Feminism and Religion

Grief, Grace, and the Eco-Feminist Legacy of Katherine Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia, part 2 by Elanur Williams

Part 1 was posted yesterday.

The Fridging Paradox

Jesse and Leslie’s autonomy is structurally threatened by the narrative’s conclusion, and Leslie’s sudden death invites a critique of the “fridging” trope, a term derived from the comic book industry describing the practice of injuring or killing a female character primarily to serve as a plot device for a male character’s emotional development. Named after a 1994 comic book scene in The Green Lantern where a hero discovers his murdered girlfriend in a refrigerator, the term critiques the tendency in fiction to treat female characters as disposable tools for male growth rather than as autonomous individuals with their own arcs.

In Bridge to Terabithia, this sacrifice unfolds in three critical movements:

The Intersection of the Boundary: When the narrative notes, “The rain had been falling all night… the creek would be angry,” it signals the reassertion of the physical world. The creek acts as the boundary between the wild sanctuary and the dangerous, restrictive reality. By having the creek kill her, the text suggests that the “wild” or “feminine” space is inherently dangerous and incompatible with long-term survival.

The Reduction to Catalyst: In the aftermath, the text frames Leslie’s existence through her utility to Jesse. He realizes “it was up to him to pay back to the world in beauty and caring what Leslie had loaned him in vision and strength.” This is the core of the “fridging” critique; Leslie is explicitly framed as a “loaned” object, and as a resource for Jesse, rather than a person with her own trajectory.
The Post-Death Domesticization: Finally, Jesse assumes control: “He had to teach May Belle, for he was the king of Terabithia, and it was his duty to pass on the crown.” This shift in language marks the institutionalization of their anarchic space. By bringing May Belle in, Jesse settles the “frontier,” turning a radical, feminist space into a legacy for the next generation, effectively cementing Leslie as a relic of the past.

This tension is most visible in how the forest is described. When Leslie is alive, the forest is an active, creative force. Paterson describes how “Leslie had turned into a beautiful wild creature.” Yet, after she is dead, the forest becomes a site of mourning and memory, described as “still, and the creek was clear and cool.”

Would the novel have been more or less feminist if Leslie had lived? Does her death (within the context of a 1970s children’s book) actually provide the only way for a “non-conforming” girl to be fully accepted by the patriarchal structures of Lark Creek?

To view Leslie solely as a plot device is to overlook the novel’s sophisticated, often brutal, exploration of grief as a catalyst for moral maturity. While the “fridging” critique highlights a structural reliance on her death, one might argue Paterson is engaging in a deeper inquiry regarding the necessity of loss in the formation of the self. In this light, Leslie’s death serves not to diminish her agency, but to transition the novel from a fantasy of escapism into a somber, realistic lesson on the burden of growth. She is not merely a tool for Jesse’s development; rather, her death forces the permanent integration of her radical, imaginative spirit into the “real” world. By “loaning” him her vision, Leslie ensures her feminist influence survives her physical body, compelling Jesse to carry that disruptive, egalitarian force into a resistant, patriarchal landscape. She becomes an internalized mentor, suggesting that a true feminist impact is measured by how deeply one’s vision survives in those who remain. Terabithia ceases to be a secret getaway and becomes a foundation for the transformation of others.

It’s also important to keep in mind Paterson writes from a place of deep, personal vulnerability. She began the novel to help her son process the sudden death of his best friend. When we realize this, the “fridging” trope takes on a different hue. While the structural critique holds, it is also an attempt by an author to offer healing for her son.

The Secular Saint: Aesthetic Grace and Mentorship

Some may argue Miss Edmunds serves as the narrative’s secular saint of aesthetic grace. By treating Jesse’s art with profound respect, she acts as a bridge to a wider world, a living testament that one can exist within a rural community without being confined by its rigid gendered expectations. She provides institutional permission for Jesse to value his own sensitivity, effectively acting as the precursor to the creative sanctuary he will later build. While Leslie represents the collaborative, anarchic spirit of childhood, Miss Edmunds offers a glimpse of that same autonomy realized in adulthood. She is the professional, self-actualized woman of the story, and her presence proves to Jesse there is an alternative way to be, an existence defined by the pursuit of beauty and individual purpose.

