When a composer wants music to intensify, a crescendo is marked on the score; the instrumentalists increase the volume of play until a dynamic peak is achieved. The inverse is a decrescendo, a gradual softening of the volume, until the music fades away into nothingness. Crescendos are fun and exciting; decrescendos are somber and difficult. Life has its times of crescendo and its times of decrescendo; in the latter, the music is saying goodbye slowly.
Note about the image: This is a closeup of Grandfather, or the tree the neighbors call Rhino.
My Mysterious Mind
My professional world is in the final phase of a four-year decrescendo. In the summer of 2020, I was the lead instructor for a summer of doctoral instruction for 86 students, coordinating with 5 other faculty members from 4 other universities and 2 graduate assistants. I was also the regional coordinator for the largest and most successful university partner in a statewide doctoral program in educational leadership sponsored by a Research I university. I was at the peak, or crescendo, of my professional expertise, having recently completed a season of leadership in Faculty Senate.
Then, at that peak, the pandemic ushered in an extended decrescendo as the thriving program was given a terminal sentence. First there would be no more recruiting of new students, followed by no admission of another cohort. Second, the final year of coursework for the existing students ended, followed by the removal of future course offerings. Next, this final cohort of students finished their comprehensive exams and became the last group to enter the dissertation phase. As each one successfully defended, the number of students remaining in the program decreased. With no program to coordinate, I lost my role as coordinator and became an expensive artifact with tenure.
I worked with a colleague to develop a doctoral program at my home university to fill the void. After over a year of diligent work, we reached the difficult decision to discontinue our work. Our dean had a different vision of what a doctoral program should be, and my 20-plus years of experience was dismissed. I was assigned courses to teach to fill the void in my teaching load where the doctoral courses used to be. These courses required me to quickly brush up on a quarter of a century of progress in areas of expertise from before I earned a doctorate. Each course felt like an accelerated graduate degree for me, while teaching students who weren’t even born when I last taught undergraduates.
Most of my students were in the education field but the courses were listed in the psychology department. After I retooled to teach these courses, I was told I would have to teach something else to remain in the college of education. After 23 years in the college of education I chose to switch to the psychology department. I had taught as a lecturer in psychology before earning my doctorate in educational leadership. Now I was back as a programmatically homeless, tenured professor.
After the doctoral program ended, I no longer had a program home. When I switched to psychology I left my collegiate home. With friends all over the campus I was surprisingly alone. For my final semester I requested to teach entirely online so I had the flexibility to teach from wherever my grandbabies were being born. I became a visitor when I taught from my university office.
This week I taught my last online session for two of my courses. Next week I will post a recording for these courses and attend a retiree dinner instead. My presence in these courses will fade away. In a month, the university will lose its contract with Blackboard, the Learning Management System that hosts the online courses. At that point the langoliers will chomp up the last evidence of my teaching here.
This long, slow goodbye has been hard. Sometimes life is challenging because things are growing and changing; those are the crescendo seasons. In decrescendo seasons of decline and loss, saying goodbye slowly is long and painful.
Message from Mystery Acres
Grandfather is the largest of the marker trees in our sacred piece of forest. The circumference of his original trunk measures well over a hundred inches. His “face” resembles a rhinoceros, strange because the indigenous people are not known to have had experience with this native of Africa. The look is so distinct that the neighbor calls the tree Rhino. I named him Grandfather, as he is the oldest tree in the forest, having lived until probably more than 300 years before his death.
Sadly, Grandfather was already dead when we purchased the property in 2019. We probably missed his time of being alive by only a year or two, his towering limbs still adorned with a few once-green leaves. Concerned about the cantilevered weight of his limbs, we considered trimming the heavy branches so he would stand longer. We decided, instead, to let his deterioration be completely natural. We know at some point we will find his mass collapsed onto the forest floor.
The decrescendo of his mighty presence in the forest has continued for five years now. The branches have all fallen, beautiful lichen has decorated his bark, and large portions of his now-naked core are exposed. I visit him whenever I am in the forest and admire the stately way in which his majesty is returning to the forest. I wanted to preserve him somehow, to prolong his magnificence for future generations. Instead, he is experiencing a natural decrescendo, fading back into the forest from whence he came.
The message of Mystery Acres speaks to the beauty of a natural decrescendo. Living things grow, flourish, and then fade away and die. Our modern compulsion is to fight this process, to somehow freeze the deterioration caused by life’s clock. But a clock that doesn’t advance is a broken clock. There are no broken clocks in the forest, only ones naturally moving forward through birth, the crescendo of growth, and the decrescendo of aging and death. In the case of Grandfather, he has bonus time on his clock; though dead, the stately message of his glory lingers. I am inclined to mourn his decrescendo, but his passing away is a season of splendor.
