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"There’s nothing so lifeless as an old calendar, unless it be last year’s diary. Which, Maria thought, is a bit silly, because time isn’t uninteresting just because it’s time that has been had, rather than time that is still to come."
Penelope Lively, A Stitch in Time
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Graduation!!
I did it! I graduated. What?! you say. You finished your Ph.D. in seven months? Well, not exactly.
The Cambridge system is a magical place where things exist because they always have, not because they necessarily make sense. I ‘finished’ my M.Phil. at the end of June last summer when I turned in my thesis. I got my results back in September, officially ending my time as a Master’s student. Then I needed to officially graduate in order to be recognized as holding that degree.
There is no set time as to when one graduates. There are various Saturdays set throughout the year, and you just pick one. I know a good friend who chose the first available Saturday after finding out our results. My friends and I scattered ours throughout the year so that we might attend each other’s, particularly as another friend and I have family in America who just couldn’t make the trip across the large pond.
Yesterday was my day.
I figured getting this degree wouldn’t be that big of a deal as I am now in the middle of my Ph.D., and I am living in the same flat, on practically the same course, have the same lecturers, etc. But it was. Donning the gown and hood with the ridiculously precise regulation dress meant stepping into line with the thousands of Cambridge graduates who have come before me.
I stepped up and grasped the hand of the representative of my college, who then vouched for my good character in Latin. They announced my name and I knelt before the conferrer of my degree, in this case the Master of St. Edmund’s College. He clasped my hands and spoke over me in Latin, then I took a step back and nodded. Then it was over. Yet in those few minutes I had joined an 800 year old tradition, and added my legacy to that of the university attended by Milton, Darwin, Newton, Byron, and Emma Thompson.
Picture courtesy of Erica
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"‘Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.’"
Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass
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The Power of Sunshine
It has been raining on and off for the last three weeks. And this has been no sissy rain either - it’s accompanied by wind and cold, enough to ruin my umbrella and leave me quite cross, not to mention at risk for ‘catching my death of cold.’ It’s the sort of rain that taints even the greatest of optimists’ mood.
This weekend has been the first full two days’ relief from rain that I can remember in that stretch - sunny days in the 60s! I have broken out my shorts (at times wearing less clothes than the Brits who are notorious for underdressing when the sun shines). I have had a picnic and read outside, attempting to bring as much Vitamin D into the next week has humanly possible.
It amazes me how my mood has completely brightened. For the first weekend in ages I have not been overwhelmingly stressed about my research. I have taken time to enjoy life, rereading a book that has nothing to do with children or the early twentieth century or methodology. (There is something about rereading that seems like the greatest splurge. I already know what is going to happen, and have found it worthy to re-explore. Plus, I can’t be working toward the great list of books I should read in order to be a better person.) I have indulged in yoga and tamed curiosity by learning more about the country of Ecuador. All of these things I have neglected due to stress, and it was the hope of the sunshine that reminded me that I have to live, too.
To celebrate it I recommend a lovely listen to George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun.” (It’s only in living in England that I can truly appreciate why he would write this song!)
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Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all.And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.By Emily Dickinson
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"It isn’t the big troubles in life that require character. Anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh - I think that requires spirit."
Jean Webster, Daddy-Long-Legs
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Problem 32
Whenever I took exams in college I always wanted to be the first one finished. As soon as another student beat me that was it, I had lost at some race known only to me. The more people I watched leave the classroom, the more I felt trapped, like I would be stuck trying to decide between answers A and B forever.
This year has been rough research-wise. I have had good starts, huge pitfalls, and a change of mind. I have never undertaken a project this big before, and at times it can seem frightfully overwhelming. The abstract concepts and broad brush strokes of the upgrade viva have been more of a burden than a joy. Sometimes the finish line seems lightyears away. My fellow students are pulling away in the race. I am once again left sitting in the classroom, stuck on problem 32.
Back in college, I always found forgetting who was around me and focusing on what I knew, rather than how much of the test (and test takers) was left, was the key to a strong finish. That is a life lesson better undertaken in a 50 question exam, but just as applicable in a three-year degree.
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May Week 2011
I came across this old post about last year’s May Week, and though May Week is still a month away, it is already the bright spot on the horizon - the end of Easter Term and the beginning of summer, and my return home. So, I thought I would share it before my memories became eclipsed by new adventures:
May Week is a traditional ‘party’ week in Cambridge, falling near the end of June despite its name. It involves loads of garden parties and all-night balls hosted by the colleges that the undergrads might celebrate finishing their exams. Some graduate students have also finished their work, but not those of us in the Faculty of Education, so my week consisted of parties in-between library visits.
I only attended one garden party, and lovely as it was, it was ‘nothing to write home about.’ However, the two balls are quite noteworthy. They last all night and generally include musical entertainment, carnival-like rides, food and a lot of alcohol. My friend Erin and I opted to work the St. Johns ball, as it was a bit too pricey for our budget, but monumental as it was celebrating its 500th year. (Anniversaries like this make America seem so young!) We were in charge of trash duty, but we also cleaned up broken glass, collected dirty glasses and poured out port—like I said, a lot of alcohol. The ball itself was stunning. The theme was pretty much ‘St. Johns is awesome’ with each courtyard dedicated to a famous graduate, including an explorer of Antarctica (where there was fake snow, a bar made of ice and paper-mache penguins), William Wordsworth (there were daffodils and my favourite poem was projected onto the walls) and one of the prime ministers of India (there was a paper-mache elephant, fabric draped everywhere and shrines of sorts displayed). There were performing horses, an epic firework show, live bands and bumper cars. It was incredible. But after our eight hour shift, Erin and I were more than ready to go home. I was covered in food and champagne-spillage and laying on the sidewalk by the time the cab arrived to take us home.
The other May Ball I attended was of a much lower key. It was here at Homerton, and several friends and I went together. The theme was Camelot - Homerton doesn’t have a big ego, unlike some colleges (cough-Johns-cough). We spent the evening feeling like royalty, as food was offered, including some much sought after candy floss (cotton candy). There were performances throughout the evening - an improv skit, of which a dear friend of mine was part, and a barber shop quartet. We danced a ceilidh as the sun came up, and managed to last until the ‘survivor’s photo’ just past 6am. (And never have I been so aware of how hard those serving me were working!) All in all, it was a very magical evening.
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Dreams by Langston Hughes.
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.~ Langston Hughes
