The days are getting longer, and now it stays light after 7 p.m. The frosty lawns have turned to rain-soaked, bright green grass. For the first time in months, I hear a mourning dove cooing.
Still, this has been a difficult time. Betrayal, for a writer, often becomes material for memoirs or stories. Who has let us down, and why? What should we do when it happens?
Recently, I have had to take a public stance against my local school district, which, driven by profit and greed and lacking foresight, sold the farm up the street where I live to a developer. Developments can threaten our landscape, our environment, and our way of life. In an earlier situation also involving the farm near where I live, I wrote about saving a landscape from ruin.
As a former journalist, I learned long ago what questions to ask of local township planning commissions and supervisors. That training, along with writing about controversy and bringing it to public attention, served me well. My questions and my writing were rewarded, leading to a possible change: fewer houses were proposed for the farm, where a tupelo tree that graces a field in front of a 19th-century stone farmhouse had been slated for ruin to make way for 500 parking spaces and a huge indoor pool complex, along with almost 600 houses in a 55-plus community, homes that start at around $650,000.
Sometimes, I think of Buddhist meditation and practice mindfulness. None of this is real, so why not detach ourselves?
As a writer, when you break the isolation, change happens. Turmoil can become a powerful fuel for creativity. People listen.
During our Women’s Writing Circle meetings, I encourage the women and myself to not only share our stories but also to honor our voices. Express feelings of rage, disillusionment, and heartbreak. More often than not, someone will respond with, “I have felt that way too.”
Maybe now, these signs of hope and possibility—a bird’s sweet song, longer days—offer a path back from the turmoil. Writing, expressing ourselves with self-confidence, and not apologizing offer the hope of connecting with others; we take on the hard work of this life, and our days become fuller and more meaningful.
This is reworked from a post I wrote about the life of Mary Magdalene.
Mary Magdalene is a key figure in the New Testament, but we know very little about her. Was she a widow, a mother, a sister, or a woman said to be possessed by demons? Over time, her story was changed, and she became just another nameless woman. Some wondered if she had loved a charismatic preacher? Or if she was a wealthy woman who traveled through Galilee on her own? People ask why she was not connected to a man. Others say she was a prostitute and sinner, her name linked to the painful history of the Magdalene Laundries in Ireland, places that punished so-called “fallen women.”
She anointed his feet with her hair scented with nard, knelt at the Cross, and was the first to witness the Resurrection. She was a teacher, a leader, a follower, a sinner, a prostitute, and maybe the one who loved Jesus most.
Some scholars believe that there was a special love between them and that their conversations were intimate and private, marked by kisses on the mouth. Peter was jealous of her. The rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar turned her into the woman who sings: “I don’t know how to love him.”
***
The role of women in the life and times of Jesus is complex and confusing. The Samaritan woman at the well has the longest conversation with him in the Bible. Martha is in the kitchen, forgetting to appreciate what is most important.
For years, I have listened to and understood the complaints that Christianity is a patriarchy. I have felt it too, but as an Episcopalian, I am reminded of the Philadelphia Eleven, those first courageous women ordained as priests on July 29, 1974. They stood up to the men because nowhere in the Gospels does Jesus say only men should be priests. I think of the women witnesses who promoted his ministry, whose lives are often overlooked in sermons. Jesus was a feminist, and it was men who followed him who failed to relinquish their power and authority to the women he loved.
The author in the Gospel of Mary was belittled because people believed that a woman could not have had conversations that the Twelve Apostles, all men, didn’t have with the man proclaiming to be the Son of God, let alone write her own gospel. Her leadership and authority are disputed by the men, an ancient discrimination that resonates with women today. I think of women whose stories, whether or not they inspire anger or jealousy, dare to write them.
She is often young and beautiful, but Mary Magdalene might have been an old woman when she encountered Christ. We hear nothing about her after the Risen Lord appears to her on Easter Sunday.
In so many ways, our stories are divinely inspired. They come on a whisper, a dream, a fleeting visit from the muse. They come from life-altering events we never foresaw.
She was smart. She was slandered. She was Virginia Woolf. She was Adrienne Rich. She was the woman who dared write while the famous male authors said she couldn’t, so why pretend?
