If one pattern has defined my life in music, it is movement. I have never been very good at standing still. I have not taken what most people would call a sabbatical, and even my vacations have tended to come in pieces—days borrowed between engagements, or longer trips planned with the hope of disappearing, briefly, into someplace unfamiliar.
June felt unusual from the start. For the first time in a very long while, an entire month stretched before me without a single concert. After seven weeks in Asia at the end of 2025 and another nine in Europe earlier this year, I could no longer pretend that rest was optional. I was tired in the way travel and performance can make one tired—not only in body but in mind and spirit as well.
Stepping away from the podium did not mean withdrawing from the world. Life, as it tends to do, continued to present itself. Some commitments had been on the calendar for months; others arrived with less warning, bringing their own energy and, in a few cases, their own measure of surprise.
Regular readers of this column will already have seen my recent note about the Kennedy Center. By the time this piece appears, I hope we will know a little more about what lies ahead—for the institution itself, and for the many people whose work, art, and daily lives are bound up in it. As the picture becomes clearer, or murkier, I will continue to share what I can.
Kennedy Center Timeline
June 8: Today, the Kennedy Center removed Donald Trump’s name from its website. We can only remind ourselves, “One small step—”
June 11: The Kennedy Center’s board of trustees—who were handpicked by President Donald Trump—filed a legal challenge Thursday after a federal judge ruled that Trump’s name should be removed from the building and halted plans to close the center for renovations.
June 12: Washington National Opera sues the Kennedy Center, seeking more than $17 Million in disputed funds. The company, which split from the center this year, says officials have withheld endowment money, donations, and income it claims it is owed.
June 13: Twelve hours after the deadline, Trump’s name is removed from the outside of the building; however, a tarp remains in place so that this change cannot be viewed. Supposedly, the name returns to The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. How much art will actually be performed after the proposed July Fourth shutdown remains unclear.
June 17: A federal judge ruled that the Kennedy Center must provide the renovation plans within three days. A review would then commence to determine whether the entire building needs to be closed.
June 20: The tarp and scaffolding remain in place. The Kennedy Center asked for more time to determine alternate paths, including keeping the building open, partially closing it, or sticking to the planned closure. In any event, no new shows are being booked. The National Symphony cannot announce its season because the budget has not been approved by the board.
June 24: The federal judge mandated that the Kennedy Center must submit renovation plans and explain the purpose of the tarp within seven days of its July board meeting or by July 31, whichever comes first.
***
My trip to Washington, D.C., was an occasion that I know will stay with me. It was moving, certainly, but also humbling in a way that is hard to describe without sounding overly solemn.
The Lincoln Medal—presented by Ford’s Theatre—honors people whom the board believes reflect Lincoln’s principles and his vision of what this country might aspire to be. Over two days of dinners, receptions, and performances, I found myself thinking not only about the honor itself but also about the history surrounding it.
The first event was a dinner at the U.S. Capitol. Security was, as expected, intense, but once inside, we did not detect anything amiss—no reminders of January 6th. Most of those present were trustees and donors, though several members of Congress also attended. I was seated with Senator Chuck Schumer, and when I asked him the greatest change—both good and bad—he had seen in the chamber over the years, he answered, “The negative is all the anger on the floor, but the positive is that we are all still here.”
During my twelve years as music director of the National Symphony, I visited the Senate several times with Ted Kennedy. It was there, over lunch, that I was introduced to authentic Senate bean soup. Sadly, it was not on the menu this time.
The next day began with a reception in the Benjamin Franklin Room at the State Department. Seeing the Declaration of Independence and Thomas Jefferson’s desk remains overwhelming. At times, we forget the forces that shaped our country’s founding; reminders like these do more than simply inform.
From there, we went to Ford’s Theatre, my first visit to this exquisite venue. Looking at the box where Lincoln sat on the night of his assassination brought the expected gasp. My speech, which I had worked on for several weeks, was displayed on a teleprompter. In all my years of public speaking, I had never written out my remarks or used scrolling text. I can confidently say, never again!
There is no time to improvise with a teleprompter. When you do, the operator has no way to know how far back to scroll when you try to start again. After speaking briefly about Lincoln’s deep connection to the arts, I told the audience what I had said to the orchestra two days earlier: We must never forget what first led us to pursue music. The service we offer others—especially in times of turmoil—cannot be measured. That is truest for those of us who practice, perform, and teach.
Renée Fleming introduced me to the audience, which was a lovely surprise. A video followed, focusing largely on what my work has meant to Americans over the years. I had never thought of myself in those terms, and I was deeply moved by the presentation.
