the audience and later, when life's horrors knock on their door they use that moment to say, "No thank you. I think I'll spin my flag." That flag, whether it is the one that sits in the corner of their childhood bedroom or whether it's just the memory of the flag, will always be what moves us forward. The friendship. The tears. The sweat. The love. The anger. The stress. It is always a part of us and it is through those days on the floor that allows to keep moving on.

It's like that song.

To every thing

There is a season

And a time to every purpose under Heaven

A time to be born, a time to die

A time to plant, a time to reap

A time to build up, a time to break down

A time to dance, a time to mourn

A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together

A time of love, a time of hate

A time to win, a time to lose

A time for peace, I swear it's not to late.

When we are in the gym, it is our purpose and it is our time. It's our time to forget about the news of the day and to remember about hard work with good people. We have our fights, but we always have our love. We have hope. 

We have hope that the show will get better each night. We have hope that our score will go up at the next show. We have hope we will make finals. We hope that the kids will have a good run through. We have hope that we will win. We have hope the kids will come back next year. We have hope that next year will be better. We hope to make new friends in a gym we visit just once while we are helping out a good friend. We have hope. The entire activity is built around hope and that is our greatest gift that is rarely acknowledged in Facebook posts celebrating the end of a Saturday night full of youth filled performances.

In my life, in all of our lives, we have had challenges. I have had challenges. It was a cold day many years ago in March where my little color guard teenage world came crashing down around me. I remember thinking, "...but all I want to do is perform." And so I did. I eventually found my way back to the gym and after every life challenge through work, relationships, and parenting; I always found my way back. I have threatened to quit, but I have always made it back. Each year has landed me in gyms and on football fields around the country and in the end it has always been hope that kept me bringing me back for more. I am very grateful for the winter guard season I am having. I have made new friends and reunited with some very dear ones that go back decades. It was hope that brought old back together and it was the belief that there were people we have yet to meet that brought new friends together for the first time. It's always hope and my hope is that the rest of your season is one of friendship and love and that next year we will find each other again in a gym somewhere and share a hug, a laugh, and kind word.

Good luck as you push to the end. 

Drum Corps and My Late Night Jim Croce Album

This is for my Atlanta friend. 

I have an old Jim Croce album I found in a back alley record store years ago and sometimes late at night I pour myself a glass of wine, turn the lights down, and play that old album, while enjoying the peace it brings to hear the honesty of the guitar played through each crack of the needle to the record. If it were up to me, everyone would have an old Jim Croce record so for a brief moment, we could all feel something of total bliss. If you close your eyes you can hear the words that are untarnished by technology and media. You can see him sitting on a couch somewhere in solitude playing his guitar and singing, "There never seems to be enough time to do the things we want to do once we find them." Jim Croce's music is music that makes you feel something. He speaks to love and life. His words are simple, but they aren't ordinary. If you let him, he reaches into your heart and speaks to your soul.

I just returned from my yearly trek to Atlanta. It's the one drum corps show I get to see every year and I always come away from it with something I need to say. Maybe it's the inspiration from the shows or maybe it's the lifelong friendships or maybe it's the memories I hold dear from days gone by. I'm not sure what it is, but each year I certainly feel poetic after that show. When it comes to drum corps, I don't follow along like others do all season. I like to watch the shows with a fresh perspective, untainted by others opinions. This year though, I was fortunate enough to see the shows in Nashville the night before Atlanta. I took my nine year old son and 69 year old mother. It's refreshing to sit with people who don't know "the sheets" or know the history of the corps. My mom gets to see about one drum corps show every eight or so years and my son...well this was his first. He's been to WGI and countless winter guard and band shows, but this was his first summer show. If you ever want to see the activity in its purest form, watch it with a nine year old. What a nine year old sees is very different than what we see. A nine year old has an opinion that is natural and based on feeling, as opposed to intellect, but don't be mistaken in that. A child forms opinions and can speak to concept and costume. They just respond by emotion first and intellect second. A nine year old see's drum corps with their soul before their brain. It's how Robin Williams encouraged us to view poetry in the Dead Poets Society. Throughout the show, my son shared his opinions through his immediate reaction to the moment. He didn't analyze the guard work or technicality of the percussion. He could have cared less about transitional moments. He just simply enjoyed the shows for what they were and he found that he had some favorites and some not so favorites. He loved...LOVED...the Blue Devils. That shocked me and I'll tell you why in a second. His second favorite was the Madison Scouts. After they finished, he turned to me and said, "Wow mama! Wow! That was loud!!" I asked him if they were his favorite and he said, "Oh no. I liked the Blue Devils the best." I asked him why and he said that they looked like a Broadway play. He said they were weird. He said that they were fun. Those were his reasons and then he said that he wanted a tee shirt.

I really liked the Blue Devils, but more so on an intellectual level. I spent their entire show analyzing it and to be honest, I didn't get it 100% in its intent and I don't really know anyone else who did either. Josh however, didn't care. He didn't try to get it. He just simply experienced it. Driving to Atlanta the next day I realized that is what most of us old timers do. We analyze the shows until the very essence of art is sucked out of them. I don't completely blame us...the audience that is. For so long at the national level with WGI, BOA, and DCI...so many teams force us into intellectualism over emotionalism. That's blatantly clear at Independent World Finals for WGI. The books and shows have become so "artistic" that many times the designer has forgotten that art is supposed to move us. Art should make us feel something. As human beings we want to feel something. Human beings want to laugh. We want to cry. We need to cry. Reflection and the need to reflect is another human emotion we don't always give enough credit to. Anger and love. Sadness and happiness. That's what art is ultimately supposed to do. It is to make us feel. Our need to express gets suppressed so often by a world asking us to think way too much.

When I left Nashville for Atlanta, I hadn't really formed an opinion on any of the shows. I would wait for Atlanta to do that. I thought about Josh on the way up and his reaction reminded me of my Jim Croce album. Jim sings a song called Operator. It's one of those songs that everyone with any human soul can say they have experienced. He was left by the one he loved and calls to speak to her, but decides that he's better off without her.

