A Net of Stars
This summer was hard. First, there were all the little girls who perished at summer camp during the flood in Texas–they were so little. I found myself thinking about then long after the headlines shifted to other tragedies. Next, a young woman both my daughters admired and worked for was gunned down in a NYC office building. Her death was senseless, horrific. Then, in the third week of September, upon our return from our magical and long-awaited European vacation, I learned of the unexpected death of my beloved colleague, Susanna. Like me, Susanna was from what I call “girl-world,” meaning she was the long-serving leader of an all girls’ school. We shared a love of cashmere and pashmina shawls and a passion for mentoring younger colleagues. She had recently retired and was generous in her counsel as I moved through my final year at Laurel. She understood what it meant to leave graciously, and I valued her perspective along with her wicked sense of humor. Susanna always knew how to make me laugh and reminded me of the danger of taking myself or my circumstances too seriously. Her death was a blow, a clarion call to stop fretting and to pay attention to “my one wild and precious life.” Nothing is promised.
And then, there was Diva, our irascible 17 ½ year old blind and deaf rescue dog, who waited for our return before letting us know that she could not go on. The same night I learned of Susanna’s death, I held Diva, trembling, limp in my arms and grieved for her, for my friend, for those little girls in Texas, for Wesley. I wept. In the morning, we put Diva down. I cried and cried and could not tell you if I were crying for Susanna, for Diva, because I was jet lagged, or because I was no longer part of a school community. I was a mess.
And then the texts began to flood my phone,
“You okay, AVK? I know what good friends you were with Susanna.”
“Just checking in.’
“Sending love–about Susanna and Diva.”
“Thinking about you–sorry about Diva.”
As the texts arrived plus some phone calls and emails, I had the sense of being held–love and connection supporting me like the soft, old ropes of our front porch hammock. I wasn’t alone.
I packed my bags and headed to Pomfret, CT to speak at the installation for their first woman head, Heather Daly, my beloved friend and colleague. Next, I flew from Boston to San Francisco to lead a board meeting for The Heads Network. Then, back East to BWI. My friend, Nancy, who loved Susanna, too, picked me up and took me to Susanna’s service. In dark colors and with muted voices, legions of women (and a number of men, too) that Susanna taught, led, mentored, guided, supported–embraced, our eyes wet. And as we sang the Episcopal hymns, I felt the power of connection in the little church, our voices throbbing in community to honor this leader and friend we loved.
Back in Eagles Mere, I woke in the middle of the night–jet lagged, disoriented. Was I in Ohio, Napoli, California? I stood up, the knowledge dawning that I did not have to prep for a full day of meetings; I did not have 9th grade papers to read and correct. I was home. There were only two dogs to feed, not three. And, while we had been traveling, before Susanna or Diva’s deaths, autumn had arrived.
I felt anxious, the way I used to feel leading trust exercises when the person in the center of the circle falls backwards, hoping to be caught. I have never liked falling backwards, but I knew, as the teacher, I had to trust that the group would, in fact, catch me–and they always did. Life felt upside down. I felt upside down, bouleversée, as the French would say. I felt unfamiliar to myself.
Beyond my bedroom window, the stars were sprinkled, glittering in the dark. I thought of having been held all week by Seth, by my school pals from across the country—a web of connection and friendship, catching me as I fell. I remembered a picture book we used to read our daughters when they were small about a child who was afraid to ride the ferris wheel, scared that she might fall. The stars, her older sibling had explained, would catch her if she fell. Reassured, she faced her fear and rode, glorying in being up high, among the stars. Falling is not so scary when there is a net to catch you.
I took a breath. Inhale. Exhale. That I could do. Looking up, I remembered that the stars are always there, even when we cannot see them. They twinkle and shine, an invisible net. Stars. Inspiration, care, love, memory. The stars form constellations, whose stories we tell over and over again. They fascinate us, reassure us. Stars, I read once, are the way those who have left us look down on us to keep watch. I let my shoulders drop away from my ears and climbed back into my bed—the same bed in a new setting. I would be sad for a long time, but I was in good company.
Now, as we’ve turned the calendar into a new year, I am still missing Susanna, still missing Diva, still missing the familiar contours of a life when I led a school I loved. But I am also inching forward—teaching a workshop at another school, coaching and finding great delight in helping other school leaders untangle thorny situations, volunteering at the Eagles Mere museum, working with women who are prepping for the GED, and, of course, still unpacking. For Christmas, I bought myself an extravagant cashmere wrap in a deep mulberry, its rich hue worthy of Susanna. The dogs, we have discovered, love being in NYC, and Seth and I are finding joy in the work of creating homes together in Eagles Mere and in our NYC pied à terre.
Tonight, I wrapped my new shawl around my shoulders, and, in my slippers, went to the back porch to look for the stars. Some nights, I can see them, farther away now, more like diamond chips than the glowing lighting bugs of late summer, but tonight they were hiding, obscured behind clouds. Inside, thinking about grace and change and the passage of time, I gazed at my paper white narcissus bulbs. They burst into bloom while we were in the city, their fragrance perfuming the whole the house. Their flowers, I noticed, were just like tiny stars, translated for cloudy nights.