Before my award was presented, actor and veterans’ advocate Gary Sinise received his honor. He is a wonderful gentleman and richly deserving of it.
In a sense, we were the filling in the evening’s sandwich, since the theater has been running the musical 1776 for the past several months. For this occasion, we were treated to a beautifully produced and sung 45-minute condensation, divided into two parts. It is not my favorite score, but it felt especially meaningful as we approached the 250th anniversary of the document we had seen earlier that day.
The evening concluded with dinner at the National Portrait Gallery. There was no formal tour, so we were only able to see a few things on our own. Mostly, people came to offer congratulations and mingle with the black-tie crowd. It was a long but uplifting day.
Cindy was with me, as were Daniel and my daughter-in-law, Bridget. I was especially glad to introduce Daniel to several influential people, a few of whom have ties to the motion picture and television industries. Since he composes for those media, perhaps something worthwhile will come of the connections he made.
The final day brought a farewell luncheon at one of Ford’s educational facilities. As we left, each guest was given a copy of Walter Isaacson’s The Greatest Sentence Ever Written. It is not a big book but rather a concise and beautiful reflection on the document we had seen the night before.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.
Sadly, too many people today profess to believe these words without living by them. The events of that weekend strengthened my faith in the ideals we hold dear. They must never be abandoned or forgotten.
***
One subject I don’t often have an opportunity to write about in this long-running journal is my love of cooking. With nearly all of June free and spent mostly at home, I finally had the chance to indulge it—and to experiment a little with new ideas in the kitchen.
By April, the cover comes off the Big Green Egg, and from then on, it is rare not to find me on the porch with tongs in hand. If it can be grilled, I am eager to try it. I still have plenty to learn, and this season I set myself a particular goal: mastering glazing. My first attempt—featuring a most unfortunate snapper fillet—revealed just how far I have to go. The glaze was too thin, the balance of ingredients all wrong. Until I improve, I will spare you any further culinary instruction in print.
That brings me to a different kind of reflection. In 1976, I made my debut with the Philadelphia Orchestra at its then-new summer home in Saratoga Springs, New York. I am not by nature a nervous person—excited, certainly, but rarely insecure on the podium. Even so, standing before the orchestra I most admired in the world was more than daunting.
At the rehearsal break, a violinist I had met a few times when the orchestra came to New York during my student years approached me with a gentle but helpful observation: I was speaking too quickly for the ensemble to fully grasp what I wanted. His name was Herb Light. We have seen each other only occasionally over the years, but we have remained good friends, sharing a love of music, baseball, and good food. His wife, the distinguished piano pedagogue Veda Kaplinsky, has also became a source of inspiration, often telling me about the remarkable young keyboard talents she is guiding.
In June, Herb celebrated his ninetieth birthday, and I knew I had to be there. The gathering was in New Jersey, which meant yet another flight—this one departing St. Louis at 5:00 in the morning. I landed at LaGuardia, took a taxi to the apartment of another dear friend, Jeff Siegel, and from there, we made our way to the party in plenty of time.
The room was filled with relatives, friends of relatives, friends who felt like family, and the rest of us who have been fortunate enough to know Herb well. The stories alone were worth the trip. At one point, Herb refreshed my memory of the time when my mother joined the orchestra as an extra cellist, just as the Philadelphians became the first American orchestra to tour China. Occasions like this remind me how many wonderful people have passed through my life—and perhaps, in some small way, I may have meant something to a few of them as well.
My return flight was delayed by storms, and I arrived home four hours late. It hardly mattered—except that I had lost a day of barbecuing.
***
It’s opera week for us in St. Louis, and Cindy and I had the opportunity to attend André Previn’s A Streetcar Named Desire. To perform it in the Loretto-Hilton Center, the orchestral forces needed to be scaled down. Although the reduced orchestration took away from some of the lushness of the score, I found myself totally engrossed in what André wrote.
Patricia Racette, the company’s artistic director, did a wonderful job with the staging, and the whole production came together very well. Although we could not attend the other three shows on the Opera Theatre of Saint Louis’s schedule, we were pleased to know that it has been a very successful season.
As the month winds down, I have to get ready for a few weeks of conducting beginning right at the start of July. Usually, after a bit of a layoff, my arms are sore after the first day of rehearsals and concerts. It is not a particularly difficult summer of music-making, but there are some interesting programs on the docket.
Meanwhile, Cindy will be hunting for owls with her camera.
See you next month,
Leonard