Operator, well could you help me place this call
'Cause I can't read the number that you just gave me
There's something in my eyes
You know it happens every time
I think about the love that I thought would save me

Oh my those lyrics. Who hasn't wanted to have Jim Croce playing that on guitar in the background while we laid in bed at night crying our eyes out over the love we lost to another? The lyrics. The guitar. It makes me reflect. It makes my eyes water. You see, when we listen to music in the silence of our homes, we let it wash over us like the ocean Josh saw with the Blue Devils. I decided that when I got to Atlanta I wouldn't analyze anything. I would watch the shows in the way I listen to Jim Croce or the way a nine year old experiences music. I was either going to like it or not. I was going to absorb the colors and engage in the sound. I would analyze nothing. Ironically, I found that little experiment was harder than I thought it would be, but as the night went on I got better at it. When I did that, I found that my favorite drum corps were not necessarily in the top 5. I let the Academy make me laugh. I let the Blue Coats take me to what I saw as the coolest playground ever. I experienced a western shoot out with Crown. I listened to the Scouts in a way that made my son say, "Wow!" At times I closed my eyes and just listened. 

When the night was over, I found that I didn't really know who did what in terms of guard work or the best drill. I didn't care. To be honest, once I let go of the idea that the corps have become so homogeneous to the point identity is no longer a driving factor for many, I was able to relax. Once I decided to not judge, but enjoy...I found the art inside the intellect. I found that my favorite corps was not first or second or even third. It was Santa Clara. Oh my how I loved that show. The word I used at the time was "lovely." It was simply lovely. They did a show that was somewhat simplistic in concept, but in no way simple in its presentation of the four seasons. That concept has been done...and done...and done...and done. They however, had a way of conceptualizing it so it made you feel something special as the seasons moved from spring to summer and summer to fall, but you had to let the seasons happen, just like the leaves change and fall from the trees in the autumn.  I barely even acknowledged Santa Clara the night before. The night before they were just a show about the seasons. In Atlanta, I saw art and I saw it in the form my nine year old son saw it. As I watched the show, I thought of the many seasons I've spent in Atlanta with WGI, BOA, and DCI. The before show drinks and after show conversations are many. I thought about how many performances were held in that dome and how many people missed the artistry being presented, but I also thought of the moments designers missed to move an audience, because their version of art is hidden within ego and competitive drive. I will certainly admit that I've missed a moment or two, because of my need to "judge" the teams surpassed the need to feel. I thought of my friends and the special moments we've had in Atlanta at the Omni and through conversations in parking lots around the dome. I thought of the thousands upon thousands of kids that have walked into that dome as an artist, but left the audience feeling let down as we couldn't get out of our own way as an activity and just let them be the art. I thought of the times when I dropped my guard and let myself just feel love through the friends I hold so dear. It's the same love I have in my old music albums that take me into a realm devoid of politics, intellectualism, and the weight of all that is wrong in the world.

I attend a lot of concerts and plays. I have a ritual in the moments leading up to every event. I drink a glass of wine, listen to the music of the band, read about the play, or listen to an interview with the artist. I try to get in a mindset of art. I love art. Being originally from Music City, I especially love music in all of its forms. I let it flow over me like Josh let drum corps flow over him Friday night. So, I can't help but wonder what happens to us that doesn't let us enjoy the art of pageantry. We all admit we appreciate it. We value it. We see it,  but I'm not sure many of us truly see it for art that makes us feel. While sitting in the dome, I wondered what the placements would be if a poet was the only judge and the only criteria read, "Make the audience feel." I wondered who would win. I wondered how the poet would rank and rate. My guess, is that the poet would throw out the rating, throw out the ranking, and just enjoy the night. She would come home and write verse upon verse of her experience. She would put on some Jim Croce and let the night speak from soul to paper, without thought. She might hear him sing, Walkin' Back to Georgia.

I'm walkin' back to Georgia
She's the only one who knows
How it feels when you lose a dream
And how it feels when you dream alone

She might come home and think about an old friend or two and look back on the trip as the sheer joy it was with all of its laughs, conversation, and love for something that has been a part of her life since she was 14. She would think of the community she is a part of. She would think of how it has made her a better person, because the art made her feel as in this classic verse that will stand the test of time.

If I had a box full of wishes and dreams that had never come true. The box would be empty, except for the memory of how they were answered by you.

I write this for all of us out there who crave to feel, crave to love, crave to touch, and crave to be human.

A Difference A Year Makes/ Championships to Championships

When I wrote my final blog post at the end of last season, the 2015 season,  I had no idea how much of a difference the following year would bring me. I think for all of us who are passionately invested in the pageantry arts, we see it as a commitment for life. Whether we performed for only one season, taught just a couple of years, judged once or twice, or for many of us...put both feet in the deep end and jumped face first with a splash of water that rises so high it touches anyone within distance; the reality is that somewhere deep in our soul, we know we are committed for life. 

When I first joined winter guard, it's safe to say I did it under duress. I was a gymnast. Not just some fly by night gymnast either. I was good and national bound. Circumstances arose and my 10 year career as a gymnast ended. At the time I was in the band and had been playing flute for 8 years. To be honest...I thought the guard was a bunch of untalented hacks. I mean...what seriously was this flag thing anyway? Without the musicians, they wouldn't exist. This was the mid 80's and I had no idea winter guard was even a thing. Well one day, I found myself...somehow...marching in the McGavock winter guard. I was a dandelion. Seriously...I was a freaking dandelion. Of course then the rain came and I was an umbrella. It's a long story. Anyway, I personally thought it was kind of silly. All of a sudden though, we went to our first regional and it was the 1987 Pensacola WGI Regional. If you were around back then, you know that the Pensacola Regional might as well have been nationals. State Street, Alliance, Nouveau, Odyssey. Millers Blackhawks. I mean Wow. Seriously wow! What a first regional to attend as a newbie. I was hooked. All it took was one toss by the State Street rifle line to convince me that I didn't know how, but this activity would be a part of me for life and it is....a part of me...for life. It might be the biggest part of me outside of my child. 

