In two tidy stacks on my kitchen counter sit volumes I & II of my capstone. Every last line read and triple-checked until my eyes are bleary and the words swim before my eyes, meaning lost into the exhausted ether. The footnotes in Volume I have been matched to the documentation in Volume II, the cover designed and carefully printed, and to the bindery is bound. C’est fini.
Bean went to school with me today. My lab this week was on vulcanology and igneous rock forming forced in the mantle. He dug it, and drew anatomically correct models of bumblebees being pelted by magma as he perched, looking so tiny, in the college-sized forum seat next to me. The fold-up mini desk was especially enchanting, and he boasted the rest of the day that he’s now been to college. My prof never batted an eye. I think I’ll take Abby and Jeff too, at some point.
Three classes at Eastern, and one class online with BYU. That’s it. Now that the capstone is done— seven weeks. That’s all that lies between me and graduation. And moving. 2498 miles of continent between me and a brave new world.
I found three boxes of photo albums— my children’s entire babyhood— in the garage, miraculously, utterly, untouched by the rain that ruined everything. How’s that for a tender mercy?
A sister from the RS called me this morning and wanted to know what they could do to help me. I couldn’t even put together a coherent sentence, and she said it was clear I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know what to say to that either. If I think too much about what I have to do before the middle of June, I worry I will start to scream and never stop. Or cry, and never stop. Or laugh maniacally and never stop.
Here’s a partial list: Graduate from college, sort and cull an entire house, pack what is to take, have a yard sale with what is to leave, sell bikes washer dryer furniture sofas, find a job in Virginia, register the kids for school in Virginia, coordinate cross country move, get ready for grad school to start, all the end of school stuff for a Kindergartner, a 3rd grader and a 5th grader and and and I can’t think about it anymore; see above, about the primal scream.
I’m treating myself to the Crate & Barrel catalog as a treat; it’s the first non-academic reading in months. Livin’ large- C&B and some chai tea. Ooooh yeahhhhh. Boom chicka wow woooowww…