Rediscovering My Love for Humanity During Isolation
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Chapter 1: The Need for Connection
It is often said that you don’t truly realize how much you need someone until they are no longer by your side. Recently, my husband and I embarked on a work project in a desert town located three hours from Los Angeles. Last week, while he drove back to LA with our two-year-old daughter, who is in preschool, I remained behind to finish up some tasks.
Alone in a sparsely furnished house in a remote area, I found myself battling a mild fever, with no vehicle to venture out and no neighbors to interact with. Most significantly, I was without my child to care for. What I initially thought would be a peaceful retreat quickly morphed into a challenging and enlightening few days.
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Section 1.1: The Struggle with Solitude
Had I been feeling better, my experience might have been different. However, the fever clouded my thoughts, revealing my vulnerabilities. I’ve always dealt with sadness by keeping busy, a coping mechanism I inherited from my mother, who has spent her life avoiding discomfort.
Instead, I found myself too fatigued to accomplish much, leading me to wander aimlessly around the house, making to-do lists that felt pointless. It was during this time that I came across an article on Medium that made me confront some uncomfortable truths about myself. My spirits sank even further.
Peering out the window, I was greeted by stunning views of nature and breathtaking sunsets. Yet, I realized that what I truly longed for was the company of others—the very people I had sought to escape to the desert from.
Section 1.2: The City That Shaped Me
It’s often during moments of weakness and stillness that we gain new perspectives. That’s when it hit me: I am, at my core, a people person.
Having lived in New York in my twenties, I was captivated by the vibrancy and diversity of its inhabitants. Everything fascinated me, and there was no better place to observe humanity than the bustling streets of Manhattan and later, Brooklyn.
The city was my lifeline. I often told myself, “As long as I have New York, I have everything.” I was swept up in its chaos, believing that we were all in it together.
However, after a decade of navigating its ever-deteriorating subway system, my patience wore thin. I had seen it all, and like many New Yorkers, I too felt the strain of city life.
Chapter 2: A New Home, A New Perspective
After much soul-searching, I found my way to Los Angeles, eventually settling in Santa Monica. Yet, I struggled to find that same sense of community I cherished in New York. In LA, connecting with others often required abandoning one’s car, which most residents are reluctant to do. Fortunately, Santa Monica’s walkable streets allowed me to once again be surrounded by people.
As I strolled through the neighborhood, I became intrigued by the windows of others. They seemed to narrate silent stories, offering glimpses into the lives of their owners. I often wondered, “What kind of family lives there? Are they happy? What tales do they hold?” In mere moments, I would conjure entire narratives in my mind, akin to a personal movie trailer.
Interestingly, I noticed that wealthier homes often had fewer window coverings. In Brooklyn’s Park Slope, many brownstones showcased their open windows, inviting passersby to appreciate their charm. During my evening walks with my dogs, I would relish these views.
In Copenhagen, I observed a complete absence of curtains. All windows were bare, exposing private lives to the world. I learned that looking in was considered a breach of the Danish social contract.
But what is a writer if not a curious observer, peering through those windows?
The first video, "Charity Accidentally Gives People Meth," explores the unexpected and often humorous consequences that arise from good intentions gone wrong.
The second video, "I Accidentally Found Love In The Metaverse," delves into the surreal experiences of finding genuine connections in a digital world.
Section 2.1: The Return to Community
Fast forward a few days, and my husband returned to the desert sooner than I expected after I called him, expressing my worries about feeling increasingly unwell or perhaps simply going stir-crazy.
After two more days of battling my fever, we packed up and headed back to the city, its bright lights feeling like a warm welcome.
Now, as I sit in my Santa Monica bedroom, gazing out at the neighbor's house, I find comfort in the proximity. The neighbor returns home, and I catch myself wondering what he was up to so late. As he opens his door, I suspect he notices me too.
In that fleeting moment, I feel a connection to the world around me.
There’s something both repelling and captivating about humanity. While people can be irksome, I often feel a profound empathy for many, including complete strangers. This internal struggle keeps me tethered to bustling cities, where genuine human experiences unfold.
Without others, who would we truly be? An observer without subjects is left to contemplate the walls (or sunsets, in my case) and replay the same thoughts endlessly. For some, this may evoke tranquility; for others, madness. For me, it encompasses both.