I judged two circuit championships this year and I was not just honored, but humbled to even be considered a part of those panels. Yesterday, I attended my third championships to see my own team perform. I almost missed it as my flight from one championships was delayed by three hours. I cried. I sat in the airport up against a wall at the terminal gate in tears as the time on the take off time kept being moved further and further back. It's only in this activity that you would fly to one circuit on Friday night to judge 60 plus guards on Saturday, just to get up at 5:00 a.m. to fly to another circuit the next morning. It's insane. It is totally and undoubtedly insane to do something like this. We do it though. All of us. We spend inordinate amounts of time to give the best experience to the performers as we can. Instructors. judges, board members, volunteers, parents, and contest staff. I mean, there are people behind the scenes that spend hours just to make sure the kids are given the best experience possible. Then there are the instructors. They work for free. They go broke. They cry and laugh with each other, just to experience that final moment at championships. It's my favorite part of the season. Retreat. It's the only time we get to see all the kids in one place, standing together as one. It's special and every season in some circuit somewhere I make sure to watch retreat at championships. I love to see the kids faces as their units are called. I love the medal ceremonies. I love the local circuit championships so much more than the one at nationals, because every kid no matter who they are or what class they are in, is given the chance to stand on the floor and hear their name called. It's truly a special moment. 

This year though, from Championships in 2015 to Championships in 2016, was the difference of night and day. For many of us, Championships is like New Years Eve. When the day is over a year has ended. It's like a countdown to letting go of the old and welcoming the new. In this year, from championships to championships, I lost my dad. I realized that my job and career of 23 years no longer fits me. I tried to move and have basically done just about everything to uproot my life you can possibly imagine. The life I was living no longer fit me. What I found out though, that through it all, I had my color guard community. Some of my closest friends are in this community and they were there all along to support me in my struggles. They have always been there. I realized this year that life changes and sometimes faster than you want. The Universe doesn't wait for you to make decisions. It has a plan for you, that you don't even have an awareness of. I realized that I'm stronger than I ever imagined, but also weaker than I allow myself to be. Once this year, I was judging a guard and they did a show about death. I realized that I couldn't finish the commentary as memories of my dad popped in my head. The person judging next to me just said, "It's o.k." I pulled myself together and the next guard came on and I did what I had to do. Stronger than I thought I was, but human at the same time. 

Change takes place and for all of us and we face it the best we can. The activity teaches us to stand up tall and recover like a pro. It teaches us to keep going and that others are counting on you. I have looked forward to one true thing this year. It was the one thing I needed to do the most for months. I wanted to walk on the floor with Paradigm at the FFCC Championships. I've been with Paradigm since 2003. I needed to walk on the floor with them in the circuit I've spent 22 years of my guard career. I needed to see the faces of the kids and witness the show good or bad, with the staff I had been with for over a decade. I needed that continuity. I needed that support from a circuit I've been involved with since 1994. I needed to see my friends. When the word in the airport came down that the flight was delayed I wasn't worried, but one hour delay, became a two hour delay, and then a three hour delay. I was pretty convinced I wouldn't make it. Tears came down and I couldn't get them to stop. I couldn't believe that all the hard work all season would come down to me sitting inside an airport. In the end, with help from who else...a Paradigm staff member...made sure that once that plane landed, I would make it to championships even if we had to fly down the interstate. I made it with 15 minutes to spare. I saw the last 2 minutes of warm up and was with them in holding. We walked up the stands together and watched the show as a full staff. It was truly a special moment. For me, it was the only moment. Only the present mattered.

When I was judging championships in AIA on Saturday, I made sure to find one performer in every guard to make eye contact with as if to say, "You're doing great." I looked in the faces of the staff as they walked past me to go up top and see their guards. Most of them young. My hope for them is that they keep their passion alive like I have and my hope for them is that one day when they are judging, they remember that passion and what it was like to be fresh faced and wide eyed. My hope is that they never forget the kids and they find a group of people to call friend and to call family. 

We must never forget that our role in the activity is to foster and grow the kids into the adults that we hope will be the next tech, designer, administrator or judge. From Championships to Championships I've learned that giving back to the activity is crucial, because it saved me this year and this isn't the first time. I guess that's why I've pushed so hard for the dialog on training. I want those kids to have a great experience and to feel good about who they are and who they are standing on the floor with.

If I could give one piece of advice to my colleagues out there who are as old as me and logged thousands of hours in gyms and football fields, don't get bitter and don't forget how you started. Look the kids in the eyes. Watch retreat at championships. It's truly special. It will always bring you back to your passion and what remains the one constant in a world filled with change. It has been my privilege  to write this blog that so many of you read and I thank you for you kind words and comments. Enjoy your off season and I'll see you next year on the floor.  

Color Guard's Greatest Gift: It Helped Me Eulogize My Dad

General Omar Bradley once said that bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death. I'm not sure I truly had a grasp of that statement until September 25th, 2015. I have always believed strongly in the lessons I've accumulated over the years of performing and teaching in the marching arts, but the the lessons that remains steadfast and sits atop of them all, are the ones about having grace under pressure, recovery, and stepping up to the plate when you are most needed. My marching arts career has been a dream. I admit and have always admitted that it's been a statement of luck, so much more than it has been a statement of skill. I was lucky that my parents bought a home where I was zoned for a high school with one of the best marching bands in the state of Tennessee, that made me a state champion and BOA finalist. I was lucky to have performed in the Star of Indiana  and I was lucky to have performed with the Pride of Cincinnati. It was location. It was money. It was luck. I admit that. My teaching career followed a similar path that brought me into circles I didn't deserve to be brought into. The universe gave me this gift of the marching arts and I have no right to do anything, but say thank you.

On September 25th, 2015, I had to say goodbye to my dad. Anyone who has gone through this level of loss knows that it is without a doubt one of the hardest damn things you can possibly experience. The days headed into the funeral I functioned. I did what I had to do and went through the steps necessary to stand up strong as people offered their condolences. During the days post September 25th, it has taken everything in my power to just get out of the bed. I want to turn back time and I want to hear his voice again. I want another lecture on how I need to save more money for retirement and to remember to lock all the doors before bedtime. As we know however, time cannot go backwards. It can only go forwards.

On the day of the funeral I was prepared to sit back and listen as the minister offered words of comfort and my uncle told funny stories. I was ready for as my mom says, a good cry. The good cry however, would never come. One hour before the service was to begin, we got word that the minister couldn't make it. My uncle asked me to help him speak so there would be more than one voice for people to hear. I was standing near this large picture of my dad from when he played high school football when the question came and to be honest, I nearly passed out. I felt the blood rush from my face and could feel my heart race. I said yes without even considering what I was saying yes to, while my mind was screaming, "You have got to be kidding me!"  The yes from my mouth came from a place deep inside, that was taught to me through many rehearsals and performances, from many instructors, when I was asked to perform when I didn't think I had the courage to manage it.

