A Reply to a Friend I Haven’t Met Yet

Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/geralt-9301/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=3382503">Gerd Altmann</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=3382503">Pixabay</a>

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

This week, JSA contributor Carole Leskin shared her thoughts about the how the wearing of masks, necessitated by the current pandemic, exacerbates the isolation and loneliness so many are experiencing during these strangest of times. “What My Mask Hides” provides insight into how people connect with one another and addresses a new level of pain that results when a smile, which serves as an open door to new connection, is taken away. I’m grateful to Carole for sharing her words, which prompted my own in response.

Dear New Friend I Haven’t Met Yet,

Your words spoke to me because your thoughts on loneliness ring so true, and because you did what so many of us fail to do — you opened your heart and let a stranger in.

Like you, I’ve been struggling with the way our masks obscure our personal interactions. I’ve found myself smiling and then realizing nobody can see me. I’ve noticed I look hard around people’s eyes above their masks, trying to discern a direct gaze or perhaps a few laugh lines at the corners. Is that person smiling at me? Are they even noticing I’m here?

Of greatest concern, I’ve recently started looking away, turning my face just enough to avoid what has increasingly felt like an awkward or even inappropriate interaction — a search for a human connection gone bad.

I don’t like it when I catch myself turning away.

And yet during these days, we are doing so much of that. We turn away from masked strangers, from service providers, from delivery folks and even from those we know and love. We do it out of fear. We do it out of concern for exposure. We isolate ourselves physically, just at a time when we most need connection, just as our own loneliness feels like it may overtake us. The esoteric questions of our lives become amplified in this space. Why are we here? What is our purpose? How is our own truth reflected back at us if we cannot see our face in another person’s face? When we turn away from others, do we also turn away from ourselves?

You ask a most poignant question: In these times of masking and distancing, how can we make a new friend? If a smile is the vehicle to friendship and there are no smiles, how can we connect? And what will happen to the world if there are no smiles? Who will be lost? What will be lost?

I offer you another way, another opportunity to create the human moments we desire. Let’s write to one another! Let’s return to the epistolary time—let’s create a shared and sacred space for one another within the construct of letters, essays, books, posts. Technology is on our side and conversations can take place in the quickest of moments. We can speak, we can listen, we can learn and respond to one another. In this way, we will remember that we are not alone.

Is writing the same as a smile? No, of course not. Can such exchanges substitute for a hug or a kiss, the touch of a hand on the arm of a friend who needs a gentle reminder that another human being stands beside them?

No.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, and these, my new friend, are indeed desperate times. The invitation of a smile may not be available to us right now, but the reaching out, the asking “Will you be my friend?” is still there.

The beauty of that phrase, “will you be my friend,” is the tenderness of the vulnerability it expresses. I am willing to risk rejection, it says. I am taking a chance. You may turn away. You may not like me. You may not want to be my friend.

But I am willing to take that risk to share myself with you. Nothing brings us closer than the opening of our hearts and the intertwining of our voices. This is how we connect. This is where God resides. This is why we are here—to find the spark that exists between us, among us.

Hello, my new friend. It’s lovely to know you.

Stefanie

 

 

 

About Stefanie Levine Cohen
Stefanie Ruth Levine Cohen is a writer, instructor and full-time volunteer focused on issues involving birth, death, afterlife and the human condition. Her work explores moments of transition in people’s lives and focuses particularly on the intersection between the psychological and the spiritual. Stefanie’s signature workshop, “Writing from the Heart,” helps writers at all levels explore their personal truth through authenticity and creative expression. Stefanie has studied religion, spirituality, meditation and intuition with numerous teachers including Sylvia Boorstein, Joan Borysenko, Deepak Chopra, and James Van Praague. She earned bachelors and masters degrees in English from the University of Pennsylvania and a JD from New York University School of Law. Stefanie’s writing has been published in a variety of literary journals and anthologies and can be viewed at www.stefanielevinecohen.com.

2 Comments

  1. Thank you, friend.

  2. Thank you, Stefanie, for your wonderful response to my dear friend, Carole. I also write for Jewish Sacred Aging and that’s how my dear friend, Carole, and I met, well, we’ve never met! But over the last few years, we’ve become close friends via writing and phone calls! I feel like I’ve known her forever and I believe that’s because our writing is honest and authentic. Writing is a lost art, and during this difficult time in our lives, this is a great time to bring back an “old-fashion” communication form. I live alone and not seeing my kids and grandkids every week is painful and I miss the personal contact so I’d love to make new friends using the best tool we have—emailing and texting! ZOOM is good too, on good hair days!…Stay safe and healthy!…Regards…Sandy Taradash

What are your thoughts?

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

×
Sign up for the Jewish Sacred Aging email mailing list
Our New 2020 Mailing List is here
%d bloggers like this: