I’m getting ready for my next big adventure: moving to Taos, NM to pursue music, art, teaching, and performing with my band The Harrows. This move has been a long time coming, inspired by the breathtaking New Mexican landscape and a two-month road trip across the country. It was one of those life-changing journeys where mystical guides seemed to appear at every turn. Along the way there were encounters with bears and wildcats, long stretches of desert, the haunting beauty of the Lost Coast, even singing dogs. We ventured up into Canada, criss-crossed between California and New Mexico, and somewhere in all of that, my husband Bob, our dog Giblet, and I began to imagine a new life.
I’ve been preparing quietly for these changes over the past few years, but it still feels surreal to be at the moment of actually leaping. And so I’ve been thinking about this new blog. What should I write about here? What does it mean to have been a musician and teacher for so many years? How has it shaped my life—and how has it touched the lives of my students? At a time when so many educators are leaving the profession, I find myself wondering why. And equally, why not me? I know I’ll continue teaching in some form, and I feel certain I’ll keep mentoring younger teachers.
One phrase I hear often is: “It’s not my job.” Usually it comes from teachers stretched thin, asked to take on roles that go far beyond instruction: parent, disciplinarian, social worker, counselor, even police. As a music teacher I’ve done all of that and more—comforting crying children, cleaning up messes, breaking up fights, calling for help when a student fainted, running code yellow drills, chasing kids bolting toward the street, soothing fears, and strategizing ways to manage severe anxiety—all while teaching guitar and leading songs.
But sometimes I wonder—what if it is our job? What if caring for our students’ and families’ well-being is more important than whether they become good musicians? I don’t think we have much choice. Without a foundation of social-emotional stability, health, and trust, a child doesn’t stand a chance at learning an instrument—or math, or science.
As music teachers, we hold a unique perspective. We see our students in moments of vulnerability and creativity, and in those moments we can help them learn how to navigate the world. In these last few weeks of teaching public school music, I want to keep that front and center. Because ultimately, whether a student becomes a great musician is up to them—the inspiration and dedication have to come from within. What I can give is something beyond finger positions and note names. I hope my students leave knowing they matter, that this world needs them, and that life is worth every adventure—even the ones they can’t yet imagine.