When we eliminate guilt and shame, desire, and anger, we prepare to become “fully human,” according to the Gospel of Mary. This is the writer’s journey, the one that leads to redemption, the one that frees and heals.
Photo by Susan Weidener
To be “fully human” is to be divine. The “realm of God is among you,” she proclaims. This was heresy. This was revolutionary. These are the nameless, stereotyped women who gathered around the sacred Circle, lit the candle, and shut out the distractions of the outside world, putting their trust in each other and the power of their voice. This is Magdalene.
Across the floor of the mind and body room, a sea of mats with people lying on them, meditating to the sound of our stories, the rhythm of our words. We read about an immigrant grandmother whose garden taught her children to cherish the beauty of a blossom in bloom, we read of a balloon flight drifting high above stone barns and a wishing well that form the landscape of our home; a story of a long-ago summer at the shore where a mother stood on the beach, pale brown hair blowing in the sea breeze.
These are the stories of our lives. Our words last beyond us. They are our legacy. But legacy doesn’t belong to only the stories we share aloud; it can be found in every story you write, every reflection you choose to put down on paper. As you write and remember, you are creating something lasting, a gift for those who will come after you. The meditation offers a way to absorb our stories through the heart and the spirit. The room’s aroma is lemon-scented, soothing, and healing. Above us, trees with their branches reaching skyward on cloth-covered ceiling tiles.
I tell the group that writing is a healing journey and a path to self-discovery. I share how my childhood memories of the New Jersey shore bring me back to the little girl I once was. I remind myself to hold her close, remembering how her father’s arms kept her safe above the waves as she shouted, “Take me out to the hair combers, Daddy!”
Whenever I give a reading, either by myself or with other writers, I am reminded of why I do this. This is the connection, the spirit of being truly present with others. The outside world has slowly drifted away, and together we are one in this space. A woman says at the conclusion of our readings from our anthology entitled Moments of Love, that she, too, is a writer. She has filled many notebooks with the memories of her own grandmother. How does she organize her journals? Another woman sits up on her mat; the meditation is over. Perhaps, try organizing it by themes, she said. This is good advice, I think. This is how we share our writing journeys and leave our legacy behind.
As the readings end and the meditation comes to a close, the women roll up their mats and head to the door. Some linger to ask a question or two. Then we had to go back out into the world, where a warm sunny day awaits.
Practice meditation: As you listen, let your mind wander through the rooms of your own memory. What scents, sounds, or textures begin to surface? Perhaps there is a garden from your childhood, an open sky, or a voice on the wind that brings you back to a special moment. Allow yourself to linger there, gathering details and feelings, as our stories invite your own memories to bloom alongside them.
As winter gives way to spring, small green shoots can be seen poking up from the hard, brown earth. Eventually, they will push their way upward, exposing themselves more and more to the elements.
Writing mirrors the growth of spring shoots from hidden seeds. Our ideas and voices gradually emerge, revealing parts of ourselves to the world. We take risks, exposing our truths bit by bit.
While writing my memoirs, Again in a Heartbeat and Morning at Wellington Square, I exposed aspects of myself, but with limits. This isn’t an excuse, but an honest admission: personal and emotional boundaries sometimes shape our stories.
The fear of reprisal and of not “offending” anyone is the writer’s biggest danger, prowling quietly like a panther in the dark of night.
Writing can be like the times we live in—neither comfortable nor always enjoyable. But then, a turn of phrase, a sentence or two that perfectly captures those moments, brings us back to why we write. Even if brief, our truths, like blossoms, deserve their moment in the sun.
Last week, I wrote about Spain. I had traveled there alone…meeting up with a group of strangers. A Joni Mitchell line came to my mind, “I am on a lonely road, and I am traveling…”
There were conversations over wine, people who knew each other and traveled together, others meeting for the first time, but we all got along, and I listened to their stories. The edict was clear from our tour guide…”No politics.” But soon enough, we discovered that all of us, except one in the group of 14, shared the same mindset about what was happening back home. Those things naturally surface as everyone is anxious about what is going on, yet there is no room for division here. We had just seen the Prado and the Alhambra, representing the power of art, intellect, and belief. This week, I read that the UNESCO World Heritage site, the Golestan Palace in Tehran, was reportedly damaged, and I felt anger. This cannot happen. These places belong to all of us, not one political party or country.
