It was a cold but sunny February day in New York. Ah, February, how I dragged my feet out of bed. I thought how different life was a year ago. It is only in periods of separation that memories of quarrels with your lover flood back as the sweetest moments of one’s life. Those moments of missed messages and reconciliations. It was one of those days. After spending at least two hours on my mandatory family overseas weekend conversations, I decided to head towards the MET. I thought, perhaps, looking at art might heal my soul. However, no remedy can heal a broken heart. Defeated and lost, I walked towards the MET. Fortunately, it was Caspar David Friedrich’s exhibition.

I have a child-like admiration and love for his paintings, mainly because I discovered him in my early twenties in Berlin. Visiting the Alte National Gallery and sitting on those steps became a habit during my time in that wonderful city. I often met my friend Jonas outside the gallery, and we walked across Berlin holding Club-Mates.

CDF had now come home, if I can call New York City that. The moment I entered the exhibition, I heard a distinct voice. It did not take me long to recognize the voice of my favorite author, Gretchen Rubin. I tried not to jump out of excitement, but I could not help sneak behind her. She turned around, sensing a fan was lurking. “Excuse me, are you Gretchen Rubin?” “Yes, yes,” she said. “I am such a big fan”, as tears rolled down my cheeks. “Oh, thank you”, she responded in her deep-set voice. I walked away, feeling a mix of emotions: mostly embarrassment at my tears and slight exhilaration at having met a woman who has been a source of inspiration for me and my sisters.

The sun came out, life looked somewhat bright, despite Caspar David Friedrich’s melancholy and my broken heart.