This Weekend, Sounds, and Sentiments

The summer onslaught of adult-like duties and expectations can be a little overwhelming. I went from feeling fancy if I wore jeans to wearing some type of skirt every day. My days feel long, but my free time is bursting at the seems. Workouts, socialization, rest, and some sort of self-maintenance are crammed into the few hours not spent commuting or staring endlessly at a computer and trying to understand what the heck this bulletin is saying.

I knew that four days off would be good for me--a chance to trade the concrete skylines and hazy humidity of Washington, DC, for some crisp air and ever-appropriate barefootedness in at the lake. Two of my closest friends from school were trekking all the way from New York to visit.

This place, and these people, have this incredible ability to breathe new life into me. This weekend I felt suspended in a untouchable innocence. Every smile was eye-curlingly genuine, each tear-inducing laugh was from the gut. The sun, when it chose to make an appearance, felt like a layer of blankets. The water was cold enough to make your heart jump into your throat, but not too chilly that you didn't get used to it. The rain and drizzle felt like a cocoon.

It is a running joke that Ashley and Rachel, two of my housemates in Ithaca, are my family. After this weekend it became apparent that this is no joke at all. Their friendship to me is that familial bundle of innocent joy and playfulness, combined with a concern applied like a comforting arm around your shoulder. The sounds of the weekend paints it better than anything: Bon Jovi songs muffled the splashing water and whipping wind, the crackling of fire, the proclamation of vendettas over Monopoly and card games, the clinking of ice in glasses, and the giggling that pervaded it all.

I am so lucky to have this place and these people. My family--both real and newly acquired--will always be there to help me take a step back, to take a deep breath, and appreciate the now instead of fretting about the future.