There's three words I don't believe I'll write again. (The title, that is.) Though perhaps in a future life?
I’m spending the last day of my 70th year (well, technically my 71st) doing what I love most and it’s nice to not feel any pressure for the fanfare of the decade turn. Who cares about 71?
Like most people I know, I’m still perpetually astounded by a number that makes no sense when it comes to how things feel inside. And (knock on wood) to how they are outside, as I casually walked 91/2 miles one day last week without any fanfare, can still folk dance as we did last night, have mostly unflagging energy not dependent on naps or coffee and still feel like I have so much to do, so much to learn (like more Latin jazz and Gospel piano, for example).
Today was another stellar day taking my students to the Philippines, Ghana, China, Slovenia, Lithuania and a New York City jazz club via the magic transport of sound vibrations artfully combined. The conversation between hushed silences of profound seriousness and the flowing laughter of spontaneous humor continues unabated and the only tiny fly in the ointment is deciding to learn Google Classroom to give notes and collect homework and not wholly thrilled with that dog and pony show. But I did have homework assignments printed and still read them with paper and pen in hand, so all is not lost.
Amidst the fun and frolicking is my dual responsibility as director of the course making sure all is running smoothly (much help from my colleagues here, who sometimes are more on top of it than I am) and my responsibility as a Level III teacher to connect with each of my 24 students, write the daily outlines after each class and then actually correct and comment on the assignments. The pool out my door beckons, but the papers do as well. It's still work, but the kind I love that gives back as much, if not more, as it takes, feels meaningful, uses all of me in a way that keeps me alive and kickin’.
But still, that pool looks awfully enticing.