"Yes. I will catch the toss."
"Yes. I will perform this phrase tonight, even though I just learned it today."
"Yes. I will get this phrase clean for the regional, although you just wrote it two hours before showtime."

For every kid I had taught through the years and asked them to raise their own standards of excellence, I found myself looking down the same hole of fear.

From the moment I was asked to eulogize my dad, to the time we were moved into the chapel, which was about 45 minutes, I took an old sheet of paper from my purse and furiously started taking notes. I texted a friend or two for support. They coincidentally were pageantry people as well.

As my uncle spoke to open the service, my hands shook like you wouldn't believe. In my mind was every motivating phrase I ever heard David Baker, my old high school guard director say, and every word I ever said to a scared performer, "You can do this. Remember...It's only 5 minutes of your life."  I knew a few things about what would happen next. I knew that my family needed me to be strong. I knew that I didn't have the opportunity to say goodbye to my dad and this was the one thing I could offer him and I knew that I had been in tough situations before and could do this. I just had to pull from every performance I had ever done and harness the fear.

I knew in my mind that if I let myself cry before I spoke that I wouldn't get through the eulogy. Even as the music played Leader of the Band and in the lyrics I heard the words, "...and papa I don't think I said I loved you near enough," I held back the tears; while my body shook. I kept thinking, "I can do this. I can do this." It's another thing you learn that in color guard. Keep staying positive. Believe in yourself. You have to stand up for the team, even when you are afraid to walk on the floor and do the solo, knowing it might just be a 50/50 shot you'll catch the toss at the big moment.

When the song ended, my uncle stood up and introduced me. I had no idea that I would be speaking in that very moment. In my humorous voice I thought, "Oh my God. This is like the moment they call your guard in Dayton in 13th place, when you were expecting 8th. What do you mean they are calling our names this fast??" My feet, I think, literally froze to the floor. I can't tell you how I made it up to the podium. I don't even remember it. All I remember is that I had my notes and started speaking to a room of about 75 people, with mom right in front of me. Oh the moments mom and dad watched me drop a rifle or fall off a balance beam. I remember thinking as a kid, how I must have disappointed them with every drop. As an adult, you learn that they were only there to support you. They didn't care about your drops or falls. They only cared that you were having fun and doing your best. They were simply proud of you. This however, was not a color guard show. I needed to pull this off for the family. I needed to do right by the man who always did right by me.

When I opened my mouth to speak, I looked out into the audience and did exactly what we ask every performer do in every guard and at every show. Stand up straight. Lift your head up. Make eye contact. Find the judges and make it personal. Make them want more. Don't be afraid to show emotion and remember to smile. Enjoy yourself. Once you take care of the basic elements of performing, everything else seems to fall into place. I spoke to the audience as if I were speaking directly to my dad and telling him everything I wanted to tell him all along. I thanked him for supporting his kids and always keeping us safe. I told stories to illuminate who he was as a dad and mentioned how when I was in drum corps, it was one of the best days of my life when he came to see me win. He told me I was always a winner to him.

My dad was not a showy type of person. His daughter however, is. I get that from the activity I've been so richly blessed to be a part of and the activity he worked his ass off to afford me the opportunity to participate in. I thanked him for that as well. I told those who were there to offer support, that I wish I had told my dad that I loved him more and that he did it right. Just like the song says. I thanked God for helping me win the family lottery; that brought me to an activity that became my second family. It was that pageantry family that has always been there in the hard days and the ones there to support me in my loss.

In the end, I'm not sure I could have spoken on behalf of my family if it hadn't had been for the marching arts. Sitting at the airport on my way home, I thought of every stammer, ummmm, and pause that wasn't intended. I thought of every thing I should have and wish I had said. I was rather hard on myself, but what I did was what every performer out there in the history of the activity has done. We question every moment of our performance, because it has taught us to learn and grow through every rehearsal, performance, and moment. So dad, this is for you. Your money was well spent and thank you for always being there, even when I dropped my rifle.

Oh and FYI...Apparently I did a pretty good job, because I have had several offers to be put into people's wills so I will speak at their funeral. I think I'm looking into it as a new career choice. Give me a call if you need a good eulogy.

Music Was My First Love

“You’re the strangest person I ever met,” she said and I said, “You too,” and we decided we’d know each other a long time.”

When I write, I often…more often than not…write with a specific song in mind. I have found throughout my life, as many of us have, that music speaks to me when nothing or no one else can. There are times when even I don’t know how to find what’s lurking in the dark reaches of my soul. Music however, can do that. The right melody or right lyric can transform my thoughts from sadness to happiness or take me back in time to what seemed more innocent. When I heard Jason Ehleben’s song Wake while sitting at work listening to Pandora, I immediately saw myself in a world much different from the present. I felt a pleasure that only comes with the memories of childhood and the reflections of a life that once again sits on a precipice of change. With that, I connect you to this, which was written with Wake  playing in the background.

It’s been 31 years. Arrogance would tell me that in those 31 years I’ve seen it all, knowing full well “all” is still yet to come. I’ve shared in moments of pure joy and downright despair. I’ve traveled all over the country and at times (admittedly not as often as I would like) outside of the United States. I’ve been a witness or a participant in marriage, divorce, birth, jobs, job loss, and death. I’ve watched, as most of us do, the aging of my parents as I stand dismayed at the passage of time. It has been 31 years and there are times that the emotion through a song on the radio or the exact hint of the rain on the pavement on a hot summer day can take me back to the innocence unfettered by time. Looking back, music was my first love. 

Time. Dr. Seuss once asked the question.

“How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn, How did it get so late so soon?”