And when I got back to Pennsylvania, I was soon planning my next trip. It is Japan, only this time, I am traveling with my son. Our plane tickets for October are booked. I am already excited about seeing kabuki theater in Tokyo.
***
Some nights, alone in my bed, sleep comes when I say to myself, In the morning, I will write. It’s comforting to know I can share my encounters and experiences through this blog and, of course, my writing group. I am no longer a lonely traveler.
After a February hiatus because I was in Spain, the Women’s Writing Circle meets in 10 days. And then there are book signing events, two in April.
This morning, I woke to another wet, dreary day. Outside, I see the pale green shoots of the hosta struggling mightily to sprout against an icy rain. Off in the distance, I hear the mourning dove. And the memory returns of my first writing retreat, listening to that bird as I began writing about John and me.
I still burn vanilla-scented candles as I did at that retreat. The aroma is muse and memory. It is one of healing and renewal, awareness, and strength to forgive—the gifts of the craft. I had to write then, and I still do. When it’s no longer in me, I will stop.
Travel is a blend of romance, culture, and a much-needed break from the daily routine. It’s a way to see and feel a totally different scene. Europe is a world apart from my home in Chester Springs, Pennsylvania, a pleasant but homogeneous place for the most part.
That’s why I travel. To experience the diversity, the complexity, and to remember why narrow-mindedness equals ignorance. I just returned from Spain. Although I had visited Barcelona years ago, I had never been to Madrid and the towns and cities in Andalusia.
Spain meant escaping an endless winter of frigid temperatures and snow as hard as concrete. Olive trees and buttercups awaited. Sunshine glinted off burnt orange tile roofs. There was rain and fog at the Alhambra in Granada, which means “pomegranate.” After the rain moved away, a flamenco dance of Solea, which expresses the heartbreak of lost love and the portrayal of grief. And the Alhambra lit at night against a mountainside.
Photo by Susan Weidener
In Cordoba, a mosque with soaring sandstone and brick arches was transformed into a Christian cathedral in years so long ago, a testament of how short your journey is. The beauty of the art was appreciated and preserved by people of a different religion. Some things are universal and transcend belief.
Photo by Susan Weidener
I travel because a writer isn’t a writer unless she takes a risk and transports herself to something new as a path to her muse.
Spain is the Prado—a museum on par with the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg and the Louvre in Paris, both of which I’ve visited. You can never see too many master works of art. There before me was Goya’s Crucified Christ hanging on the Cross in ghostly whites and grays.
***
This is the first day of Lent. We Christians are taught that the next 40 days mirror Jesus’ wandering in the wilderness. We seek answers. Why the pain? We accept how little control we have over people and situations.
But, in the end, Easter awaits.
Travel is about being alone with your thoughts. Where does my life go from here? How is this amazing and incredible beauty all around me possible? The silver-white reflections from the Atlantic Ocean shimmer off the white buildings and narrow alleyways in Cadiz, a historic port in southwestern Spain nicknamed the “Little Silver Cup.” It was there that I ordered a plate of calamari. I couldn’t finish it. As I got up to leave, a woman from Africa, selling cheap gold and beaded bracelets to tourists, asked if she could have it. She gently took a napkin and wrapped the calamari in it. These are the moments to ask, why her? Why am I so lucky?
There are the people you meet and share a glass of wine with at the end of the day. The widows on my tour, the divorced, and those living in chronic pain —all of us searching for beauty. A moment to reflect.
Travel is a reality that defies definition.
Photo by Susan Weidener
There is the locally aged sherry, sweet to the taste, the tapas of raw tuna drizzled with balsamic dressing, and the sliced tomatoes swimming in honey and olive oil. What did I do to deserve this?
Travel is stories. I have written all my life about the romance of these travels and the stories I’ve heard from strangers. Their honesty, their willingness to share is often more than that of those you are closest to, because you know you will never come this way again.
