I wrote a poem while I was preparing to move out of the home where I completed my dissertation during the first year+ of the Covid-19 pandemic. Here it is.
The first time I walked into this room,
I said, "This is where I'm going to write my dissertation."
Now I have.
The room is empty again,
except for me and the cat
and a few pieces of "I still live here
for another five days."
This unexpected retreat
from covid, from campus,
from public life.
This is the closest thing I have felt to closure of the PhD process.
My partner has commented on how many times I've been "done."
One of the lessons is that the work is never done,
only done enough for now.
It feels right to pack up
the piles of paper and desk toys,
the bookcase with its most-referenced third shelf,
the altar where I prayed for strength and patience.
This is a conclusion.
I will never have an experience quite like that one ever again.
I have put it all away,
and it is gone from me.
One by one,
I will open the boxes,
return the books to their shelves,
and cite the same pages.
The work is never done.
I will do the work in a new place,
and it will never be quite the same as it was here,
and the work and I will both go on.
I have completed this time
of solitary study and reflection.
Now it is my right, responsibility, and privilege
to go forth,
to share what I know,
and to grow knowledge with others.