Of all of my teachers in junior high school, only one really had a lasting influence on my life (at least, in a way that I can recognize). At this remote time, I can probably only name a few of them, or what courses they took, but I’ll remember his name and what he taught until I don’t remember anything at all.
He was the music teacher. I took music lessons from him for several years, and played in the band. There are many stories I could tell about my days as an aspiring musician, but those are different stories, and music isn’t what this discussion is about.
He made posters with useful tips and advice and hung them all over the band room. They would change every few months. Wherever you were sitting, whether down front in the flutes and clarinets or back in the peanut gallery (the row in the back of the room composed of odd instruments for which there was only one player), several were in view.
I can’t remember any of them now, but I’m sure I’ve internalized them. Listen to yourself. Timing is everything. Practice. Enjoy the music you’re making.
But there was one poster that never changed. Written in smaller letters, and in a different hand than the others, this poster was hung at the back of the room, above the cabinets, out of the line of sight any of the students in the room. If you didn’t look up when you were racing to your seat at the beginning of class, there was little chance you would ever notice it.
Of course, since my attention is always wondering, I noticed it many times. But I had no idea what it meant, and I hated that.
Near the end of my last year in his school, curiosity finally overcame my timidity and I found the courage to inquire. At the end of class, I approached his podium and asked, “Sir, what does Quench not the smoldering flax mean, and why do you post it where it is so hard to see?”
He looked sheepish for a moment, but then the moment passed.
“Step up on the podium,” he suggested, “and take a look.”
From his raised platform, I could see the entire room spread out beneath me. From here, the poster was directly ahead of me, at eye level.
“That’s not part of your curriculum,” he explained. “That’s a reminder to me.”
What do you wish you could keep reminding yourself?
What should be written over your desk, on the background screen of your computer, on the dashboard of your car, over sink in the bathroom, or on the ceiling over your bed?
