Leap and the Net Will Appear


Seniors, as we end this chapter together,  this is another first for me in a year of lasts.  What an enormous privilege it has been to watch you grow up–some of you for 15 years, some of you for two. I have a few stern rules for myself about Commencement speeches. Here they are.

  1. Less is more.

  2. As a commencement speaker said on this stage some years ago, I am the speed bump that stands between you and your diploma–and family photos and hugs and lunch and graduation parties.

  3. Few will remember what I say in 15 minutes, let alone next year.

  4. If I’m too serious, I might cry.  But in the spirit of my mantra, “Dare to Fail Gloriously,” I will make an attempt–because that is what one does when you love a group of people as much as I love all of you.

There are a number of clichés associated with commencement speeches, and I hate clichés. The problem is, however, that clichés endure because they contain some sort of truth.   So I’ve decided to offer a critique of said clichés–then, if we have time, we’ll get to the rest of the speech, but, if not, another one of my mantras is “always leave them wanting more.”

Cliché # 1:  The next four years will be the best years of your life.  Baloney. Do not put that kind of pressure on yourself. You are heading into a new chapter–as am I–but some days it will rain, and some days your roommate will annoy you, and you might fall in love with the wrong person–temporarily–and the dining hall might serve meatloaf.  Don’t imagine college as some sort of Utopia. It’s just college. 

What you do, the choices you make, what you ask of yourself, the habits you form–that’s all worth considering, but not today, when you are giddy with excitement and maybe a little teary and feeling too many feelings.  Also, I don’t want you to peak at 22—you are no Tom Buchanan from The Great Gatsby–each of you, I hope, has longer than the next four years to fulfill your promise and to better the world.   

Also, don’t underestimate how much easier life is with a uniform–even when you continuously re-interpret said uniform.  Figuring out what to wear every day after I graduated was quite a challenge after my own 13 years in a girls’ school.  

Cliché # 2:  This is a beginning, not an ending: Well, actually, it is the end of your time at Laurel. And I think it’s important to acknowledge the end.  This is it. If you are sitting up here on the stage, you are not coming back in August.  Threshold moments matter and need to be acknowledged.

Honor the ending of this phase, this year, this chapter.  You, too, parents. Take a breath. Let your shoulders drop away from your ears. Have all your feelings.

Cliché #3: The best is yet to come: This suggests you haven’t yet done very much, but that’s inaccurate. Some of you have accomplished a great deal already–and I don’t want you to feel you are obliged to chase an elusive golden carousel ring until the end of time–I want you to be motivated, certainly, and ambitious, but I also want you to consider the why of working hard. You are not a mouse on an exercise wheel. You are not a tumbleweed being blown through your life.  You are competent. You matter. When you feel lost or overwhelmed, remember, you have abilities. 

You compose your life, with big mistakes or wrong turns to be sure–that’s part of the process–but you, alone, are the architect, the sculptor, the painter, the author, the actor of your own experience. Your lives are not being done to you; you have agency.  You have ownership.  And I believe we are happier when we strive to create lives of purpose. 

Another adage is “We’re all in this together.”  Maybe. But often people feel left out—in this next chapter, be someone who includes others. Widen your circle. You have done that well in your time in the dear walls. Continue to invest in the communities to which you belong. Ask whose voice is not being heard?  Listen to understand, not to rebut—sorry debaters.  

Weave webs of connection grounded in respect and curiosity and trust. Our lives are not made only of the large events; we compose the fabric of our lives from little moments, beads on a string–green and white beads, of course, like those we’d use to make a friendship bracelet–we string each bead carefully, with an eye to a pattern.  The little moments are what make a life–pay attention. Put your phones down and be present. Allow yourselves to be awed by the natural world, the sunset, the changing seasons, the wonder on a little child’s face.  I dare you!

The last cliché: The only constant is change.  Though a cliche, this one rings true for me, like it or not–and sometimes, I do not:  Robert Frost wrote: 

(you knew I had to slip a poem in here somewhere)

Nature’s first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower; but only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf; so Eden sank to grief.

So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

When Mr. Orbach and I ran ETC, our summer theatre program, we had everyone learn this poem by heart the first night–because we wanted the students to understand how quickly transformative experiences can pass–and that there is beauty and meaning in evanescence–that which cannot last.  Cherish what you have and let it go; nothing gold can stay; it’s not the order of things. We wish for moments to last, but the fact is that it would be confining, limiting, to stay stuck, to freeze ourselves in amber–we must evolve, change, practice resilience–being frozen in time is overrated–Tom Buchanan again. 

I hope you will remember all that has been positive about your time growing up and at school–your parents,  teachers or coaches or directors or other trusted adults who believed in you, friends who stood by your side, organizations to which you contributed, productions or teams that mattered to you—and let the rest of it go. 

Walk into your next chapter knowing you have the opportunity to be the version of yourself you want to be—allow yourself to continue to transform–do not be afraid of loving, forgiving and welcoming all the versions of yourself, past and present.  Not all progress is linear. Take responsibility for mistakes and learn from them, but don’t beat yourself up–we are all so gloriously human, and that means we are both vulnerable and flawed.  Whenever you can, reject the myth of effortless perfection–there is no shame in working hard to reach your goals–carry as you climb-lift up others.

I am worried that we  are running out of time–here’s the haiku version of everything else I would say if we had endless amounts of time:

  • Leap and the net will appear. 

  • Trust, as Pooh tells Piglet, that you are braver than you know. 

  • “Don’t throw away your shot” that’s from Hamilton.   We only get to be ourselves once.  

  • Nuance matters–few people are either wholly good or bad–pay attention to first impressions, and be prepared to adjust them.

  • “Yes, and” is more powerful than “No, but”…that’s a rule of improv.

  • It is never wrong to be kind.

  • Be your best self even when no one is watching.

  • Dream, dare, do is now part of your DNA–all that subliminal messaging–we hope it’s habit forming!

  • Cultivate optimism and gratitude  Hope and action are the best antidotes for fear or despair. 

  • Gossip lessens all of us.

  • Remember: Avoidance Fuels Anxiety. 

  • Try not to hold grudges–they take so much energy.

  • When you’re homesick, reach out.  There is no need to be stoical; it’s not weak to ask for support. Vulnerability is not weakness; it’s a strength. And remember the same sky stretches over all of us.  We are connected forever–and, as Emily Dickinson wrote, “Forever is composed of nows.”

  • Know that you are loved.  My love goes with each of you–on the stage and in the rows before me–as surely as the Irish blessing the school will sing to the Seniors after we present diplomas.   

Here’s another little advice poem attributed to Apollinaire; I used it to frame the very first remarks I offered to the school in 2004 at my installation as headmistress–it’s about having all your feelings, even apprehension, and it seems fitting to end with these words now.

Come to the edge, he said.

                     We can’t.  We might fall.

                     Come to the edge, he said.

                     We can’t.  We are afraid.

                     Come to the edge, he said.

                     And they came.

                     And he pushed them,

And they flew.

My final mantra: “Feel the fear and do it anyway.” 

Lucky me, to commence with all of you.

And because I have read lots of children’s books to you over the years, I feel as if I must now conclude by saying:

The End

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Gifts of Love