Waiting

For me, this is a torturous time of year. Ever since last March, I have been relentlessly devoted to one goal: getting into graduate school. More specifically, getting admitted into a Direct Entry PhD program in Art History. It would be true to say that my single-minded obsession has placed blinders on my eyes, rendering me unable to stray from the path, even when I thought it would be easier to do so. I researched the schools and their faculties. I emailed countless professors. I travelled to New York to meet with some of them. I saw the campuses, and I imagined myself there; however, this was no stretch since I have imagined myself on those very campuses every day since last March. I wrote the proposals and statements. I redrafted them. I proofread them until I felt I had read every word a trillion times. Then, I submitted them.

I did it.

They are safely in the hands of the admissions committees who will now mull over a decision that could potentially affect the next seven years of my life. It is a relief to know that I have finished with any type of applications for the time being. Now, I find myself at the end of January, grappling with the typical fourth year flurry of readings and assignments. The flurry is supposed to distract me from the results I am anxiously awaiting. Even though I am in the midst of this flurry, I still seem to jump when an email appears in my inbox. Maybe this is it, I think, even though my extensive research reminds me that this would be premature. It seems as though nothing can make me busy enough to forget that I am waiting for these answers.

Earlier this week, I explained to my father how challenging this time is. I told him that I find it difficult to remain motivated in these in-between moments in life. He told me that these in-between moments are life.