In the end, when you arrive home, weary but so very much revived, the memories of the beauty and the romance linger. They are yours to hold forever.
This month, our Women’s Writing Circle is celebrating love with a Goodreads Giveaway for our anthology, Moments of Love, which runs until February 17. We are giving away 100 Kindle copies of the book, and I hope you will enter our giveaway.
It has me thinking about all the ways love appears in our book. We have stories of friendship and faith, of international trips that led to encounters of loss and renewal, and a look at the beauty of our landscape and the challenges of marriage. I wrote three pieces about love, but there are so many more stories I could have shared. Love has always been at the center of my writing. As the Victorian poet Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote: “To love or have loved, that is enough. Demand nothing more.”
***
My thoughts frequently return to my grandmother, whom I have written about before. She spent much of her life as a widow, and I often reflect on everything she endured alone. Although she passed away when I was just five years old, her legacy has profoundly impacted my life.
My grandmother, Annie Beatrice Dean Weidener.
I vaguely remember her brick twin house on Maplewood Avenue in the Germantown section of Philadelphia…the lace doilies on the pie-crust mahogany table in her sitting room with a view of rhododendron and azaleas. The small chair with a blue embroidered cushion that now sits in my bedroom. In my mind’s eyes, I see china tea cups decorated with small purple violets and a tabby cat purring on the windowsill. I smell the sugary sweet vanilla of freshly baked scones with raspberry jam served in a small dish with a silver spoon. This memory transformed into a moment of love, or something that in a strangely powerful way evoked romance and family legacy that lingers to this day.
But her life was hardly that of the woman often pictured in English drawing rooms, sipping on her tea.
I knew her as Nanny, that quintessentially British word for grandmother. She immigrated to Pennsylvania from Manchester, England, in the early 20th century. I have no diaries, no records, just sepia-toned photographs of a woman with pale brown hair, wearing ebony beads, and whose eyes remind me of my own. But I know that Nanny defied expectations, a woman fearless enough to cross a vast ocean and start a new life in Pennsylvania, whose wooded green acres and rocky riverbanks reminded her of England.
She was the influence who made my father believe that a woman could, and should, have every right to success as a man. She is the reason, as the daughter of an enlightened father, I married a man who believed in me and loved me unconditionally—who boasted about my accomplishments to anyone who would listen and encouraged me to be strong.
A photograph of Nanny, lovingly holding me, her only granddaughter.
A sepia-toned portrait of a woman, reflecting the historical influence of strong female role models. My grandmother.My grandmother’s vintage chair with a floral embroidered seat is now in my bedroom.
Role models offer examples of accomplishment, fortitude, and bravery.
Through my work as a journalist, writing teacher, and author, I’ve had the privilege of meeting remarkable women who have led school districts, written influential books, and traveled extensively to assist the poor and disenfranchised. I interviewed one of the first women ordained as an Episcopal priest and a grieving mother who established a nonprofit organization following the tragic death of her son from a rare disease. Like my grandmother, Nanny, I suppose you could say they have been my role models. When people enter our lives, often by chance, and inspire us to believe in the possibilities within ourselves, we come to understand love.
Nanny married my grandfather, Andrew Weidener, and bore her only child, my father, also named Andrew. They married on Valentine’s Day. My grandfather traveled as a marketing man for the Pennsylvania Railroad, and he left home for weeks at a time, traveling by rail to Pittsburgh and back. Stress and cigarettes killed him when he suffered a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-nine. After he died, Nanny took in boarders to support herself. She taught my father to believe that a woman can survive on her own; a lesson he passed on to me.
As her only granddaughter, perhaps I romanticize her story. Or maybe I want to believe that she is proof, in my own family, that a woman can defy the odds.
Final postscript
Nanny was about to move in with my parents when she met a man named Jones, a widower who lived on Maplewood Avenue. Although she claimed she was seventy-four, her vanity—or perhaps her awareness that women are judged differently than men regarding age—led her to shave a few years off her actual age when asked. Mr. Jones proposed, and she accepted. Shortly after they announced their engagement, Nanny was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
When people ask if there is one person you could have dinner with—living or dead—I always think of Nanny. I imagine us laughing about life and the trials and triumphs of widowhood, sipping lemon-flavored tea from those delicate teacups with violets, her cat purring on the windowsill in the house on Maplewood Avenue. I think of how we share that a woman can’t depend on anyone but herself…and yet, the unexpected, and the possibility of new love—the beauty of being open to new possibilities awaits around every corner, even until the very end.