Looking back, I can see how Leslie’s golden room and her expansive approach to faith taught me one of my first lessons in feminism, religion, and spirituality. It showed me that the borders we build, whether between countries, genders, or theological doctrines, are often artificial. Although the narrative’s reliance on “fridging” reveals a patriarchal constraint, the legacy of Leslie’s vision remains, and continues to inspire.

This piece is part of a series of explorations on children’s literature, spirituality and feminism by Elanur Williams. FAR has posted several of them.
Two pieces on The Chronicles of Narnia which you can read here and here.
Anne of Green Gables which you can read here.

Bibliography and Recommended Reading:

Escaping to Nature: Ecofeminism in the Children’s Book Bridge to Terabithia, by Anandayu Suri Ardini (2023):

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/372862789_Escaping_to_Nature_Ecofeminism_in_the_Children’s_Book_Bridge_to_Terabithia

BIO: Elanur Williams writes from Dublin, Ireland. She holds an MPhil in Children’s Literature and a MS Ed in Literacy Studies. She is a teacher who specializes in reading and writing instruction, as well as a poet whose work has appeared in Eunoia Review, the Ekphrastic Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Cosmic Daffodil, among others. Above all, she is inspired daily by her daughter, whose presence imbues her life with joy, magic, and a sense of limitless possibility.

Grief, Grace, and the Eco-Feminist Legacy of Katherine Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia, part 1 by Elanur Williams

Bridge to Terabithia, First Edition (1977), by Katherine Paterson. Illustrated by Donna Diamond.

There are stories that define our childhoods, and then there are the rare narratives that teach us how to survive the contradictions of adulthood. When my family relocated from Istanbul to a Philadelphia suburb during my elementary school years, I remember feeling suspended between two universes. My efforts to map suburbia onto the vibrant textures of the home I had left behind corresponded with my encounter with Katherine Paterson’s classic novel, Bridge to Terabithia, and its sibling text, Jacob Have I Loved. I remember being completely mesmerized by Leslie Burke’s house, specifically the room she and her parents painted gold. To a child who felt uprooted and out of place, that golden room was a sanctuary of pure possibility. The book was also one of the first I’d encountered that dared to tackle the complexities of grief.

Published in 1977, Bridge to Terabithia reflects the burgeoning spirit of Second-Wave Feminism, a movement that championed the personal as political and sought to dismantle the rigid gender roles of the post-war era. Leslie’s rebellion, however, carries a bittersweet resonance for the modern reader; while her struggle fits the Second-Wave pursuit of liberation, her eventual “fridging” reflects the persistent literary habit of the era to treat female autonomy as a temporary, tragic catalyst for the male hero’s journey.

The Color of Mourning is Greige by Madison Jackson

Life is full of color, and nothing is ever black and white. Mourning teaches us that no color remains alone and that every shade has its season under heaven. People often associate grief with black clothing and dreary weather, but grief isn’t simply black and white. It is greige. Not because grief is dull, but because grief is transitional. Greige is not the absence of color, but the space in which we learn to see color differently. Like mourning itself, we often dismiss neutral colors because they are not eye-catching and feel indecisive. Instead, we gravitate towards vibrant colors and complementary color combinations. Yet greige has become a staple in design because it softens its surrounding colors. Perhaps this is why greige can be associated with the season of mourning, as it does not ask sorrow to replace joy, or memory to replace hope. Instead, it simply creates space for them to exist until another season under heaven arrives.

Mourning is a Season of the Divine by Madison Jackson

If mourning truly had an expiration date, then wouldn’t our memories have one too? We often rush the uncomfortable moments in our lives because we assume pain prevents us from living. In doing so, we begin to treat happiness as the emotional state we are meant to preserve. Yet happiness, like grief, has its own season. It comes and goes, but our memories always stay. In fact, if we truly lived in a permanent state of one emotion then a loss would lose its significance, and our memories would not hold so much power over our emotions.

Judaism understands this paradox well. Rather than treating mourning as something to overcome, Judaism understands mourning as a practice for which the living honor the dead. As Tisha B’Av approaches, the Jewish calendar invites participants into collective grief, by refraining from life’s pleasures, including intimacy and celebration. Then six days later, Tu B’Av marks a season of love and renewal. The transition from Tisha B’Av to Tu B’Av reflects the impermanence of human emotion, as grief and joy come and go, but our memories stay. This vision of life is expressed in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. There is “a time for being born and a time for dying” (Ecclesiastes 3:2), as well as “a time to weep and a time to laugh” Ecclesiastes 3:4. While Lamentations is traditionally read on Tisha B’Av, Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 complements a new perspective on mourning, as mourning is a process that occurs throughout the year, not just on particular days.