31 years ago this summer I attended band camp as a high school freshmen. We were a band that went away to camp and standing on hot asphalt at the age of 14, there was no possible way that I could have foreseen how my life would be transformed into a world of music, marching, and friendship. I remember holding my flute and struggling with the concept of playing while moving, memorization, and perfection as an ensemble. I can’t say I remember many details about that time in my life, but I remember the feeling. I remember the people. This past week I got a chance to revisit my hometown of Nashville...Music City. On one very special Friday night I had the opportunity to have dinner with two friends from that time in my life. In all levels of rational thought, we only knew each other for a short time, but the struggles of those days in band connected us for life. Facebook has created incredible opportunities for my generation, that enable us to keep tabs on and catch up with people from our past. My generation is the first generation to get to middle age and not have to repeat the phrase, “I wonder what happened to such and such?” Nowadays, chances are that “such and such” will at the least know someone who knows someone who will report their whereabouts on Facebook. We are in a time when we can share pictures from days long gone, jarring a memory or two once forgotten. Social media is an amazing invention allowing us to stay in touch and if you aren't careful it can be dangerous. Too much visiting of the past can impede you from living in the present. However, sometimes visiting the past is necessary to be able to move into the future. There’s nothing though that Facebook does, that makes up for the face to face meeting of old friends sitting around reminiscing about the past and sharing in the present day questions of how our lives have turned out. In that dinner we talked of adolescent antics, how the times have changed, and our own personal failures. We spoke of despair we felt of friends we’ve lost along the way and how those friends have left an indelible mark on our lives. It was truly a special moment and we didn’t hide ourselves from each other. We were raw and we were real.

There seems to be an unspoken rule about friends formed on the field of music that no matter what, we will be real. We will be honest. If you aren’t then what’s the point? Why pretend you are more than you are? Why try to say you are happy when you aren’t? It’s those people who have been with you for decades, who cried with you when you were 15, that should be able to cry with you when you are 40. It’s an amazing gift in life to have someone who remembers when you were a child and who knows you as an adult. They are the ones when life beats you down who will tell you what an amazing person you have always been. They will see your beauty as a child see’s a butterfly, because they knew you before you became the butterfly you are today.

Later that night, we went and sat on the old practice field and talked. That’s when we could truly feel the authenticity of our lives. It was if God was giving us a brief moment to connect back to a time that allowed us to be truly human. Marching band, at least the one I was in, was not unlike any other sports team where you learned the lessons of life through the field of victory and defeat and I couldn’t help but wonder, if those that weren’t lucky enough to have what we had, still connect with old friends in similar ways? Do they have the bonds of a lifetime, because I know that personally I don’t connect with friends from Algebra class. I connect with friends from band. Ironically, the song Music Was My First Love, was our closer in my 10th grade year. It's a song that would define my life.

In the end, I looked over the practice field a realized that I really couldn’t remember any specifics about that time. The details are fading with age and the laugh lines that contour my face. It’s all now an amalgam created by time, but in that amalgam made up of friendship and music, all I could feel was love. I couldn’t remember the details, but I remembered the music played by people unimpeded by time. As we begin a new season of band camps, my hope for this new generation of kids is to be in the moment. Feel the heat of the sun on your face and embrace the moments of struggle. Find your tribe and stick with them, because when you are my age, you will want someone who remembers the details of you.

Synergy and Signs

When a small child, I thought that success spelled happiness. I was wrong, happiness is like a butterfly which appears and delights us for one brief moment, but soon flits away--Anna Pavlova 

If you have a whimsical side or even a spiritual side and an open your mind, you might like me, believe in signs. A song comes on the radio during that one thought, signaling to you to go with "it" or in the middle of that thought where you are questioning direction, a butterfly lands next to you as if someone from far away is saying, "It's o.k. I'm here and everything will all work out."  I have a tendency to pay attention to signs; numbers, songs, smells, etc. I sometimes ask for signs. They come in one of two ways usually. In the form of a song or the form of a butterfly. Now before you think that I'm some crazy lady with 14 cats and a crystal ball in every room, I just believe that there are forces greater than ourselves looking out for us who have the bigger picture in mind and who only want the best for us. (I actually believe more in signs and less in cats, but that's another story.)

I was thinking today about synergy and how we use it interchangeably in our activity. In the summer and fall, synergy is often used to describe the coordination between the sections on the field. In winter, it's often referred to in regards to the equipment as it works in tandem with the body. It can come to mean a lot of things depending on when or where you use it. When I go to a show, I am always aware of the synergistic qualities that brought everyone together in that one place for the opportunity to experience art as it merges with sport. If you think about it, the inner workings of a drum corps or guard show require a lot of people working in perfect harmony with each other for months in advance. For the five minutes a high school freshmen gets to perform on the floor, dozens if not hundreds of people have been working behind the scenes for that singular opportunity for her to perform in front of a crowd. If you think for just a second about the immense amount of work that goes into preparation from the band boosters fundraising to judges being booked months in advance to designers planning the show a season ahead, it's a pretty daunting process to consider. Any given show day requires planning and coordination between multiple entities and people well before the first note is played. It's synergistic. In synergy, one can't work without the other and it takes instructors, parents, contest staff, judges, and volunteers to seamlessly pull off the perfect day.

Synergy though, is more than a show day and going back to my opening paragraph about signs, I believe that synergy is also at play years if not decades in advance of any one day we step into a gym or on a football field. I find it fascinating. You become friends with someone and throughout multiple conversations you realize that you have been in the same place over and over again, but never saw each other...or did you? In our activity, thousands of people come together in one single day, oftentimes without the thought of the others around them passing by each other in corridors and in the stands. Warm up and critique. The performer might not meet the judge for ten years and then one day will be sitting next to them judging a show together as colleagues. The first year high school performer watches her first world guard and a dozen years later is teaching with the world performer she once admired when she was wide eyed and youthful. That's how I met Ron. He was a State Street rifle and I was a dandelion. He was Heaven and Hell and I was a seed pollinating the dandelion. True story. When I saw State Street in prelims at the Pensacola Regional, in a time when WGI didn't host a thousand regional's a year, I just had to see the rifle line warm up for finals. So that's what I did. I grabbed my best friend and watched State Street...no Ron...warm up for finals. I didn't know it then, but I would be teaching with him, living with him, fighting with him, crying with him, and laughing with him just a mere 9 years later. When I think about that night, I think about the signs that were probably all around me to wake up to the fact that I was about to meet one of my closest friends. Interestingly enough, I haven't seen the high school friend from that night in over 25 years, but have been friends with Ron for over 21.

Recently I've been thinking about friendship. Facebook has done something wonderful for our activity. It brought us together in ways we never could have imagined. When before all we knew about each other was the guard a person marched or drum corps they taught, now we know about their children and careers and heartaches and joy. We are now living with each other as opposed to just competing with each other. The synergy that has been created through our collective understanding is nothing more to me...than a small miracle. When I meet someone from the activity, I now think, "Where have we met before this?" What arena or football stadium? What were you doing? What was I doing? How far back does this friendship really go?