***
I invite you to remember and write about a strong woman in your life, someone who helped shape who you are. Consider reading your story and hers to someone else and sharing it together.
For many years, my diamond engagement ring sat in my safe deposit box. An exquisite Marquise cut, the ring was put away for “safekeeping” after I became a widow, when, in fact, I didn’t want to look at it anymore. It felt too painful.
I remember the brilliantly sunny October day John and I traveled to Philadelphia’s famous Jewelers’ Row. Cases of diamonds on black velvet sparkled before me. I had never imagined getting engaged to be married. After all, I was going to write the Great American Novel and travel the world. Then true love came calling.
The diamond that caught my eye was over a carat, but it had a flaw. The flaw appeared as a slight crack inside one side of the stone, and for that reason, the jeweler made the price palatable. I knew the flaw was there—and I always would—but the stone’s beauty was undeniable.
John bought me the ring, albeit not without a small gulp. “This is more than I expected to spend.” He was on a high school English teacher’s salary, after all. The jeweler placed the stone in a setting with prongs that, when I held the ring up to the light, sparkled in all directions on my finger. When John saw that this was the ring I truly wanted, he said, “You’re worth it.”
***
The other way I rationalized not wearing it after he died was that it would go to one of my sons when they got engaged. Now, thirty-one years later, I thought of that beautiful stone in that gray metal box in the back of my closet. Neither son was married, nor even appeared close to popping the question, and it occurred to me that it would look beautiful on my own finger once again. I had seen a friend’s diamond ring she inherited from her mother, and decided that, like her ring, I would change my engagement ring from yellow to white gold. It was enough of a difference to make it appear almost new…as if, now I could start wearing it again in this new year, this next chapter of my life. And so, I had the ring dipped in white gold and gave it to myself as a Christmas present.
Photo by Susan Weidener
***
Practicing self-compassion is allowing beauty in your life. Browsing a cozy bookstore to relishing a hot cup of soup in a coffeeshop which beckons you to write—both of which I did on the day after Christmas—brings beauty too.
If there is any intention worth setting for the new year, I think that self-compassion may be the best. Once you become kind to yourself, doesn’t it become easier to be kinder to others? There was no reason not to enjoy that ring anymore. And like that diamond, I—we—all have flaws. Imperfection makes it more special. By embracing our own imperfections and flaws, we can learn to embrace those of others through the same lens of kindness.
***
The first time I wore the ring again was the Sunday after Christmas. “Oh, it’s gorgeous,” my friends said when I held out my hand. Yes, it was. Something I had lost had been found again. As I looked at my engagement ring, John’s words came back to me.
You’re worth it.
My “new” ring.Wearing the ring…with John and Brandy Alexander..
I invite you to share what have you done to be kind to yourself or another.
The day after Thanksgiving, my friend and I drove to a used furniture store just outside Ephrata, Pennsylvania, in Lancaster County. The sky was clear and blue, but a cold wind swept through the streets. Brick row houses were decorated with Christmas wreaths, and inflatable Santas and teddy bears filled the small front yards.
I was hunting for a living room chair, preferably one upholstered with an interesting pattern and roomy enough to enjoy my morning coffee and newspaper. Furniture stores in Chester County, where I live, feature uninspiring showrooms filled with a sea of beiges and whites at ridiculous prices. As we wandered through the large warehouse, I remarked to my friend that I thought most of the furniture had probably been taken out of dead people’s homes. She agreed that it was the case. Who were they? What did they die of? There were mahogany armoires and brass headboards, leather sofas and recliners…even a washer and dryer on the lower level of the store. A beautiful red chair, embroidered with gold designs, had, unfortunately, been tagged with a “Sold” sign.