She Changes Everything She Touches: A Reflection on Love and Loss, part 1 by Sara Wright

I reflect upon this year as the sun star rises in a northeastern sky. ‘He’ has reached the end of his northeastern journey.

Wave after wave – oceans of grief break over me at dawn – tempered by the same cycle during which I have been graced by a most powerful love in the form of a young canine companion. Love and Loss are such intimate companions.

‘She changes everything she touches, changes…’ during cycles of grief S/he changes nothing at all.

As the solstice bears down on us under a hard blue dome so does the fire. It is hard to believe that three weeks ago temperatures hovered in the 40’s. I resist the stifling heat of June coupled with days of torrential rain, cold, and wind that are presently drowning a field of lilies, wild lupine and roses. Fire and Ice. On good days there is the increased noise flow of man-made machines. Slow down please, I plead. Let me listen to the wood thrush, experience this space in between without bouncing between extremes.

I am feeling resentful, cross over the loss of spring and the relentless rains that destroy every flower just as it begins to bloom. I must honor the child who is heartbroken or I will make things worse. Wildflowers bring her the greatest joy and most have been under perpetual siege by inclement weather. Many plants were not pollinated. Too cold for bees.

Legacy of Carol P. Christ: Has the Phaistos Disk Been Cracked?

This was originally posted on November 10, 2014

Recent headlines in the international press announced that the enigmatic language of the ancient Cretan “Phaistos Disk” has been translated—in part—by the Welch-Cretan scholar Gareth Owens. Owens states that the Phaistos Disk records an ancient hymn to a Mother Goddess. More specifically he claims that one side is dedicated to a Pregnant Goddess and the other to a Birth-Giving Goddess.

All of this is very exciting, but is he right?

I have been leading Goddess Pilgrimages to Crete for that past twenty years, in the course of which I have developed an intimate and scholarly knowledge of the religion and culture of ancient Crete. Participants on my tours sent me the news reports about the Phaistos Disk, assuming I would be thrilled to have confirmation of my understanding that the ancient Cretans worshipped the Goddess as the Source of Life, or as Marija Gimbutas says, as the powers of birth, death, and regeneration in all of life.

Reading the news reports, I noted that archaeologist-translator of the disk, Gareth Owens, identified the Goddess of ancient Crete as a “Mother Goddess” and more specifically as a Pregnant Goddess and a Birth Goddess . This raised a red flag for me. The most well-known Goddesses of ancient Crete, the bare-breasted Snake Goddesses, are neither pregnant nor giving birth. Other Goddesses pour liquids from the breasts, but again are not visibly pregnant or giving birth.

Toni Cade Bambara: How to Care for Oneself While Healing The All (American Woman Writer 1939-1995), part 2 by Theresa Dintino

Part 1 was posted yesterday

The mud mothers, ancestors, began to make themselves visible to her when she was a girl, in the movie theater, on one of the walls in a cave like indentation, “with enormous teeth painting themselves with long hair brushes, painting pictures on the walls of the cave”( SE 254), at church, and in her attic. “In the attic they came in the mirror once. Ten or more women with mud hair, storing yams in gourds and pebbles in cracked calabash. And tucking babies in hairy hides. They came like a Polaroid. Stepping out of the mouth of the cave, they tried to climb out of the speckled glass, talk to her, tell her what must be done all over again, all over again, all over again. But she hung an old velvet drape over the mirror and smothered them. They were not going to run her off her own place, Not the attic “(SE 255). In church and at the theater she avoided looking at them.

For Velma and for Bambara, it is the spiritual roots of her ancestors and ancestry from Africa that come calling, the mud mothers. In Velma’s town there are mentors and guides and Aunties and godmothers, all levels of support and care available in claiming her gifts that Velma has left behind, rejected. Yet, when the book ends she will return to this, she has agreed to take up the mantle in order to be well.

