Just Another Isolated Day, With Random Acts from a Playlist

Spent with my family, under a quarantine, and embracing the fibrous bonds of friendship.

By Karen LichtmanPublished 4 years ago • 6 min read

And all my instincts, they return, and the grand facade, so soon will burn, without a noise, without my pride, I reach out from the inside." --Peter Gabriel, In Your Eyes

MONDAY, APRIL 20, 2020

Happy 420!

• 6:53am = Meditation, movement, light, window, hydration.

• During my meditation, I started my morning movement. It just sort of happened. On my back, on my bed, with buds, Oprah and Deepak in my ears. My bed rests firmly against the wall. And I kind of sleep to the far right. So each time my hand would touch the wall, I would just leave it there, until my left was in sequence. I was way too comfortable to move my entire body.

• I have begun to do a hand gesture at the end of my meditations, tai chi, and yoga sessions. I lace my fingers together, keeping my thumbs side by side. And I place my thumbs on my head. Just above, and between my brows. For a few moments. I'm not sure where I got this from. But I accept it and love it.

• Hydration. I poured myself a cup of my home-brewed, pineapple ginger iced tea. It was SO good.

• I got some writing done, as I allowed my "Watch Later" playlist to randomly select YouTube videos. That's when Peter Gabriel's, Your Eyes, popped up on my screen. One of my TOP FAVORITE songs ever. I was so damn attracted to that man in my adolescence, and here were the perfectly preserved images of his face, that hair. I put on my GPS watch, to track my dance break, as if only Peter Gabriel were watching. Tai chi mostly, to the music. It all synced beautify. They were moments of magic. During which I moved for 5 min, 10 sec. And burned 33 calories. At the end of which, I pressed my thumbs to my forehead.

• I had the most fun video conversation, with a Dear Former Work Friend. Who is still my friend. Although we don't get to see each other and speak as often as I'd like. I am so guilty of being a pain in the ass to stay in touch with. But we laughed, hard. Chatted the difference between seitan and tofu. The text messages her mom sends me, of questionable content, based on my upbringing, celebrating holidays which don't apply to me, and how much I LOVE to receive them. And how today's celebration allows us to question what is and isn't legal to ingest and digest. We discussed former co-workers. And X-Tube. And we laughed a lot. The kind of hysterics, during which I had to do sun salutations to catch my breath. I kept my GPS watch on. I burned 177 calories in one hour, and 21 seconds. What a workout laughter is.

I took off my GPS, although we continued to speak.

And that's when it happened. The text message at the bottom of the screen, letting the family know that my Cousin had passed. And here I was, face to face, screen to screen, with a woman who has known me for over 20 years.

And I just lost it. We both did.

And it was so painfully comforting, to sob together, and not be able to hug. It signified the greatest bond of friendship. Because typically, when I allow myself to go there, I'm usually alone.

I told her the whole story. It just came pouring out of me. And she listened.

About how my Cousin's grandfather, my Eldest Cousin, had survived Auschwitz. And that he was still here, with us, with a number tattooed to his forearm. That he was the only one to survive out of six. That his parents, two sisters, and brother died in the camps. That his brother, who was at Auschwitz with him the entire time, died from typhoid fever two days before the British had liberated the camp. And that my Elder Cousin survived, because he knew that he had to live, just to pass on the stories of what he saw. He didn't think that anyone would believe him. Or even care.

And how at the point of liberation, my Elder Cousin knew that his Holocaust had started. Because he knew that he was alone in this world. And then ended up at an orphanage in Sweden for four years. Then as he graduated into adulthood, he wanted to go to Israel, but his mother's sister took him in, and sponsored his emigration to Brooklyn, New York. How he met my dad's First Cousin. And married her. And had three children, who have children of their own.

And how my now deceased younger Cousin was one of them.

And that I was going to take care of his Wife, because I'm here as a young widow too.

We are not alone in this world. My family isn't. We are survivors.

And that I don't have kids of my own to share these stories with. And that after all of the shit that I've been through, I am here to tell my family's story. Because their story is my story.

I excused myself from the video call with my Former Work Friend. And told her to tell her mom that I loved her, and her text messages, and that her mom was my mom too.

I grabbed my favorite hat, the one my mom crocheted for me 40 years ago. The significance of the threads, which my mom bent 40 years ago with her own hands, was totally found on me, and reminded me to gaze out my window, and look towards the sky. I opened up my freezer and popped a tiny piece of 4/20 friendly espresso chocolate into my mouth. I sipped my tea, and turned towards the window again, I'm not sure for how long.

And then, perhaps driven by the canna-chocolate--okay. Driven by the canna-chocolate, I was able to return to my day. I picked up my phone, and there was a text waiting for me from my Work Friend's Mother. It was a hilarious photo of a bat with balls. And I'm not talking about baseball. And I laughed, hard, knowing for certain that these women were indeed my family.

The magic of my resumed YouTube playlist, chose this incredible song, to which I danced freely:

Look for me, I'm all over the place

Lookin’ up into your clouds searchin' for a face

They say I may be just a crazy fool

But my DNA, runs thick like blood

An I'll be stuck in the mud, trudging through the quicksand...

Light two candles

We fight through the night

Run this race

There's no end in sight

Together we can handle this

We can make it all alright