A note from the editors: We were deeply saddened to learn of Marcia Deihl's untimely death in Cambridge on March 11, 2015.

Marcia was a beloved contributor whose first submission, a moving homage to her 102-year-old mother, made a deep impression. So did Marcia, whose wit, good humor, grace and sparkle characterized our many emailed editing exchanges. When she came to WBUR to record her essay as a commentary, we discovered that these qualities fairly radiated off her in person. Marcia had charisma and humility to spare. It was a beguiling combination.

That Marcia’s life was cut short on a day when Mother Nature granted her first reprieve in many long months of punishing weather seems especially tragic; the cold had shattered the back window of Marcia’s car – we know because, finding humor in everything, Marcia had emailed us a photo of it. An inveterate bicycle rider who once shared her thoughts about bike lanes with The Boston Globe – “This lane’s a bike lane, this lane is MY lane…” – we were not surprised that Marcia was back out on two wheels yesterday, enticed, no doubt, by the day’s hint of spring.

What follows is Marcia’s most recent submission, "Job Title," a characteristically thoughtful and honest taking stock of her 65 years. How lucky she was to have arrived at such peace of mind, and how unlucky for us all that she is no longer here to share it.

We express our deepest condolences to Marcia’s friends and family. We are glad to have known her and to have shared her writing with our readers.

Job Title

by Marcia Deihl



“She says there’s no success like failure

And that failure’s no success at all.” – Bob Dylan

One of my favorite walks in Cambridge is the Magazine Street Beach nature path near the Boston University Bridge. Thickets of wildflowers, shrubs and grasses line the Charles River. Soccer players, dog walkers and the hookah-and-earbud crowd share the grass with red winged blackbirds and tiny bunnies. But the sight that most draws my eye is that yellow stone industrial-looking building across the river. There I am, in 1967, gazing out the window of my freshman year biology lab.

I was a student in the Division of General Education, a two-year liberal arts program located on the third floor of 855 Commonwealth Ave., which also housed the School of Fine Arts. I distinctly remember looking up from the formaldehyde stench of my poor dead frog, gazing out over the river, and wondering how my life would turn out.

“What will I be?” I had written in a high school poem called “My Future Life.”

I’ve had but a small taste

Of Mother Art

Of creativity and Music & Poetry

And this taste made me hunger for more.

Will a steady diet be too much

Happiness for me to take?

. . . I feel so old

And my life has just begun.

Oh the drama! Why did I fear a steady diet of happiness? What was I going to do — explode? That’s what it felt like; even at 17, my high school dreams had been deferred long enough. I had both the highest IQ and the highest weight in my 70-person class, and I was a magnet for bullies. I’d show them! I’d become a famous artist!

So what happened?