Ancient Mystery’s Voice
“Your hard season is over.” (see Isaiah 40:2)
The book of Isaiah is a tough one, pretty dark and depressing actually, until the 40th chapter where the mood shifts. Of the 66 total chapters, the first 39 are rough, much like the 39 books of the Old Testament. The remaining chapters, starting with chapter 40, have a brighter quality, similar to the books of the New Testament where Jesus walks into the scene. There are 66 chapters in Isaiah, and 66 books in the entire Bible.
As chapter 40 of Isaiah begins, the first words are “comfort, comfort.” Having done a multi-month study of Isaiah a fear years ago, those words were a breath of refreshment after 39 chapters of toil and struggle. The second verse speaks to the end of a “hard season” or a time of “warfare” or “suffering.” There is no consistent English translation for the Hebrew word. No matter the specific words used, the message is one of a difficult time ending. The decrescendo may have been long and arduous, but its end has finally arrived.
The words of Ancient Mystery are words of comfort. Times of suffering eventually end. There are hard seasons but they are just that: seasons. Just as winter surrenders to spring, times of struggle surrender to times of joy. Are you in a tough season now? Is something, or someone, you love dying slowly? Decrescendos can drag out a long time but the end does come.
Living in Mystery
What does it mean to live in the mystery of life’s decrescendos, when saying goodbye is long and slow? To put this in possible context, consider the spouse who is disappearing slowly due to dementia, or declining from a slow-moving terminal disease. Alzheimer’s has been called “the long good-bye,” with a loved one who vanishes in a long decrescendo. Sometimes the melody of someone’s life gets quieter and almost impossible to hear. I remember the last few years of my father-in-law’s life in the nursing home. The decrescendo of a human life can take a decade, as the body and mind diminish bit by bit.
Living in the mystery of the decrescendo is to find joy in saying goodbye slowly. Listen for signs of life, for the melody still playing faintly. Watch for flickers of what was, embracing the glimpses of whatever is saying goodbye slowly. Look for signs that what is soon gone will never be completely gone. All good things live on somehow, somewhere.
In the declining years before my father-in-law died, I watched for the twinkle in his eye of the mischievous man he was. I listened for bits of the wild tales he was known to tell. Near the end, and we didn’t know it was the end, he told of walking through walls. Three days later he slipped away. I found joy in the bits of his melody still playing faintly until the music was gone.
A friend of mine is losing her husband to dementia. Each day brings more of a husband she doesn’t recognize and less of the one she does. Catching glimpses of the man she loved and married, she finds the strength to honor her commitment of “for better or worse.” Compared to the long goodbye of my professional identity, this version of a saying goodbye slowly is far more heart-breaking.
Some goodbyes are marathons, long and exhausting. Are you in a marathon of a long, slow goodbye to someone or something you love? If so, practice self-care and restoration breaks. Decrescendos are much harder than crescendos. Who doesn’t love the build-up and excitement of something growing? The long, slow fade is far more draining.
As an old mom to young parents, I am struck by the repeated decrescendos of raising a child. Each season of life with a child must fade, as another season rises in its place. Parents say goodbye to babies and hello to toddlers, then say goodbye to toddlers and hello to preschoolers. Preschoolers disappear as an older, school-age child appears. Eventually that child grows into a pre-teen, a teen, and then a young adult, each phase disappearing as another takes its place. I can remember those exhausting years of chasing my children around, then chasing around for my children. Then one day, the music of that crazy melody stopped, and my home was quiet and the passenger seat of my car empty. Everything has its time of decrescendo.
Living in the mystery of the decrescendo also means practicing gratitude. Sometimes the music fades slowly, and then disappears completely. At other times it stops abruptly. Be grateful when you can still hear the music of someone or something you love. Each melody has its season. Some melodies are painful; others are gloriously beautiful. Listen, watch, and cherish the music of now.
Connecting With Mystery
Dear Lord of All Mystery, I love crescendos, when the music of my life is growing with intensity and excitement. Decrescendos, or times when someone or something I love is fading away slowly, are times I need Your help to endure and appreciate. Help me to find joy in the bits of music I can still hear during a long, slow goodbye. Stir my heart to be grateful each season, the beautiful and the fragile and the transient. Thank You for never fading, for always being constant and strong. There is no decrescendo with You. Amen.
Notes from Dr. Mac
If you want to do your own investigation of any of the scriptures I use, I suggest you go to Bible Gateway. This free online version of the Bible allows a search of words or phrases in various translations. You might enjoy reading Isaiah 40, verse 2 in the various translations; just click on “other translations.” The message of a hard time being over is expressed in multiple, comforting wordings.
You can find previous posts and podcasts in my ARCHIVE and organized compilations in the My “Books” section. You can also find Mystery’s Voice on Spotify.
Do you have thoughts to share? Please leave a comment below or through the Substack App, or email me privately at Dear Dr. Mac. I love to hear from you!
Hard to handle valleys after having experienced mountaintops, but what a view.