After the season is over, I do what many probably do and reflect on the successes and failures. I evaluate my performance as an instructor and judge, but also as colleague and friend. I look at the activity at what went right and what we could do better. I also think about the combined efforts of all involved and how hard everyone worked. When we sit around at headquarters in Dayton on Saturday night drinking our cocktails and beer, I feel that's it's just so much more than the end of an amazing weekend of winter guard, but the symbiosis of a lifetime of moments when we all stood in the same place lacking an awareness of the other's presence. When you watch the 1996 video of the guard 'Everybody' perform their famous Peacock show in Dayton, you can see the guard I was teaching, 'Shaktai' standing in the tunnel waiting to perform. When I think back to that night, all I remember is wanting to beat the peacocks. I wasn't aware that on staff were two friends I would end up teaching with 9 years later and sharing our lives across the miles. On a hot summer day in September in 2001, I stood in front of the Alliance of Miami for the first time to run a basics block for auditions. Standing in that basics block was a person I barely knew. His name was Mike and he was 10 years younger than I. About 10 years later he would be with me holding my hand during one of my darkest hours. Without knowing it, stepping into a gym in Miami changed my life forever.

We never know who we will meet when we step into a gym or football stadium and as I think about the signs that probably swirl around us telling us to pay attention, I'm reminded of the butterfly. Butterflies are deep representations of the rebirth of life. From the cocoon comes the beauty signaling transformation and hope. As my mind closes out another winter season and awaits the start of drum corps shows I'm anxious to see, I can't help but wonder who crossed my path in the Dayton Marriot or UD Arena, who I'll be having a drink with ten years from now asking the questions, "Do you remember the first time we met?"

As my final winter guard blog post comes to a close, I want to tell all of you, the friends I love and friends I have yet to meet to have a fantastic summer and I'll see you in the lightness and playfulness of the butterflies of summer. 

At Some Point Everyone Comes To Room 148

You know when you send someone a text message relaying a piece of crucial information and all you get back is, "K,' but you really wanted them to respond with something just as thoughtful or at the least, "O.K..," but "K" was all they were able to manage? Well that irritates me. I mean, out of all the love, affection, and turmoil good friends go through, I believe strongly that we should at the least be able to add the vowel to the consonant. This is how I feel about life sometimes. We get so busy being in the middle of it all; family, work, and bills, that we forget to enjoy the people and beauty around us. We forget to put the "O" in the "K." As I've been writing this blog over the past three years , I've come to realize that being personal with you the reader and my friends is important to any story I'm trying to tell, as my ultimate goal with all of this is to make sure we are reminded that it's not just flags in a gym. This activity is the height of love and passion and Dayton is my yearly reminder to live fully and spherically or in other words...to put the "O"  back in the "K."



148. It was my room at the Marriott for Dayton 2015. On Friday night it was the place to be. The liquor flowed freely and the laughter was boundless. I couldn't even begin to tell you how many people filtered into that room between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m., but it was many and I can't say I knew everyone that walked through the door, but I feel that I understood them and knew why they were there. 

Someone once said that at some point in Dayton, we all wind up at the Marriott; Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night...or all three. As I sat on the bed watching people stream in and out of the room, I couldn't help but think of the antics and escapades that have been committed in the name of pageantry within the walls of this hotel. If we were to be honest, it strikes a chord of, "What happens in Vegas...," but it's more than that and we all know it. Sitting in the airport on Sunday afternoon awaiting my flight out, a friend stated that the Marriott is like a hotel filled with ghosts of your past and present self. The performer turns to instructor and the instructor turns to judge. It's a place where the circuits from around the country convene and all of us from the alumni just there to watch to the people who work so hard to make sure each guard is given the same chance to succeed, assemble in this one place to say,"Hi'  and "I've missed you." Some of us even use the dreaded "L" word. You know that word...LOVE. We see that friend who stood by us in all our ups and downs and we say,"Oh my God how I've missed you. I love you!"

Life is a constant moving wall for me, It goes up. it goes down, it goes up...it stays up. Don't show to much, don't share too much. I've recently realized that there really aren't many people who know me...really know me. I do what we all do. Only show the positive side or the successful side. Only show that you're happy. Be witty, be smart. I have found throughout time though, and most recently that my system...well my system of personal interaction sucks. It seems to me that it's in Dayton where my full range of emotions emerge and sometimes it's scary and sometimes it's freeing. The wall comes down and in an unforeseen fashion the real me appears...if only for a moment. I love emotion and the smiles you see on the faces of long lost friends and the tears from a friend over that one drink where they finally stop lying to you and say, "No. Things aren't going that well in my life." My guess is that it's a mixture of stress, lack of sleep, a flood of memories, and too much alcohol, but whatever it is, I'm glad to say I'm a part of it when the walls of those I love come down.

Throughout the week in room 148, things became ridiculously funny. Ongoing inside jokes of years past and the jokes of the present  made me laugh so hard that in one instance I fell backwards out of a chair. 148 was filled with music of shows of the past and the dream of shows to come. We also had serious conversations about life and even cried once or twice. In 148 no one is off limits. You better have a sense of humor and be able to laugh at yourself. 148 isn't the room for you if you expect an early bedtime or noiseless experience. At one point, someone asked the question of how many rooms we've all collectively seen throughout the years. How many strolls have we made down those hallways to find the doors with a latch holding it open welcoming an unfamiliar set of strangers to become new friends? How many people have shared in room 148, but who are no longer with us? How many are sitting at home longing for the connection of pageantry days of the past? We are so lucky!

Upon checking into 148 on Thursday afternoon, I had a sense of welcoming as if I was walking into the past of an old childhood home. The room was clean and beds were made. That would be the last time we would see it that way. When I awoke on Sunday morning to empty liquor bottles from the two night party strewn around on tables and cabinets, outdated itineraries, and used tickets from finals the night before, I couldn't help but think, "Wow...it's all over. Another Dayton in the books." For just a moment it made me a little sad and already longing for next year. Reality would come back soon and the wall would go back up. It was Sunday morning that made me realize that sometimes we forget to enjoy life when we are sitting in the middle of it. Buddha stated that the trouble most humans have is that we think we have time. We always think there is more time to live and laugh, but one day there won't be another Dayton and someone else will have checked into room 148.

