The emails are starting to flood in. This weekend marks the two-week countdown until I get in my car and head one hour west to spend a week on campus for my third residency since starting graduate school last year. As one of the requirements towards my MFA in Professional Writing, I spend seven days sleeping in a dorm complete with roommates and lots of wine -- all requirements (well maybe not the wine) of working towards my Masters. The sessions are quite intense but exhilarating. We are "on" officially from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m., twelve hours attending workshops in the morning, workshops and presentations in the afternoon, meeting with our mentors to design our syllabi for the semester (Note: a sign of how far I've come in a year is that I can finally spell syllabi correctly and remember that it's the plural form of syllabus...I think), writing, reading our writing, critiquing our writing -- generally immersing ourselves in the passion we all share -- the written word.
Of course, you would think that this means we --specifically me, the working mother who regularly falls asleep with her kids by nine -- would take advantage of being away from home to get an early lights out and a good night's sleep, but no. Perhaps the most fascinating thing I've learned to date is that college life is a lot like riding a bicycle. It's amazing how naturally staying up late, drinking too much wine, and getting up four hours later with an adrenaline rush to do it all again comes back to you like it was yesterday (although doing it in my forties, I have noticed that I go home looking a bit more worn around the edges.)
Looking back now with one year into the program, 32 credits down, an article about to be published, a novel in the works, a nonfiction book in progress, a children's picture book manuscript near completion, and lots of really good articles and essays written, I know that making the major decisions I did last year were the right ones at the right time.
But I still remember that day, driving to Danbury to start residency and my academic adventure. I was scared to death for the first time in a very long time. I felt like one of those washed up, aged celebrities on a reality tv show who come together at a house and try to live with each other for a week. I kept thinking there was a video camera somewhere catching all of this, and that the during the week fantastic footage would be captured of battling roommates, cat fights, and at least one nervous breakdown ignited from the pressure. I prayed it wouldn't be me. I already thought I'd gone nuts.
I arrived at my dorm, totally out of my element. Here I was, used to being in a suit or designer career wear, striding confidentally into a room to make a presentation, facilitate a meeting, or participate in a networking event. Instead, I was greeted by the program coordinator's assistant handing me my allocated roll of toilet paper and a bag of pillows. She took me on the rickety elevators to the second floor. The dorm had that musty, summer break smell to it, of carpets that had seen so much action that any further attempts to steam clean them would most certainly lead to disintegration.
I was the first to arrive at my dorm suite, consisting of a central living area, galley kitchen, three bedrooms, and two baths with a delightful balcony providing a scenic view of the parking lot. Being first to arrive, I got to pick which bedroom I wanted. I checked out all three -- there didn't appear any advantage to one over the others -- so I did a quick "eeny, meeny, miney, mo," plopped down my bag of pillows, and looked around. Alone now, I took in my surroundings, which I would call home for the week. There were the classic cinder block dorm style walls, painted white with those rush job drips showing up all over the place. The stripped mattress perched on top of a metal frame. A metal desk pushed up against one wall, with a matching dresser on the opposite side of the room.
All at once I missed my family and I missed the comforts of what I knew, what felt safe. Just six months earlier I was at the Ritz Carlton in Naples, Florida at a company meeting with a gorgeous room and a view of the water. I had more amenities than I could count, relaxing massages at the spa, good natured but competitive tennis matches with racquet-wielding colleagues, and all the soft, high grade, baby powder fresh toilet paper I wanted. My first thought was, "this must be what Martha Stewart felt like when she went to prison." My second thought was more dramatic. "What the hell have I done?" The response to both was a rush of tears. I began to cry.
I wanted to run away, to get back in my car and head east. I wanted to call my husband and tell him I had made a terrible mistake. I wanted to tell myself that I couldn't write, that this was all a ridiculous idea anyway. But instead, I wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, and did what years working for companies had trained me to do. I thought hard about my dilemma, thought through my options, and made a decision. This had been my dream for a very long time. I was here. I had to give it the week. If at the end of the residency I felt the same way, I would need to reevaluate my decision.
Of course, by the end of that very evening I knew I was exactly where I should be. What I still didn't totally comprehend was how much learning, growing, and experiencing was in store, or what a giant step this would turn out to be for woman taking in her midlife. I had no idea how much I was going to learn about myself in the months and years ahead, who I had become, who I could aspire to be. The adventure of my next phase of life was just beginning.
That's me on the left with Ron, Carmen, Don, and Kim at the post-ceremony reception.
Here I am, when I was 22-years-old, getting my bachelor's degree. Everything was looking up --we were young and ready to conquer the world! I had originally been a biology major (pre-med) for three years and sort of double-majored in English because I liked it, but finally realized my true calling was with the language and words, and ended up graduating with a B.A. English, specialization in professional writing, and a Minor in Biology.
