Reminder

Life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who make the journey with us. So…be swift to love, and make haste to be kind.

–Frederick Amiel

In November, heads make their way to Princeton as they have done since 1911–we are now The 1911 Group, the original name: Headmistresses of the East deemed a little too old fashioned, connoting the wicked witches of the West…Some years ago, we knew we wanted our name to include our male colleagues who run schools, too, so we changed our name. (Though, perhaps it’s churlishly worth noting that in those early days, the men heads of school banned the women heads from their organizations, so we responded in kind.) Now, we are inclusive and always glad for the chance to assemble in November. 

My mentor, Millie, proposed me for membership, sternly informing me that I was never to miss this meeting or the NAPSG (now The Heads Network) annual meeting, and I haven’t–even though, this year, for the first time, I am not leading a school. In 2004, as brand new head of school, I brought my 4-month-old son with me–friends came to care for him while I attended sessions and scurried back to nurse him during breaks. This meeting, always in Princeton in November offers a combination of inspiration, collegiality, and fellowship. It was also an annual way to take stock–to reflect on what had happened in my school or to me since we last convened.

I felt apprehensive about no longer being a headmistress, but I longed to be among “my” people; there was no question that I would drive to Princeton. After all, I’m still on the board. I’ve inherited the responsibility of eulogizing those members who have died since the prior year’s meeting. Having a purpose helped me feel I still belonged. I stood before the group on Sunday night—as I have for many years—to offer three memorials–two for men I knew only slightly and one for my dear friend, Susanna, Executive Director of this organization, who had died unexpectedly in September.

As we greeted each other on Sunday afternoon, spilling into the lobby, Susanna’s name was on all of our lips–we missed her.  Nancy wore a lovely scarf, in the colors of Susanna’s palette. I had rehearsed my remarks, so I did not fall apart—at least not until after I had finished. People embraced me, thanked me. It felt like the least I could do to honor my friend.

On Monday morning, we gathered in a circle—lots and lots of Heads of School together in a pretty room in the Nassau Inn, in community to remember our friend, colleague, wrangler of the 1911 Group, where she and I built a friendship that deepened over two decades.

Ken offered gentle instruction for the many non-Quakers in the group. A life-long Episcopalian, I have always secretly longed to be Quaker–-I think it has to do with growing up in Philadelphia. He explained we would sit in silence; if someone wished to speak, he asked that the person stand, be loud enough for everyone to hear, then sit again and allow silence before another speaker stood.

In the quiet, I saw Susanna, laughing, swathed in a deep purple White & Warren cashmere wrap, a gift from her beloved Rob. We were walking across a college campus, together, as we often were, me, admiring her scarf, and she claiming the shawl was too expensive, but worth it. This fall, whenever an email arrived in my inbox from White & Warren, I felt as if it were Susanna waving to me–I am not in need of any more wraps, but I cannot bear to unsubscribe yet. Her nails were often painted shades of orange or copper–it was that tiger pride, I’d tease her–she was a proud Princeton graduate!  She often wore beautiful floral dresses from Boden, frequently featuring a splash of orange. She worked out religiously—her discipline was unwavering. And many, many times last year, her wise counsel on the end of the telephone line helped me prepare to leave Laurel—funny, direct, smart, kind, she was a friend and a mentor, always knowing just what to say when I felt vulnerable or sad. Waiting for someone to speak, I gazed out the window–the trees had lost most of their leaves by mid-November, but a few dark orange ones still clung to their branches, unwilling to fall, to let go. I empathized.

People began to share recollections. Marjo spent summers in the same tiny Maine town on the same street with Susanna and Rob; Sarah and Susanna once discovered, on a drive to the airport, that they shared a godfather, Uncle Idy.  We all laughed–what a coincidence! It felt good to laugh and cry, images of Susanna evoked so vividly in what people offered.

Connie read notes she had written about Susanna as a friend and coach. I wept thinking about my friend’s impact on this next generation of young women leaders. And, as I cried, Crissy noted that Susanna’s death was a reminder, a pause. In her death, she gave us yet another gift–the reminder to pause, to take nothing for granted, to thank our mentors and those who have shaped up–even in her death, Susanna was generous. Later, Crissy explained that in her Puerto Rican culture, those who pass continue to be spoken of in the present tense, and I nodded in recognition—I think of Susanna as still with us though out of sight.

We concluded by shaking hands–and many of us hugged. We were full of feelings–grief and gratitude co-mingled.  As we left, I felt lighter than I had since I learned of her death–shocked, jet lagged from our return from overseas, outdoors in an NYC café. That day, I couldn’t quite take in the fact that she was, so abruptly, gone. Even at her funeral in Annapolis, I kept expecting her to appear to orchestrate the whole affair. And here at Princeton, for the 1911 Group annual meeting that she so capably directed, it was hard to let go of the idea that she wasn’t leaning against the wall when a speaker went on too long, a not-so-subtle hint to indicate that time was up–gracious and firm. She’d catch my eye and we would share a secret smile.

On Monday night, in the cold, we walked from the hotel to Prospect House, an elegant building on the Princeton campus; the windows were illuminated, spilling golden light into the dark. At the podium, our President, Nancy, explained that Susanna planned this particular dinner; she loved the prospect of our gathering in this lovely space.  It felt just right that we were there–inside an elegant setting of Susanna’s choosing, remembering our friend, lifting our glasses to her memory, the chandeliers, wine and conversation warming us and lighting the darkness.

The conference concluded. I headed into Manhattan to the dentist. There were moments during our time together when I felt a stranger in this new chapter of my own life, but what I missed the most was my friend and what I was most grateful for was the understanding that so many of us shared Susanna’s loss, felt it deeply, and, in speaking our grief, eased it ever so slightly.  Remember, nothing is promised.  Tell your mentors what they mean to you.

On Sunday evening, I concluded my remembrances with this poem, which I offer to you today:

Immortality

by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.