Stepping Away

Well, the time has come.

After nearly 30 extraordinary years with the Museum of Making Music, I will be stepping away from my role this June.

I made this decision a couple of months ago when it became clear that I want and need to spend more time with family than a full-time role allows, and that my own long-deferred projects have grown impatient at the door. And when I looked honestly at where this museum stands now, strong and steady, it felt like the right moment to begin a transition.

The first weeks after deciding were not easy. Regret, fear, trepidation, sadness each took their turn at the front of my mind. But as time passed, and as I got more comfortable with the landscape of this new path, a quiet settling arrived.

And in this now settled state, I can begin to reflect on these years. My first musing is about the nature of time, how elastic it is, and how strange. For me, life is like music. Music exists in the present. It unfolds, note by note, and then it's gone. Except that it isn't. It gathers itself into something we carry: an experience, a feeling, a shape we can almost touch. Life, I think, works the same way.

Second, I look back and see not only what this museum has become, but what I have become. Not just older (although that certainly is the case!) but in some ways genuinely different from the person who first walked through these doors in 1998. Some of it is experience. Some of it is the gradual shedding of things that never served me well. Some of it is simply having allowed, over time, space for the person I hoped to be. Whatever the cause, I know this much: I like myself a great deal more now than I did thirty years ago.So much of that has come from this museum, and from the people within and around it.

And third, when I look back, I see all the years and experiences as a kind of ladder. Not a ladder of titles or achievements, but of lessons. Each rung, a step. Forward, upward, and yes, sometimes back. But always movement. Here are a few of the steps that I have climbed over the years:

A step toward kindness. I learned this from a young woman whose response to almost anything, be it confusion, conflict or overwhelm,  was simply: "How can I help?" Always with a smile. Always with warmth behind the words. There is a door that only kindness can open. I have stood at that threshold more times than I can count, and she showed me how to reach for it. The ultimate consequence of being kind, is that I now recognize kindness all around and in every moment. 

A step of patience. The most meaningful things do not arrive quickly. Museums, like music or like a life well-lived, unfold over time. Ideas need room to deepen. Relationships grow into shapes neither person could have imagined at the start. Patience is not passivity. It is the trust that, with careful listening and actions, things are becoming what they are meant to be.

A step through procrastination. When I am frozen on a project or task, I set a timer for five minutes. I begin the work, and then I stop at the end of five minutes, regardless. A bit later, I dive in again for another five minutes. Strangely enough, I am usually excited to start that second interval, and then I am off and running. This small, almost embarrassingly modest first step has opened more doors for me than any bold declaration or sweeping intention ever did. Once I am in, I can keep going.

A step fueled by passion. Spending my life working toward something I genuinely love is a gift. It has carried me through joyful days as well as difficult ones; through unexpected challenges and the countless invisible details that hold everything together. Passion doesn't make the work easy. But it changes what the work is. It becomes purpose.

A step taken sooner rather than later. We are rarely, if ever, in control of what lies ahead. Opportunities shift. Doors open and close again. When given the choice, I begin. Taking the step sooner often means that something meaningful actually happens, rather than remaining forever in the land of someday.

A step begun with intention. I am told that my father used to say, "Well begun is half done." An exaggeration, perhaps. But there is truth within it. When something begins with clarity and care, and when you know why you are beginning,  the path forward becomes not just easier to find, but easier to trust. I have used this over and over with exhibition planning.

A step into learning. Every single moment offers something new. About ourselves. About others. About the endlessly surprising, endlessly humbling world. Staying open to that and categorically refusing to believe that I have already learned enough has been, perhaps, the most reliable guide of all.

And finally, a step into music. Music has always been my guide, and it always will be. It is the rhythm running through every chapter of my life.  I love it not only for how it sounds, or how it works, or the particular joy of playing it, but for how it has shaped the way I move through the world. How it has taught me to listen. How it has asked me, again and again, to be present. When people ask what I'll do next, the answer is simple. Music.

As I look back, I am filled with gratitude. For the staff I have had the privilege to walk beside, and for the volunteers who give so generously of their time and spirit. For our museum community who have believed in what this place can be. For our colleagues throughout the music products industry, whose work and partnership shape the very story we tell. And for our San Diego and North County communities, whose support has made this Museum part of something larger. Above all, for the visitors of all ages who remind me, each day, why this work matters.

It has been my great honor to take these steps with you.

And now, the climb continues.

Not the same climb as before, though. It may be a bit less vertical, and perhaps less driven by deadlines and deliverables, or by the constant energy required to build something and sustain it year after year. The rungs may be a bit wider, and there may be more room to pause on each one. And yet the path will still be upward. I don’t think that will change. The desire to grow, to learn, to become, to contribute something doesn’t ever retire or step away. It simply finds new terrain and asks for a different kind of effort.

Yes, I am stepping away from a role I have loved and a project I have cherished. And as I do, I find that my greatest hope is not for myself, but for this place. May what we have built together continue to deepen and to matter. May the story of this Museum still be in its early chapters, with miles to go before it sleeps (to loosely quote Robert Frost). May every visitor who crosses its threshold, and every person who contributes to its telling, find something here that stays with them over time, just the way music does.