The great Billy Joel once said:

Though I'm living and I'm singing
And although my hands still play
Soon enough it will all be over 'cause
Tomorrow is today 

While in Dayton, from the time I land to the time I take off again, I'm looking at the clock. The time ticks away and as Wednesday passes to Sunday, I realize how precious our time together is. I don't want to see Saturday night end and I fight sleep for as long as I can. Sometimes I think, "Should I be allowed to be this happy? How did I get this lucky? How did I win the universal lottery?" It seems almost unfair, but then I think that we, all of us, created this world and by each passing year we recreate it all over again. There's a quote I once heard from the 18th century french writer Vauvenrgues. I have always loved it. He said that we discover in ourselves what others hide from us, and we recognize in others what we hide from ourselves. It seems to me that Dayton brings out the hidden truths of our hearts and minds. All that we hide and the fronts we put up come crumbling down in Dayton as the raw emotion allows us to open up to those that have always loved us. 

So to all of you my friends, I will see you next year and keep you in my heart throughout the changing seasons and I hope you will do as I promise to do and keep the "O" in the "K."

Dayton...It's a Verb (!)

I was 16 when I attended my first Dayton. I have found that over the years I have a hard time calling it "WGI." I call it "Dayton." Even in the years we were in Milwaukee and San Diego, I called it Dayton.

"It's coming up on Dayton time."
"While performing in Dayton..."
"It's time. Dayton's here."

Technically, the word Dayton would normally be considered a proper noun. A place people go. A place to be. For me, Dayton is an action verb. Dayton is something we do. Dayton allows us to experience a moment or a thousand moments. My friend Ron Comfort describes Dayton like this, "At the end of the week, we find that everyone's experience was unique and personal," and then he asks, "So, how was your Dayton?"

It was 1987 and it was my first ever Dayton. It was one of those years that people still talk about to this day. It was a time when the mannequins came to life and we played inside the fun house. Circle, cycle, circle...what? Dayton came alive with colors and we all learned to toss a rifle while making the square root symbol underneath. We explored Heaven and Hell and it was 1987, when I experienced triple finals for the very first time. At that time World Class was called Open Class and Open finals took place on Sunday.

Dayton. It's the one time a year when ordinary teenagers become rock starts and adults who spend their days as teacher and accountant, become icons. The alcohol flows freely and the laughter is boundless. I love Dayton and by the time Sunday morning rolls around and the last medal has been placed around the neck of the winners and the confetti cannons have been emptied out, we wake up to a reality that seems surreal and a little sad. We say goodbye to our friends with all the love in our hearts and tell them that we'll see them next year and we will miss them.

Dayton...the verb. It's a week filled with preparation from the moment you buy your first new outfit, to the final touches to a colorguard you are teaching. For many of us, Dayton is the time of the year where we leave the problems of home, the stress of the job, and the realities of day to day life, to go and play in a world where art convenes with sport and friends from long ago find their way back to the center of their soul. Dayton, the city...well, Dayton the city is nothing short of a a hell hole. I'll admit it. It's dingy, brown, and constantly under construction. It rains every single year. I find nothing interesting about the city of Dayton...the noun, but Dayton the verb? Well, it's a world that I live and breathe.

I love to see new faces in Dayton of the freshmen who are performing for the first time and the parent totally taken aback. I always wonder if their first Dayton is transpiring to be as exciting as mine was. I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember driving by the arena for the first time and David Baker my guard instructor saying, "There it is." I remember thinking...AND? And is right. To this day, that first moment of the arena sighting is like waking up on Christmas morning. I remember triple finals in Dayton and watched as Union did the mannequin show and if you weren't there, you can't possibly understand. It was stunning and mesmerizing and haunting. I knew then, right then, that I would be back. I often ask friends, "So what was the guard that did it for you?" I remember Sunday morning Independent Open Finals and sat in amazement watching Miller's Blackhawks and the colors come to life. When the boys entered on red...well...let me just say I was a 16 year old girl thinking..."They are so hot!" Then there was State Street Review...Heaven and Hell. Some of my best friends today were in that show. That's another thing about Dayton. You never know who will walk out on to that arena floor that you will eventually be having a drink with later in life. It's the Universe saying, "Pay attention. Your best friend just walked into your life."

When I went to Dayton for the first time, the souvie tent was less commercial. It seemed that it was more about the colorguards there to share a piece of their season. You could buy their show shirts or a button to wear in support. I had a button that said, "My color is red."   It was a time when warm up was in the tent. God I loved the tent! There was a special feeling about walking into the tent. You knew that it was on. The time was now. You were in the tent.

When I teach, I often use the phrase, "I'm not telling you it will be easy, but I will tell you that it will be worth it." The road to Dayton is a difficult one for every single person involved, whether it's the performer, the staff member, the judge, the contest staff or the parent who sits on the sidelines for support. Each and every one of us work hard and often struggle to get to that Dayton moment, whatever that Dayton moment may be, but the struggle my friend...Oh it is so worth it.


From the moment you arrive in Dayton, to the moment you say goodbye to the arena as you drive by for the last time, it's as if time stands still. You are lost in a sea of faces from the past and memories of shows and headquarters antics, that rush you upon the first step you take into the Marriot.

When I think of Dayton, I think of it as a black and white photograph from long ago. Dayton reminds me of a time I've only read about, but have spent a lifetime imagining and romaticizing. Landing in Dayton after a year away and seeing the arena, while eagerly anticipating the exit to Edwin C. Moses Blvd. is to me, like knocking on the secret door to a speakeasy in the underground of 1920's Chicago. Only a few people know about it and you have to have a secret password to get in. It's our world and it's our underground. We are the lucky few who found the oasis in the middle of a prohibition. We found the party when the world around us stayed dry. Music is the cornerstone to our nightclub and is a place where dance and beauty converge. Artisty lies in the dress of the attendees and the cocktails flow as if we only have today. It is magic and it is love. It is life!

There is one song, that when I hear it, I think of Dayton the verb. I think of the people and the shows. I see the arena and the Friday night party at the Marriot. When I hear this song, I think of every friend I've known and the history and love we share between us. When Sunday comes and the speakeasy closes among a sun rising on Dayton, we see that the verb has become the noun and the world is a little less interesting. So my friends, I would like to close with this song and know that I'll be waiting for you in this sweet hideaway called Dayton and let's make it one for my baby and one more for the road.


