"Hopes, what are they? – Beads of morning Strung on slender blades of grass; Or a spider’s web adorning In a straight and treacherous pass." Wordsworth. . . . I was widowed the first time at 37 years of age. To say that it rocked my world would be an understatement. I breathed only because I had no choice. . . . The following summer, I began a graduate program at a university in another state. It happened to be located in the town where I was born and where I often visited my grandparents when I was a child. Each Sunday morning, I would arise early and walk the familiar streets of the town. No grandparents were living now, but I walked past their houses; the church where I attended with Grandma; the spot where Uncle Jack's little market was; the old academy building where my dad went to school. For hours I explored the little town as if searching for something I couldn't identify. One morning as I was returning to the dorms, I saw a spider's web beaded with dew. It sparkled like a diamond tiara no royal craftsman could ever create. I sat on a large stone and looked into it's depths. The question came, unbidden: "What am I looking for," and the answer came just as quickly: "I am looking for me." Somewhere in two decades of marriage and months of grieving, I had lost myself. In that moment of self-revelation came hope for a future I didn't know I sought. From that moment forward, I began to heal.