On New Year’s Eve 2019, I was, as always, up late awaiting the stroke of midnight with my kids. Though “New Year’s” itself is a completely arbitrary construct, it still signifies change and provides us a chance to reflect on the year gone by, and to think ahead for what we hope the new one will bring - anticipation for a health and prosperity. For me, 2019 was overshadowed by the passing of my mother, so I was anxious to leave the year behind and start the new.
And it began just like any other year. The holidays were behind us and it was back to work. The days were short and gray, while the nights were long and cold. I went to work; to the gym. At the end of February, I returned to Arizona, for a long weekend. The kids and I strolled through the zoo and around the university. I went to my daughter’s school event. We went to a college basketball game. My little ordinary world seemed … ordinarily normal.
But this wasn’t turning out just like any other year. The country was entwined in a presidential impeachment. And the reports of a new, quickly spreading virus out of China was concerning. In the first weeks of March people went mad. Fears of cities being quarantined caused panic-stricken citizens to stockpile hand sanitizer, toilet paper, masks and cleaners. To help slow the spread of the virus, my workplace shut our doors and work from home commenced. In the weeks that followed, the entire city and state, and much of the country, came to a grinding halt. Schools closed. Businesses closed. Jobs were pulled out from under people and families. Streets and sidewalks were empty. The sudden quiet was overwhelmingly noticeable. Nothing about this seemed real.
I was, stuck inside, like sheltering from a powerful storm. But this was no storm. We were hiding from an invisible foe. Afraid of going outside. Afraid of being around other people. No idea for when it will be safe again. The days crawled by. The days stretched to weeks. It was clear this was going to be a prolonged crisis. Hopeful plans for the summer were looking less and less likely. Zoom got old…quick! I missed my coworkers and friends.
By mid April, after a month of going no further than my driveway, I ventured out for to see what the city was like. I went out at dawn hoping to avoid people. I wanted to capture the sunrise on the city’s skyline - to show the hope of a new day amidst the fears and uncertainty of the times. The sunrise, though, was an unremarkable one, so I turned my camera to the reflections in the river. The very real objects above the waters became dancing, formless shapes on the ripples. Nonsensical patterns for a nonsensical world.
As Spring progressed and the weather warmed, people began to come out again. Slowly there were more pedestrians through the neighborhoods and parks. Traffic began to pick up. It was by no means “normal,” but the signs of life were both pleasant to see, and anxiety-inducing at the same time. Tired of being stuck inside and staring at video calls all day, I took a day to rest my brain and eyes and get out among the trees.
As Spring gave way to Summer, the city and country found itself gripped by waves of social justice protests. The myriad of emotions on display from the masses marching peacefully through cities was overwhelming and, at times, inspirational. The pull to go out to participate and show support was very strong. The possibility of being exposed to the virus kept me inside. Though social uprisings and protests have happened before, this year has felt like more of a turning point.
It was only fitting that July brought a comet to our skies. To our ancient ancestors, comets had been seen as portents of change. They were often tied to events involving war, disease, strife, and political upheaval. They were signs from the gods. In the times in which we are living, where there is so much fear, stress, and despair, it is easy to see how our ancestors made those connections. But for me, this comet was an opportunity to take in a little bit of the beauty of our universe.
As the comet sped away from Earth and faded from view, the Summer days continued to tick by. I think about all the lost summer vacations, the postponed family gatherings, the celebrations of life delayed or conducted over spotty internet connections. It was the summer that never was. And 2020 was turning into the lost year. And just as the last weeks of Summer seemed ready to offer a chance for a little respite, the hills caught fire, tore through towns, displaced hundreds of thousands, and poured oppressive smoke into the valleys of the west. Three weeks of that choking smoke was finally broken by the first Autumn rains. The skies began to clear and the air began to crisp. The season was changing.
It had now been more than six months since the virus had taken hold and the world seemed to turn upside down. Where the first month of the pandemic felt like ages, time seems to have since zipped by in a blur. The Autumn was upon us and we were racing toward Winter and the end of 2020. From my home office I watched as the days grew shorter and the leaves began to turn. I had gotten used to taking walks around the historic cemetery in my neighborhood, and on one such walk, I rounded a corner, and in the distance a maple tree stood boldly in the sunlight that pierced through an otherwise shaded path. Fall colors are my favorite, and this maple was perfectly colored. Fall colors are fleeting, and as time itself seemed to be rushing by, I took the opportunity to capture the ones on this maple, as they swayed in the cool breeze of the late afternoon.
After more than seven months going no further than 20 miles from home, it was time to take the plunge (and all required safety precautions) and go to Arizona to spend time with the kids and my father. Arizona is my “other home.” It’s where so many significant life events happened to me. When I moved there as a kid, I wasn’t so sure about living in a small town in the desert. As an adult, you learn to appreciate what you may not have as a kid. This is still not a place I would choose to live in now, but it is a place of familiarity and comfort. And of incredible sunsets and dark skies. After months of doing what I could to stay put, this change of scenery, was much needed. And to see others face-to-face, to laugh with my children, will be treasured. Much has been said (and will be said) about 2020. The isolation we have experienced, the sudden loss of normality, the wavering trust in our institutions and each other. It is a trying time. I look at my kids and wonder what this COVID Generation is going to become. Out of extreme challenges normally comes extraordinary achievements. And we will get there - one way or another.
There are many stories, poems, and works of art in which the road plays a prominent role. It is nothing new. But our drive as humans to adventure; to explore parts unknown; and to return to familiar places, is strong. The road is cut across the land by the travelers of the past. We are guided by their tracks imprinted in the dirt. We feel their presence in the dust of each footfall. We remember them for their sacrifice and determination. We learn from their challenges and failures. We commemorate their resiliency and triumphs. And as for them, so too the road welcomes us to our individual and collective journeys. It lays open ahead of us to lead us into the future. What it holds, we do not know. We know it won’t always be easy - there may be mountains to climb. But like those who have journeyed before us, we must find the courage to take the road forward and believe that better times are ahead.
