Song of thyself

Each fall, faculty members take to the podium in Phillips Church, in front of peers, students and friends, to deliver meditations. There is no template or paradigm for a meditation. Most are personal and evolve from thinking about life and one’s place in it.

One of the earliest published collections of meditations states: “The meditations may well signify the best of what Phillips Exeter Academy seeks to nurture within its community: clear cogent expression, observation and contemplation, respect for others, and a sense of the complex interrelatedness of humankind.”

Here is an excerpt of the meditation Lauren Josef shared with the community this fall.

I always looked forward to a tradition my dad started where he’d sing to me on my birthday eve. When I was turning 5, he sang, “Daddy’s little girl is growing up in the world, and you’ll never be 5 again.” Five was the time for a Barney-themed birthday party, forcing my next tooth to be loose during class, the Girl Scout Law, and heating up steak and potatoes for breakfast. Five was the time for playing house in my friend Kristina’s basement and always playing the role of mom. Sometimes I would cave and dive headfirst into embodying the sister, but I was usually the mom. Coming home from work, rocking the baby, making spaghetti and playing a really great mom. Five was when I started to understand death, and I had a hard time falling asleep because I was thinking about the idea of my parents dying — falling deep into a void, disappearing forever. I’d get out of bed, walk downstairs, my parents were usually watching TV. “I’m scared,” I’d say. Mom would always walk me back up.

“Daddy’s little girl is growing up in the world, and you’ll never be 12 again.” Twelve was the age my skirts were too short and I started wearing makeup. Twelve was when I wanted an older sister more than anything, so she could tell my mom I wanted a bra, so I didn’t have to. Our sixth grade talent show was fast approaching, and “Lean on Me” by Bill Withers was it. Amanda Pollack and I had rehearsed for weeks on her bedroom floor. If I was nervous, I don’t remember. I recall feeling brave and proud, lights bright on my face, and Eric Irwin, the class bully, telling me I had a nice voice afterwards.

“Daddy’s little girl is growing up in the world, and you’ll never be 16 again.” Sixteen was all about driving. I went straight to the DMV the day I turned 16. Buying my own CDs and learning every word, belting with the windows down. Sixteen was All-State Show Choir and driving to school with my friend Kyle. Cracking up in the car for an hour together every morning, just to get the good parking spot. It was making up characters and voices with my theater friends and going to parties for the first time. Making my own money on roller skates as a carhop at Sonic. Sixteen was when I got into an argument with my parents about grades — I only had so much time in the day, and I was totally fine getting Bs if it meant I had time to memorize lines.

Over the holidays we always went to my grandparents’ house, and that year my family wanted me to sing for them. I was nervous. I quickly realized how vastly different it felt to be singing on stage under blindingly bright lights to being in your dimly lit grandparents’ house (or a church), with the people you love the most staring at you with bated breath and eyes of encouragement. I’d been putting on shows and directing my cousins in my own made-up plays for years! I forced Monica to wear the pink leotard because the black one looked better on me as we sashayed across the living room floor. I improvised a plot, came up with the blocking. At the end I’d be beaming, arm in arm with Monica, Wyatt and Dillon as our parents clapped and full-blown hand-whistled at us. This moment in my grandparents’ living room felt very different. I was so nervous, I almost didn’t do it. Mom said, “You can do this, Lar.”

The song was an aria called “Tu Lo Sai,” a classic. A piece from one of those anthologies that everyone sings their first Italian aria from. After some bargaining and pleading with my family, we finally reached a compromise. I would sing, but only if I faced the wall. And that’s exactly what I did. I sang the entire aria to the wall. When I turned around, my Aunt Leslie, my Grandma Audrey, and my mom were all sobbing. Leslie’s never held back; she’s always been one to really blow her nose and let out little puffs of sing-songy sounds while she’s lamenting. Mom was teary-eyed, face damp, and Grandma was tastefully dabbing at her eyes with her crumpled tissue. I took it all in, rebooted, and had the guts to sing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” looking right at my mom.

I’ve been watching The Wizard of Oz since I can remember. Our first house in Roanoke, I would run all the way to the back of the house when the Wicked Witch came on. My mom was folding laundry and assured me she’d fast-forward through that part. The movie, the story, has followed me. My mom actually saved her original L. Frank Baum books from when she was little. She somehow knew she wanted to give them to her future children, and I loved them just as much as she did! I sang “Over the Rainbow” at my senior recital, I sang it for an impromptu jam in the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and a few years later I tried to sing it to Mom when she was in hospice.

“Daddy’s little girl is growing up in the world, and she’ll never be 31 again.” Oof, 31 was a time of becoming an adult, supposedly. Of watching my family hurt more than I could ever imagine, of keeping busy and settling into my new full-time job here at PEA. It was a time of calling Dad every day, unable to read between the lines. Thirty-one is when I directed “The Wizard of Oz” here at Phillips Exeter, and it opened not even a year after Mom died. I poured every ounce of myself into that show, serving as director and costume designer — everyone had at least four costumes.

A technicolor story of whimsical dreams, of following your heart and a reminder that even when all the clouds darken up the skyway, there’s a rainbow highway to be found. I told the cast on Day 1 that my mom had died in April and how meaningful that story was to me. I couldn’t hold it in, I had to say it, my mom taught me to put it all out there. To say what you feel in your heart. Just a couple weeks after the show closed, we were on spring break, and I found out that I was pregnant with Lily.

“Daddy’s little girl is growing up in the world, and she’ll never be 37 again.” Mom was silly and fun — there were times I almost peed my pants from laughing so hard with her. She fought fiercely for what she believed in and commanded a room in her little 5-foot-1½-inch frame. (The half really counts; she taught me that.) She loved so deeply, and cried tears of joy all the time. “It’s not because I’m sad,” she’d say. “I’m just so happy!” She felt every feeling and never apologized for it. She talked it through, because there was no way she was stuffing anything down. Mom was up on that dance floor, owning it. She was preaching YOLO before it was even a thing. You only live once.

I feel her in me, as a mom. I am inspired to be brave, like she always was. I dive into the uncomfortable because she taught me that I’m strong and I’ll be OK. I can sing in front of people as they’re looking at me, I can dance whenever I want. I am her as a mom. I do get it. I am me, and I am my mom. Just as Lily is Lily, but she is also me.

Lauren Josef joined the Academy in 2018. She is the chair of the Department of Theater and Dance, Costume Designer and Director of Costumes.

This article was first published in the winter 2025 issue of The Exeter Bulletin.