Do you know, I find myself rather adrift since I finished my PhD. I suppose it’s all too predictable, but somehow, having no giant monster lurking in the cupboard, calling alternately seductively and threateningly, and reminding me constantly of its presence in many more subtle ways, is proving quite strange. Given that I’ve been doing something academic in higher-education terms since 1998, I don’t suppose this is particularly odd, but I thought I’d be simply throwing my hat up and shouting ‘thesis? what thesis?’ to all and sundry. Instead, I am… well, I am.

And that’s it. I just am. It’s odd.

I am… not meant to be studying now. I am… not missing a reference and unsure where I read something or other. I am… not worrying that the book I ordered last week, after months spent trying to find a copy, will arrive too late for my latest chapter deadline. I am… not feeling inadequate about something too boring to even think about any more. (There are, of course, new neuroses just waiting to slip, effortlessly, into the shoes of the old ones, but let us not speak of such things.)

But these are all negatives. They’re what’s not. What’s missing. What is no longer going on. And what the devil does that leave, I ask? I am… enjoying being a mama far more than even I thought I would, and I so very much wanted the witchling that I’m quite surprised to find it’s possible to be more excited by the discovery of something which reliably makes her laugh than… well, anything else I can think of at present. I am… managing to get some bits and bobs done on the extension, to relieve Quercus of all the work, and to bring us closer to a real, live kitchen, complete with hobs which work reliably, rather than when there’s an x in the month, or when the moon is full, or, er, just, er, when they sodding-well feel like it. (We have the cooker from hell still – at the moment, both hobs flip the trip switch for the entire extension, so it’s oven-cooked only for now; did I mention that our oven has the capacity of a smallish shoe-box, with one shelf and a fluctuating relationship to both time and temperature?) I am… thinking a lot. About all sorts of things. I am… trying to find out what it’s like to just be, without a deadline looming, without a project on the go, without a constant sense of dread. And it’s strange, is what it is. Most strange. And a bit disquieting, if I’m honest (hiding that well, non?).

What I want to be is calm, collected, a zen-like oasis of inner tranquility capable of random acts of creativity in between an orderly ocean of organisation. I function best with neat surroundings; since finishing the thesis, the house has been getting gradually more organised, though that’s by my standards, and most people would probably still ask who dropped the bomb, and how large it was. I also function best with some aim in mind, I realise. My first aim at the moment is to look after the witchling to the best of my ability, to be fully present with her in this time we have together, to give her the ol’ undivided. And yes, I do realise how wanky that sounds, but I mean it honestly – so much of my pregnancy was divided attention, bits and pieces of my time given over to far too many things, jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none and all that. And I also realise how lucky I am to have this time with her. I just think there are perhaps a few things I need to work out in my own brain, and typically none of them seems to come with instructions. I mean, first off, how did I get to be here, post-PhD, and still have no idea of what I want to do with myself? I mean – ! No idea. Well, not quite no idea, but no immediate prospect of how to do what I’d like. Or something.

Gah.

Enough navel-gazing for now. I have ten zillion tiles which, sadly, aren’t going to grout themselves, you know.