I’m done. Really done. That’s it. No more. Paper-turned-in. Books put away.
Done.
Silence.
It’s been exactly 3 days since I finished my last final. Wrote on the role of the female narrative in Wright’s Native Son. I did ok on it. Not my best paper. For being my last of over three hundred papers, it could have been better. I turned it in anyway.
I walked out of Columbine last Thursday morning to a crisp air that hit my face. I listened as the door slammed behind me.
I’m done.
I watched a group of laughing hipster girls walk into the building as I walked out. I walked past them swiftly as I eyed my car. I felt my feet dragging as I walked further and further away.
I’m done.
I smiled. I began to skip, just a little. Recognizing that there were others around, I casually sauntered. Crisp air felt like freedom. This moment felt overwhelming and underwhelming all at the same time. I wanted to scream, yell, laugh, throw my fists in the air and scream I DID IT at the top of my lungs.
Hundreds of thousands of students graduate every year. They order their cap and gowns. They order graduation announcements. They get their degrees in disciplines like “Communications” or “Business” as they simply go through the motions. One thing down, another few to go…
Not me. I fought for this degree. I clawed tooth and nail. I took every summer semester, every May semester and every fall and spring semester for this degree. I listened to Cohen tell me over and over that he missed me for this degree. I told Zac “not tonight” for this degree. I missed birthdays, anniversaries, get-togethers and laughter for this degree. I traded in my social life for this degree. I spent hours and hours at the library for this degree. I wrote hundreds and hundreds of papers for this degree.
My degree. Mine. I did it. I’m done.
I sat in my car and my eyes became weak with tears. I cried. Then I sobbed. Then I couldn’t even breathe. Picasso once said, “Action is the key to all success.”
I acted furiously.
Sophocles said, “Success is depended on effort.”
I gave all my effort.
Aching, bleeding and content heart, I sat sobbing in my car. My first year of college flashed before me when I was pregnant and barely passed any of my classes. I was birthing something new, something precious, something I could not understand.
I acted furiously.
Baby, marriage, hard marriage, hard financial times, hard parenting, hard life, hard… times.
I gave it all my effort.
It was so anticlimactic and climactic all at once. The dichotomy astounded me.
I did it for me. I did it because it meant something far more complex than a simple diploma. I did it for Cohen and the story I will tell him. I did it for my marriage. I did it to prove to myself that commitment is valuable. That time and effort birth something extravagant. To birth a moment like today when I can look at my friends and family and say yes, five years of non-stop schoolwork, yes, I can, yes I did.
A common Buddhist saying is that “If you are facing the right direction…just keep on walking.”
I walked, I ran, I sprinted, I cried, I screamed, I loathed, I lost, but yet.
I gave it all my effort.
My degree is not mine but Zacs, Cohens, my parents, my extended family and my friends. Without the grace and practical help from them… I would be nothing and have nothing.
I started my car. I drove away. My keys clanked back and forth on my legs as my eye darted toward the rearview mirror. What’s next? One long chapter closed, now what?
I acted furiously.
I gave it all my effort.
My heart is full. Sweet, sweet grace.