The day before, I watched large snowflakes swirling across golden, brown fields of cut corn and flocks of black crows—the first snowfall of the season. The beauty of that scene was tinged with gratitude that I could experience this for yet another year, although I admit there was bittersweetness too.
When I got home, I pressed my cheek against Lily’s soft yellow fur. She has no inkling of what is to come, nor does she care. Loneliness doesn’t plague a dog, nor does unrequited love, or dreams of what once was but is no more.
I remember our last Christmas together. The heavy navy bathrobe I bought you from L.L. Bean couldn’t conceal your wraith-like frame underneath, eaten away by unrelenting cancer. I watch our sons, six and ten, joyfully unwrap their presents, unaware of how sick you were. I remember your smile as you showed them how to use the remote control on a toy truck. I remember your patience with them. We both knew this would be our last Christmas together.
I hadn’t learned yet about surrender, about realizing that I couldn’t control this, let alone control anything. What I learned is that after you, I had no desire to put effort into one-sided, half-hearted relationships. And as the years went on, I tried to be there for our sons, without losing sight of who I was, or thought I was.
While the pain and the grief linger some days over the icy layers of time—the unfairness of it all—that can never erase how much we loved you. Mary Oliver once wrote that there are some memories “I would not give up upon the point of death, they are the bright hawks of my life.”
Someday, the antique ice chest in my dining room, and the paintings of Southwestern sunsets by an artist long dead, will most likely end up in a used furniture store. Even this, what I write now, is only putting words on a page. They, too, will someday be forgotten.
Only God knows. There is comfort in that. These are the things that come with time.
Now I hold those “bright hawks” of memories close. They keep me warm on cold winter days. They remind me that nothing lasts forever, but I once knew love. And so I let my worries fly away like those first winter snowflakes.
The season is upon us—or rather, the Christmas season came early for me. This past weekend I attended a holiday theater production. There was the usual singing and dancing from Santa Claus and his elves, the shimmering Christmas trees, and a star hung above the stage. It was nice to see the actors enjoying themselves. It reminded me why a creative life can be so rewarding and help us connect with others. Outside the theater, the trees still held onto a burst of gold leaves, but already the holiday lights were strung on several houses tucked away on side streets. Another year is spinning by at lightning speed.
As Advent approaches, I feel like I’m in a season of drought. After more than a year of hard work on our Women’s Writing Circle anthology, Moments of Love, I keep wondering—what comes next? Droughts, as Julia Cameron notes in The Artist’s Way, are really a form of grieving, of loss. A writing project may have come to an end, and the fear lingers…what if I’m done? What if I can’t ever write anything worthwhile again?
I have a million reasons not to write: a knee pain visit to the orthopedist, a cortisone shot, a dentist appointment, and even trying out a new rug shampooer. Clean carpets that smell like soap and are two shades lighter in the sunlight when I’m finished.
Projects are on the backburner. There’s a possible novel about a woman’s obsession with a man who no longer wants her, so she sets out to destroy him. Another possibility is a time-travel story. A young woman meets the man she loves all over again, although this time things are different. There have been so many books written on every conceivable thing, including this, that I’m wondering if I should move forward with either.
The feeling of being overwhelmed and not focusing lingers as the holidays approach. As I wrote in a blog post in 2018, “We live in an age of feeling overwhelmed, where the daily diet is 24/7 news, carnage, disease, and disasters.” That sentence still holds true. Ours is an anxiety-producing world of change at lightning speeds, which encroaches on the fragile artist within us. There’s so much noise out there, too. Just look at Amazon, and something like a million new books have been published this year alone. Ninety percent sell less than 100 copies.
I remind myself that publication and the finished project are sweet, but it’s not how many books we sell, or how many reviews we get. Feeling a sense of purpose is the elixir for a creative heart. The creative life is a reason to get up in the morning. It ignites our own creativity and is, at the same time, a rather selfish endeavor. It is a journey of self-discovery, trying to figure things out.
Haven’t I learned over the years that small rituals end the drought by lighting a candle, retreating to that room of my own, and just writing?
Then there is supporting other creative people through our Women’s Writing Circle and our book signings. These are other ways “to show up on the page.” We support each other by sharing and critiquing our stories, offering insights and words of encouragement, such as “Job well done!” We bring empathy because these things are emotionally accessible.
