Despite having had the benefit of human history to develop language, we are shockingly bad at descriptions. As one might imagine, there’s no nuance in generality; and, as a result, we as people do each other the disservice of denying complexity. When someone asks you how your day is, I imagine you lean towards “good” or “okay” as a response more often than not. While fine responses in themselves, they lack the same level of accuracy as someone telling you Phoenix is “hot” come summertime—it’s a shade of the truth. I think it’s safe to assume that we all agree that being a human is a hyper-complex experience. We know that emotions are not black or white, but instead a sweet symphony of gray. That being said, why do we insist on settling for anything less than specificity?
After ten minutes out in the fresh air this morning, my fingers are numb. It's that time of year in Boston where it can be perfectly pleasant one day, but bone-chilling the next. Luckily, with the holidays coming to an end, the House is warmed by the return of housemates from far and wide. We end the year as we began it: together.
It's been a while. Life has this strange habit of going fast and slow all at once, a sort of wormhole effect that you don't realize you're in the middle of until you're halfway through your third ill-advised Wednesday cider and find yourself wondering how the hell it's nearly December. The last few months in the Bond House haven't been uneventful, but between travel, events, and the sweet beginnings of seasonal depression, I've been apathetic towards writing. In fact, it took me over a week to write this. But that's my problem, not yours. Just like my daily decision of whether or not to wear my heavy winter coat or to punish my body for a few more weeks so the cold doesn't destroy my soul--my problem, not yours.
With summer winding down to a close, it’s easy to get behind on important things: chores, paperwork, meeting up with friends/randos-I-met-at-bars-the-weekend-before, going to bed at a reasonable hour, blogging. A lot has happened here in the Bond House. After a familial July full of dinner and drinking, we lost roommates to school, business trips, thesis, Venezuela. This month there are but a paltry four Bondies (though undoubtedly the cream of the crop) in Boston. I’m not coping well. We don’t know what to do with all of the tomatoes.
January lingered on for about six months. Now, all of a sudden, we're over halfway through the year. The garden and heat advisories are in bloom, the dogs are eating corn on the cob, people are jetting off on adventures, summer parties are all the rage, crop tops have become necessary wardrobe staples. Life is good, better than it's ever been. My Bond House crew continues to mesmerize me with their generous and fun-loving souls...because, as you know by now, nothing in this house is done in half measures.
In the bleak midwinter, we sat around the kitchen table and talked about Claudia's upcoming birthday. Michael and I strove to outdo one another in sheer absurdity ("Let's have a reading in the library" or "Do you think we could cover the pond with a plastic sheeting so people can dance on it?"). I can't remember if there was snow on the ground when we were having this conversation, but will imagine there was for the appropriate amount of dramatism. Weeks ago we started to carve out these plans and then, almost suddenly, it was time to actually do the thing. And we did. We went full-Gatsby.
Sometimes it's hard to believe that it was only four months ago that I moved into a house with Craigslist strangers. In that time, I have 1) not been murdered and 2) been exposed to dozens of people and concepts that have helped to make me hungry for new connections. Of course, there is a sense of bittersweetness to this. Because of the transitory state of many of my roommates, it almost goes without saying that all good things must come to an end.
As a poor, naive Southerner, I thought that we might see spring and put away our snow boots by the end of February. I remember in November when people would laugh at my optimism and I thought they were jerks. March has come and gone here in the Bond House. Snow lingers on the ground, the temperature has barely cracked 50 on most days, and I'm still wearing wool.
One of life's great pleasures is sharing a meal with friends. There's something to be said about a bowl of salad or a plate of fish that reminds me that people have been sitting around and breaking bread since humanity got started. Eating is a great equalizer and, in a house like this one, it is essential to the maintaining of friendships.
When I was in college, I imagined that I would form friendships with a huge group of people, relationships I would effortlessly maintain for years to come. I imagined we would stay up late and complain over comically huge glasses of wine. I imagined we would have dance parties and laugh for hours. I imagined my younger years would be a lot more Sex and the City and a lot less me writing in a library for 9 hours straight and only seeing my three wonderful roommates if it was Plath-related.