Just Stuff

It hasn't rained since we moved here to Davis.

When we left Colorado, it was dry.  Now friends of mine have dealt with flooding in their apartments and homes.  Most, thankfully, were very lucky.  Others seem to have lost everything.  It's credit to my friends who have to say they feel lucky and fortunate, that they're still afloat and functioning, that it's "just stuff."  Sure, they admit it hurts to lose, but they're strong...probably stronger than I'd be in the same circumstances.

I get how important "Just Stuff" can be.  This move was the first major move I've made in over ten years; the first big move since dropping out of college and moving to Colorado Springs.  All the little moves I've made since then didn't cut me off from people I knew like this one has.  Visiting my friends in Denver or the Springs isn't a day trip anymore, and the majority of my California friends don't live here anymore.  I'm excited for Davis, but it's a foreign land to both myself and my fiancee.  We don't know the roads very well, and know very few people here.  Davis doesn't feel like home like Denver did.  It will, but it will take some time to get there.

Our apartment, though, very much feels like home.  I'm currently sitting wrapped in a blanket I've owned for 8 years, in front of a television I've owned for 3.  The Darth Vader helmet my mother bought me when I was a child is sitting on top of the TV stand, and the Rock Band drumset that's been beaten to hell by both myself and my friends stands in front of the fireplace.  These things are familiar to me; they don't define me, but they reinforce me.  They're "my" things, and each one is something I bought or was bought for me because of who I am, and that makes this home.  Erin's mountain of DVDs are in the corner, still not quite shelved properly, and a set of old bookends sit next to the Vader helmet.  This is her place too, and it is the sharing of our things and the addition of a new TV stand and couch we picked out for ourselves that makes this apartment definitively "ours", even though we've only been here a week.  It may be "Just Stuff," but it's comforting to see ourselves within it.

This is why I feel sorry for those who've lost so much.  Even the most rudimentary object can be an album of memories.  It's the connection to memory we lament, the loss of this stabilizing force of our identities.  I wish I could be there physically for my friends, but the best I can do is wish them luck.

Hugs to you all.

And with that, I'm done.

As soon as I finish writing this, I will walk out the door of the Science building's room 3027 and probably never enter this specific room again.  For over a year now it's been a place of joy, comraderie, and growth. It's also been a place of frustration, stress, and hard work.  It's been a safe haven for me and an obligation, and I can comfortably say there's never been a single moment where I didn't want to be here.  It's the research lab that I've trained in, and I've built memories here that will last me a lifetime.

It wasn't until I signed the last page of my notebook and slid it into my drawer that it hit me just how much I will miss this room.  I'll miss the ancient computer that sometimes has trouble running the nanodrop 2000.  I'll miss the whiteboard from the other lab, constantly filled with hilarious comments and drawings (currently there's a drawing of the moon with a person and a beaver on it, with the words "Beavers ARE Like Humans Because beavers DID Land on THE MOON :).  Also a duck asking a kid if he wants some Quack.)  I'll miss the gorgeous view overlooking the campus and parts of Denver, that on more than one occasion distracted me from my work.  Most of all, though, I'll miss the people.  It's trite, but I really will.  I'll remember them all fondly, and while a couple are facebook friends now, I know it won't be the same as seeing them 3-4 times a week.

Most of all, however, I'm going to miss my mentor in this project.  She's been a huge asset to me and helped me to grow from the ignorant, inexperienced student hoping to learn how to run a gel to the slightly-less ignorant, bit more experienced student who's leaving today.  She welcomed my mistakes, and never once was irritated when I screwed up a gel or eluted a plasmid in 500 microliters of buffer instead of 50 (though for that one I think she laughed a little, and rightly so).  She's the first college instructor that I really felt I could speak plainly with about things outside of academia, and she helped me grow in confidence as a student and as a researcher.  I wouldn't have applied to Harvard if it wasn't for her, not because she encouraged me to directly, but because her confidence and support allowed me to feel confident enough to reach for the unlikely.  She showed me that you can be brilliant and be human without having to sacrifice either, and I will miss working for her more than the view or the whiteboard.

I'm looking forward to the future, but it's sad to leave the present.  Graduation is less than two weeks away, and is at once glorious and somber.  Leaving this lab today is a microcosm of the bigger issue: soon I will be leaving everything that's been familiar to me for the last five plus years.  It's hard, but it's time.  I'm a different person than I was when I entered Metro.  I'm more mild-mannered, less idealistic, more confident, more knowledgable, yet more aware of how precious little I actually do know, and most impotantly, more pleased with who I am.  I entered this university seeking to change my life because I was no longer content with a career in a field that didn't hold my interest, because I wanted to make up for the foolishness of my early 20s.  Even if I don't get into any of the graduate programs at any of the universities I applied to, I've met that goal.  I look at myself in the mirror and I genuinely like who I am.  I have great friends, a wonderful girlfriend who likes me even more than I like myself, and most importantly a future to truly be excited for.  It's time to move on.

That doesn't make it any easier, though.