The Open Field

Before quarantine, I lived in the northern part of Israel. I was dancing, eating, existing on a beautiful commune in a remote town not far from the Israel-Lebanon border; it was a dream. I would call my brother sometimes and he would joke about how I joined a cult because the days were filled with dancing in a grandiose studio with floor to ceiling windows that overlooked this big, open field. The field was lush with poppies and other wildflowers, the sun constantly kissing that field with its warmth. After dance, I would go to the cafe for an iced coffee before sprawling out in the field, bathing in the heat of the sun and almost suffocating in the plush barrage of flowers. Sometimes I would bring my notepad and write, sometimes I would draw, many times I would sit in the field with my fellow commune members and we would make flower crowns to be given to whomever had a birthday coming up. No matter the activity, I found joy and pure bliss in living in the commune. Sometimes I would walk over to the house of one of teachers and we would sit and talk on his porch, greeting passersby and picking through miscellaneous mysterious fruit-flavored candies until we had certifiably tried every flavor. Living in Israel allowed me to find true happiness, even amidst difficult times and exhaustion from dancing up to seven hours a day.

Then the virus hit and everything changed. All foreigners were given 48 hours to pack up all their belongings and leave to their native country with no promise of returning. It was funny because the same day we were told to leave, I had just gotten a call that my grandfather passed away. To put it simply, when it rains, it pours. I was supposed to be in the commune for at least four more months and had collected vastly more items than I had space for in my two suitcases. I gave half of my belongings away, some as sentimental gifts, some as basic necessities like food and household items. The next thing I knew, I was walking off the plane in the United States, failing to keep my eyes open as I tread into my family's arms. I felt numb; things were abysmal for two weeks after. I went through the motions, eating out of necessity, moving only when I deemed it necessary, trying to find reason in the situation that seemed absolutely mind-boggling. The only way of being tethered to reality was music; it felt as if that’s what really inspired me to move out of this zone of being numb. I decided to make a playlist that reminded me of sunny days in the open field, each song a reminder of the plentiful poppies and fruit-flavored candies; each melody reminiscent of being in love with a lifestyle, not a person. The open field seemed to be a symbol of solace. I would listen to it and paint, dance, create art with meaning, that can hopefully impact someone else the same way the music impacted me, and maybe even have cathartic repercussions for myself.

The playlist I made is a playlist that doesn't need to be shuffled; listening to it in order tells a story, opening on a nostalgic, hopeful tone and ending on a pastoral view of an open field, a view of being so in love with a state of being that no external situation could ever affect the mood within. This playlist helped me find calm in this whirlwind, and inspired me to keep going, to create beauty in spaces of boredom and mental blocks.