Quarter to three. there's no one in the place except you and me.
So set 'em up, joe. got a little story
I think you should know.
We're drinkin', my friend, to the end
Of a sweet episode.
Make it one for my baby
And one more for the road.
Got the routine so drop another nickel
In the machine.
Oh, gee, i'm feelin' so bad. wish you'd make the music
So dreamy and sad.
You could tell me a lot. but it's not
In a gentleman's code.
Let's make it one for my baby
And one more for the road.

You may not know it,
But buddy you're a kind of poet.
And you've had a lot of things to say.
And when i'm gloomy
You always listen to me,
Until it's talked away.

Well, that's how it goes.
And john i know you're getting
Anxious to close.
So, thanks for the cheer.
I hope you didn't mind me
Bending your ear.

For all of the years,
For the laughs, for the tears,
For the class that you showed,
Make it one for my baby
And one more for the road.
That long long road.

Championships...Somewhere.

This past Sunday morning I stepped off the plane in Tampa from a long, but glorious weekend in Raleigh, judging the Atlantic Indoor Association's circuit championships. As is every championships weekend in every circuit and every year, there is a collective feeling of exhaustion that comes from a year's worth of passion and emotion, balled up into one weekend together. When I walked out of the jetway into the bright lights of Gate C, on an early Sunday morning, my Ipod which was on shuffle played Barbara Streisand's, "Somewhere." I heard the dissonant sound of the opening chords and thought, "Wow. Here I am back in the real world and all I really want to do is go back to somewhere." 

There's a place for us. Somewhere a place for us.

Peace and quiet and open air

Wait for us somewhere.

When I go through my life, I look for and believe in signs. I don't believe the universe makes mistakes. So when "Somewhere" started playing as soon as I stepped into the light, I felt like it was trying to speak to me. You can call me the crazy lady channeling Shirley Mclaine or you can just go with me on this little journey of mine. 

There's something about Championships weekend that allows you to keep going, even though you want to collapse. It's the adrenaline, the stress, the sadness, the happiness, and the passion all wrapped into one 48 hour period. It's rare in life to experience that much emotion in one short time frame. The dopamine levels of the brain must be off the charts during a championships weekend, because only with that much dopamine could the brain allow so much focus, stamina, and vigor. It's no wonder that so many people report struggling at work after a weekend of such immense pleasure. It's almost like being in love. You don't sleep or eat. You can stay up all night and the body's response allows you to keep pushing through, even though you mind says, "It's time to stop." After a long day at the show, doing whatever it is your job is to make the day special, there is always this feeling of not wanting to let it go. You linger after retreat just a little bit longer and hang out in the hotel lobby not wanting to say goodbye. 

When I watched the kids walking on the floor for retreat, I just wanted to hold on to that moment. An entire season of intense passion was about to come to an end. As a judge, it's important for me to see that moment. I need that reminder of why we do it. I need to see the kids with their balloons and flowers. I need to see every kid I judged that day just one more time, all together standing for a common goal. 

While watching them, I wanted to tell them something. I wanted to say, "Remember this. Don't let it go." Because as the song says,...there's a place for us. When life gets scary, you can come back here. It's our place. We are waiting. Every judge cares. Every contest staff member. Every alumnus. 

There's a time for us. Someday there'll be a time for us.  Time together with time to spare. Time to learn, time to care. Someday, somewhere.

When I go away for a color guard weekend, I leave all my real world stress behind. There are no politics to debate and the cruelty of life is halted if only for a moment. We are one. There's not another place in my life that I can find where so many people come together for one common goal and it's never more apparent than retreat at championships. Win or lose, I never see the kids leave the floor angry. There is only joy. 

We'll find a new way of living. We'll find there's a way of forgiving.

A new way of living. I believe that when I was born, the universe gave me this gift of pageantry and it would be wrong to not do something with it. Whether it's the one kid who only got one year or us middle aged idiots that come back year after year, it's our way of living. There's a peace to it that comes from the honesty you share when you create with another human being. Your heart goes into these shows and only in that level of honesty can you truly find peace. I never take for granted the emotion the kids share with us from the cadet guard through the world guard. It's real and I often wish all of life could be that honest. I wish in my real life I could be as real as I am in the gym.

Somewhere. There's a place for us. A time and a place for us. 

At championships I always want to tell the kids that this is your time. Enjoy it and cherish it. Don't waste it! I often wonder if any of them realize that this place of passion and honesty, is rare. In life people hate and they are mean. People do things that are not in the best interest of mankind. People lie and they are hurtful. Life is cruel, but in this world we call winter guard, there's a fervor of love that is surpassed by almost nothing you will find in the rest of the world. 

Hold my hand and we're half way there. Hold my hand and I'll take you there. 

Some of the best people I know are in this activity. We have held each other's hands in our darkest hours of life. We've cried together and laughed until our sides hurt. I feel that when I'm with them I'm a better person. We look out for each other and the bond only gets stronger throughout life. There are people I see only once a year and it's like time has stood still waiting for our moment to come back around. Time is endless in this activity and I just inherently believe at the end of each season, that I'll see everyone again. Real life seems to stop in this amalgam of seasons and we are able to focus on what's important...each other.

Somehow. Someday. Somewhere.

In the movie West Side Story the song "Somewhere" is sung to relay this message that there is a time and place where we will all find peace with our fellow man. The bickering will stop and life will become tranquil. We will be as one. It's Championships retreat when I am reminded of that feeling. There is so much boundless joy that it often makes me cry. 

As the kids were walking on the floor for retreat, I was immediately taken aback by this image I had. In my minds eye, I saw a snow globe. I saw a world we have created for ourselves that allows for creativity, healthy dialog, friendship, passion, devotion, and emotion. In that snow globe are kids growing up to appreciate one another. The adults pass the knowledge on and value the lives of the kids entrusted in their care. This snow globe explores music and art. Color is endless. People work as one. Everyone is beautiful.

So, as I place my snow globe of 2015 on the mantel and shake it one last time, I see memories of the past falling down as the snow and as the kids look up to catch just one flake, they take their place in the history books of this world we call winter guard.