Prompt 1 (Redux): Finding Beauty in Brutal Places
Celebrating the life and work of Danielle Leventhal
Hi friend,
One day about four years ago, while I was sitting at my neighborhood luncheonette with my partner Jon, a luminous young woman came up to me. Seeming nervous and shy, she thanked me for my “Life, Interrupted” column in the New York Times, which I wrote while undergoing cancer treatment in my early 20s. Then as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. Besides her gentleness and her youth, the only other thing I had really noted was that she was wearing a wig. (It wasn’t obvious, but having worn my fair share, I can pick them out.) Suddenly, I wanted to know her story. “I didn’t ask her anything about herself,” I said to Jon.
A few weeks later, she wrote to me. I learned her name was Danielle, and that like me, she had been diagnosed with cancer at 22. She was a painter, and she was working on a portrait of Oscar and me. When she finished it a few months later, she hand-delivered it to my apartment, and we ate apple pie and drank tea and had the loveliest conversation. After she left, I hung the portrait among other works by my beloveds, including paintings my mom made while taking care of me and art by my fellow young cancer comrades—watercolors by Melissa Carroll, an abstract work by Daniel Cordani, and a poem by Max Ritvo.
In the years since, I kept in touch with Danielle through social media. I saw her making beautiful art from her treatment, painting her bone scans, sketching her own face each day as it metamorphosed through the different stages of illness. Last week, Danielle died at the age of 27—another friend who has crossed the river too soon.
In honor of Danielle’s life, today we’re sharing some of her work, as well as a piece written by her mother Jennifer and the prompt that inspired it. It was our very first Isolation Journals prompt last April, “Letter to a Stranger,” and Jennifer’s response is one of the most moving I’ve read—about bearing witness to another’s heartbreak, about cultivating not just solidarity but also gentleness and generosity.
I hope that this story of Danielle’s work and life is as profoundly inspiring to you as it is to me, and both she and Jennifer can be an example for us of how to engage with the world during this time of upheaval and grief and loss, both individually and collectively.
Danielle, thank you for not looking away. Thank you for showing us how to bear witness to illness with beauty and gentleness, for bringing your painter’s eye to that brutal place, for not only enduring the impossibly hard thing but transforming it. Thank you for reaching out to me, and reminding me of this lesson I learn time and time again: that when we dare to share our stories, when we make ourselves vulnerable, it creates space for unexpected encounters and meaningful connections.
Sending love,
Suleika
P.S. A quick reminder: Next Sunday at 1pm ET is our Studio Visit with Nadia Owusu. We’ll be talking about her gorgeous memoir Aftershocks, our August Book Club pick, and writing ourselves home and whole. Become a paid subscriber to join us—
1 (Redux). Letter to a Stranger by Jennifer Leventhal
Dear Mother in the Waiting Room at MSK,
I’ve been thinking about you and your son for over a year. We were sitting on couches facing one another, me with my young adult daughter’s balding head propped against my shoulder as she took a few bites of her egg and avocado sandwich. You with your teenage son’s curly head nesting in your lap as he slept.
You smiled shyly, leaned forward and whispered, “Where did you find that breakfast? I can’t get him to eat anything.” Suddenly, I felt validated, like maybe some of the random tidbits I’d learned over the past two excruciating years might actually be helpful to someone else.
“Eggstravaganza,” I whispered with a little too much excitement. “It’s a breakfast food truck just two blocks away, next to St. Bartholomew’s Church on Park Avenue.”
“Is it expensive?” you whispered back. I had to check myself before replying. It was just an egg sandwich, and I would have paid anything if it brought some nourishment and a few minutes of pleasure to my frail daughter.
“I have an extra in the bag, and I don’t want it to go to waste. Please take it.”
Your eyes fell to the carpet, but you mumbled, “God bless you, thank you so much,” as you reached for my lunch.
I looked away and tried not to listen when a social worker came and sat by your side, but that was impossible. I overheard her ask if you had any trouble getting to the hospital without a car, then suggest the “Access-a-Ride” program. She said she had made you an appointment with the Finance Assistance Office, who could help families who were uninsured. I stole a glance at your sleeping son, tall and lanky but with the face of a child, and I felt ashamed of all the times I had felt sorry for our family during this unending war against cancer.
It was and continues to be inconceivable to me that you had to face such an insurmountable battle without the resources I took for granted. I wanted to hug you and tell you three things—that you were doing your absolute best for your boy, that you were in the best possible place for his care, and that everything would be ok. But I sat motionless, unable to comfort you. I knew the first two were true, but not the third. None of us sitting in that waiting room—that club no one ever wanted to join—none of us could know if everything would be ok.