For African Americans in particular, Bambara believes reconnecting with the ancestors—the ancestors that their ancestors were taken from— is part of the healing wanting to happen. That this was left out of the civil rights movement. That honoring ancestors is part of this lineage and that the ancestors are there and waiting. That slavery often disrupted this connection but it is there, the ancestors are there, for the reconnection if one is willing.

Toni Cade Bambara: How to Care for Oneself While Healing The All (American Woman Writer 1939-1995), part 1 by Theresa Dintino

Moderator’s Note: This piece is in co-operation with The Nasty Women Writers Project, a site dedicated to highlighting and amplifying the voices and visions of powerful women. The site was founded by sisters Theresa and Maria Dintino. To quote Theresa, “by doing this work we are expanding our own writer’s web for nourishment and support.” This was originally posted on their site on August 11th, 2020. You can see more of their posts here.

While reading adrienne maree brown’s Pleasure Activism for #NastyWomenWriters, I was stopped in my tracks by the praise coming forward in that book for black feminist, writer, activist, film maker and mentor Toni Cade Bambara (1939-1995).

brown writes:

“Toni Cade Bambara, author of The Salt Eaters, the one to tell us writing was a tool for the revolution, that our task was to make revolution irresistible. Bambara is a main stream in the lineage of pleasure activism, not just because of what she put on the page and into words, but also because of the ways she wove community, the way she supported other writers and organizers, the way she engaged in healing work” (45).

In the chapter “The Sweetness of Salt,” author and activist Alexis Pauline Gumbs, archivist and scholar of Bambara’s work, writes about five women who have been instrumental in her life and work: “scholar Farah Jasmine Griffin, filmmaker and activist Aishah Shahidah Simmons, artist and abolitionist Kai Lumumba Barrow, healer and organizer Cara Page, and editor and intellectual activist Cheryll Y. Greene”(46), who were all personally influenced, mentored, “sistered” and “mothered” by Bambara. It was these women’s recounting of their experiences with Bambara that caused me to go find her for myself.

Patriarchy Unbound by Janet Maika’i Rudolph

Some new terms in our language have been after people. Both the terms sadism and masochism were so named according to etymologyonline.

Here is what the site says about sadism: “love of cruelty,” especially as evidence of a subconscious lust that the cruelty satisfies, 1888, from French sadisme, from the name of Count Donatien A.F. de Sade (1740-1815). Not a marquis, though usually now called one, he was notorious for the cruel sexual practices described in his novels.”

And here is what the site says about masochism: “The word masochism originates from the name of Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, an Austrian novelist best known for his 1869 novel Venus in Furs, which explored themes of submissive sexuality and domination.”

I have a new term to add that I would like to add to our vocabulary: Robertism to be named after John Roberts. Here is my definition: love of cruelty, not just cruelty by itself but by spreading cruel acts as widely and far as possible while giving them the authority of legality. Robertism encourages the most base and ugly parts of human behavior, brings them to the surface to be expressed in actions that are given permission through legal cover.

The Legacy of Carol P. Christ: Patriarchy As An Integral System of Male Dominance Created at the Intersection of the Control of Women, Private Property, and War, Part 3

Part 2 was posted yesterday. You can read it here, or the original in the link below.

Patriarchy is a system of male dominance, rooted in the ethos of war which legitimates violence, sanctified by religious symbols, in which men dominate women through the control of female sexuality, with the intent of passing property to male heirs, and in which men who are heroes of war are told to kill men, and are permitted to rape women, to seize land and treasures, to exploit resources, and to own or otherwise dominate conquered people.

As the discussion of patriarchy* I began last week and the week before shows, patriarchy is not simply the domination of women by men. Patriarchy is an integral system in which men’s control of women’s sexuality, private property, and war (including violence, conquest, rape, and slavery) each play a part. These different elements are so intertwined that it is impossible to separate one as the cause of the others. Patriarchy is an integral system of interlocking oppressions, enforced through violence, and legitimated by religions.

The model of patriarchy I have proposed argues that the control of female sexuality is fundamental to the patriarchal system. This explains why there is so much controversy about the “simple matter” of access to birth control and abortion in the US today. It also explains why so much vicious anger is directed at single mothers by politicians and commentators. Any woman who dares to control her own sexuality is questioning the foundations of the patriarchal system.