When Temporary Permanently Expires

As I was preparing to uproot myself and move away, I realized how much the act of moving brings time and its temporary-ness to the forefront of life. Suddenly, weeks are fleeing and leaving behind only days, and eventually the days hand out numbered minutes until none remain and it becomes “time.”

Perhaps this is life, though- a series of moments that are innately temporary but which we are so keenly deluded by their perceived permanence and longevity.

As much as I know that something is temporary, I always still grant it permission to carve out a permanent space in my mind and my heart. It deeply roots itself in my memory and becomes tangled in the roads and highways of my emotions.

I think back to an event which I always knew would be temporary- graduate school at UIC.

I knew that when I began UIC it was a temporary two years. I was on borrowed time and residing in rented spaces. But nonetheless, it became my home. It carved its nooks and settled inside of me so comfortably that attempting to resist it would have been criminal.

There were people there, and places there, and small, tucked-away spaces there…oh, Dr. Suess and the places you’ll go! I considered these things- these people and places and small, tucked-away spaces- mine; I owned them. The Damen and Schiller bus stop was my stop. Locker 152 at the West Campus Gym was my locker. The seat in the front row, slightly to the left in SPH 132 was my seat. In reality, these were shared spaces; others’ ownership overlapped with mine. Someone else is currently waiting at the Damen and Schiller bus stop, enjoying the view of the park and the smell of Stan’s Donuts. Another is using locker 152, playing a combined game of Tetris and Jenga, manipulating and balancing a pair of gym shoes, a lunch, and a school bag inside of a tiny locker. The left-center seat in SPH 132 knows countless notes, naps, and worried frowns of those who have sat there.  So these places may not be mine, but my memory of them is.

Maybe- just maybe- there’s a small, little piece that is mine. Maybe it’s just in my mind, maybe just in my heart, but most likely in both. It was mine for those ten minutes every morning, for the hour and a half every other weekday, and for the 50 minutes every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. I will probably never return to the stop, refill the locker, or settle into that desk again. Others will leave too, their temporary time permanently expired. Those places, though? They are what remains and so will the ownership in our head and our hearts. And that’s life- our time is temporary, but our ownership of the memories- the people and the places, the sometimes small, tucked away spaces- those are permanent.

And so it became “time” on a rainy July morning. My permanent home slipped between my fingers allowing space and open hands for a new residence- Houston. In that time, Texas has passed out its days to me, a number of nights, and some ticked away minutes. I am aware, just as I was at UIC, that parts here are temporary, but for now I’m making the wise mistake of letting them settle in my bones as if they are everlasting. That is, afterall, the beauty of the temporary- it is we who control its permanence.

Gramily (Grad Family)

When I think of graduate school, I always think of my life map. I must confess that I often laugh at my life map- mainly because I don’t think it is a typical one. If you gave a three-year-old a map and box of crayons and let him go to town- that’s what my life map would look like. A few crazy turns, lots of loops, plenty of crossover, and loads of overlap. Nonetheless, I am proud of my life map. It’s covered with a variety of lines, all different shades and shapes. I’ve never been afraid to take a sharp right, follow the hairpin turn, or go down the road less traveled (which, by the way, is the road I’ve paved myself). And when I look at my life map, I always see friends drawn in the various pathways and intersections.

These lines remind me of what I’ve been told throughout my life- if you can count the number of true friends one more than one hand, you’re either really lucky or really stupid. I’m really lucky.

I’ve gained knowledge through lectures, articles, discussions, videos, and conferences throughout grad school and I can tell you, the most solidified realization has been that your cohort becomes a family you didn’t choose but, rather, is linked forever to your life through fate.

Few people will understand the difficult T.A., the late night study session coupled with an early morning class, the unmanageable amount of work, and the disappointment in what sometimes just is.

Fewer people will understand the excitement of securing an internship, the inspiration of a thoughtful lecture, the triumph of a final presentation, or the hours in a coffee shop broken by the smiles and chatter of friends.

These people? They will go to Hell and back with you and will do it with smiles, laughs, and the windows down the entire time. These are your graduate school friends. The ones who- when you are so tightly wrapped in the possibility of a perceived personal failure- can unwind you. The ones who understand that your lows are temporary and your highs are solidly representative of whom you truly are. The ones who will always tell you it will work out and who are always right.

I think that we often associate a thick black line with something negative, something finished, something forever removed. But thick black lines aren’t always ugly. On my life map, they are the ones that connect us; the ones that can’t be erased, covered up, or broken; the roads that bind us to each other for life. So, as I navigate graduate school, the three-year-old in charge of my life map has a thick black crayon and is scribbling away…and never has that thick black line looked so good.