In these dark days of November, as we look to Advent, it’s a time of expectation, of anticipation that something wonderful will happen to keep the hope alive. And so, we light the candle and wait for what comes next.
The Granary Burying Ground in Boston shone in the morning light. Maple trees festooned in orange and red October finery cast gentle shadows where gravestones leaned at an angle after over two centuries of weathering the ravages of underground springs and harsh New England winters. There was John Hancock’s gravesite, and farther along the pathway, the gray, unassuming headstone of Samuel Adams, two dead icons who belong to history. As I wandered about the burial ground, I thought about my place in this life, the differences I had made and would hopefully make before I die.
Photo by Susan Weidener
The day before, my son Daniel and I toured Harvard University. I grew up in a house where the Ivy League was venerated—almost worshipped. My father, an academician and intellect, kept a library stocked with the complete works of Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, Hemingway, and Faulkner. A graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, he held the Ivy League up as the ultimate in education. I attended a small Methodist college in upstate Pennsylvania, which wasn’t very exciting, before transferring to American University in Washington, DC, in my junior year.
After college, Dad urged me to attend Penn for a graduate degree in education, but it felt more like a commuter school than a place where I truly felt part of the campus or student body since I drove in every day from the suburbs to attend classes. Now, here I was, walking through Harvard Yard with its stately brick buildings, students wearing headphones and backpacks, chatting in small groups, and bicycling to classes. The place hummed with the ghosts of John F. Kennedy, FDR, and Helen Keller (she went to Radcliffe) and the likes of a young Barack Obama. There were Harvard dropouts there, too…Matt Damon, who wrote Good Will Hunting, one of my favorite movies, Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates. And Robert Frost.
Daniel and I walked up the steps of the massive brick building with imposing limestone pillars, which is Widener Library. We went inside and read the inscription there. “My father always said we were the same family, just not the rich Weideners,” I said to Daniel, noting the slightly different spelling of the two ‘e’s versus the 3 ‘e’s in my last name. “Ours was the real German spelling, as Dad used to say,” I told my son.
Photos by Susan Weidener
Would my life have been different, more successful, more fulfilling, if I had attended Harvard, I thought, where the world was yours for the taking. Where it seemed everyone was on the fast track to fame and fortune. Now, in my 70s, my youth long evaporated, I wondered: What opportunities had I missed that would never come again? And would it have mattered? And in my mind, was I still being influenced by Dad, who had been dead for 30 years?
How quickly I had gone from a young woman to the many roles I would end up playing in my life. Wife and mother, daughter tending her mother in her final years, journalist, author, and writing teacher. I hoped I had made a difference.
As I walked the Harvard campus, I saw in those young people a mirror of my own youthful reflection. Expectation and thrill of the limitless possibilities of youth in a vibrant place. That night, I saw students dressed in evening gowns and tuxedos, walking arm in arm under the glow of street lamps, illuminating gold elm trees on a balmy October night. Where were they going? What surprises awaited them?
Photo by Susan Weidener
I longed to be young again until I remembered John. I met him when I was twenty-six. If I went back in time, I might never have seen him standing under those white dogwood trees one May afternoon, as the confluence of events in that moment led me to him. Or held close in memory that night under October skies when we first held our older son, Alex…or the September afternoon when Daniel was born four years later. A once-in-a-lifetime journey built on chance and serendipity, and now, Daniel is on this trip with me.
A neighbor recently said to me, “I have one word to describe you.” I was curious. “What is that?” I asked. “Authentic,” he said. “You are an authentic lady.” I smiled, thanked him, and we hugged. I didn’t have to attend Harvard, after all.
There is no going back. There never will be, not for me, not for Adams, or Hancock, not for any of us. All we can do is live this life, embrace our choices, remain curious about myriad possibilities, and hopefully, live to the fullest until the end and our final resting place.
Author’s Note: Our Women’s Writing Circle prompt this month was to write a reflective essay. The above essay is mine, attempting to reflect on an incident or moment in time and the lesson learned. Have you tried writing a reflective essay?