Your prompt for the week:
Write a letter to a stranger—someone imaginary, someone you met once, someone you only know from a distance. Tell them any and everything: when you first noticed them and what has happened since, how you’d like your day to start or to end, or what’s been on your mind. Or tell them a story about a time when something difficult led you to an unexpected, interesting, maybe even wondrous place. Say whatever you want to say, whatever you think they need to hear.
If you’d like, you can share your response in the comments below, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.
We’re excited to host Nadia Owusu for our next Studio Visit. Nadia is a Ghanaian and Armenian-American writer and urbanist. Her first book, Aftershocks, A Memoir, topped many most-anticipated and best book of the year lists and was a New York Times Book Review Editor’s Choice. Paid subscribers also get access to our video archive of past Studio Visits with amazing humans like Elizabeth Gilbert, Jon Batiste, & Nadia Bolz-Weber. We hope you’ll join us!
This was definitely a favorite prompt of mine. Re-reading it now, it reminds me of when I watched the documentary "Roadrunner" recently, which commemorated the life and death of the late bad boy chef and food writer Anthony Bourdain. This is not exactly on point, but it's slightly relevant.
Watching the film was a pleasant and entertaining experience. It was like watching a new episode of "Parts Unknown." Only it wasn't. The film was an epitaph, a funeral wake. There was a lot of pain I felt when watching it. A few times I was becoming choked up, holding back tears.
I admired Anthony, maybe even lionized him (I have a tattoo on my arm dedicated to him). But I know for certain that even in death he would hate being placed on a pedestal. He despised hero worship. He understood that every individual is deeply flawed. You can be beautiful and have ugly, anti-social tendencies. You can be the coolest person in the room but still be plagued with social anxiety. There's a moral ambiguity to all of us. People who suffer depression like Anthony, myself included, struggle to look in the mirror and see someone worth saving. There are two separate realities in our lives: blissful happiness and nihilistic despair. They bifurcate our existence, dividing our sense of self. We're carefully balancing on a shaking tumultuous tightrope that runs down that divide.
It's been more than a year since his death. He left a permanent mark in my life as he did for countless others. When I think about his suicide, I feel plagued with melancholic sadness. But at some point--not immediately, but eventually--I stop dwelling on his death and remember his creative art and personhood. I remember some invaluable lessons he taught me: don't just walk towards the unknown. Move towards it in a sprinting dash. Run and never yield as if your life depended on it. There is a sense of real joy and pure fulfillment when we find a meaningful connections in people and various parts of the world that we are afraid to look at.
The letter to a stranger is one of my favorite prompts. Early in the pandemic I met a stranger who has stayed with me for awhile.
Dear Stranger,
The first time we passed on my morning walk, I only noticed that you were a young man in a hoodie. It was dusky because I walk very early. You were coming toward me with the hood on your hoodie up, baggie clothes, carrying your skateboard. No matter how safe I think I am walking in the dark, there is always a moment of question when a stranger approaches.
I don’t remember if we said, “Good morning”, the first or the third time our paths crossed, but once we finally did and you smiled, I knew it was okay. The old adage that a smile says 1000 words was true for our first interaction. The smile was sweet, brief and reassuring.
We passed many more times that spring and I learned to recognize you from a block away, your skateboard, your east gait, your hoodie.
One day I saw the “Red Rocks College” on your hoodie. I had been to the campus off Kipling, not far from where we crossed paths. So, I stopped and you did too. I asked, “Do you go to school at Red Rocks off Kipling?” “I go to Red Rocks but at the campus on 6th”, a few miles away. “Oh, I wondered if maybe you were walking to school.” “No, I’m going to work at Walmart”, a few blocks away. I asked what he was studying and it had something to do with music and mixing.
I had taken a few classes at Red Rocks years ago to fill in a business degree with history and art so I could pursue a Master’s in Education. It is the epitome of an urban community college, offering degrees, certificates and skills programs. I loved the energy there and the classes I took were surprisingly enjoyable and informative. I was looking for something quick, easy, cheap and I still remember things I learned in those classes.
Not too long after that conversation, you were gone. Maybe summer changed your schedule at work and school, maybe your family moved, maybe you got a car or a scooter. Like those classes at Red Rocks, I remember you and our brief “Good Mornings.”