Oh, 2020. The year of all things bad.
The virus, the preventable loss of life, the economic turmoil, the racial reckoning, the divisive politics, the injustices, the anxiety, the fear, the judgement, and the isolation. It goes without saying: the list of bad things from 2020 is extensive and exhausting.
It is my greatest hope that as we enter into 2021, the collective adversity of this year will start to dissipate and our world will begin to heal.
I read an article in the New York Times recently that said 2020 will long be remembered and studied as a time when more than 1.5 million people globally died during a pandemic, racial unrest gripped the world, and democracy itself faced extraordinary tests.
History will remember the bad of 2020. All of us will.
And yet. I also want to remember the good.
For the most part, the good things that happened this year were small. Some were just fleeting moments. But those fleeting moments of joy provided essential reprieve from the heavy weight of daily life. And they are worth remembering just as much as all the bad things that occurred this year.
So here’s to all the people, places, and things that brought me hope, inspiration, and joy in the midst of this insane year. Here’s to seeking out bright lights in dark times.
The Poetry
On March 19th, as stay-at-home orders swept the country, I received an email from one of my dear friends in California.
Hi Friends and Family,
Well, this is weird! But in strange times, why not a little poetry? Each morning during whatever this is, I plan to send a poem to my dearest friends and family…
And so began Annette’s poetry train. For two months, Annette sent daily emails to dozens of people across the country. She often included links to fundraisers, uplifting music and art, and social justice resource. But she always included a poem.
My favorite poem she sent was this one:
Good Bones by Maggie Smith
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shit-hole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful, right?
You could make this place beautiful.
In addition to reading Annette’s poems every day, I also started reading daily poems published by the talented CJ Suitt. On April 19th, he published Post-Apocalyptic. Of all the poems and essays I read about life in 2020, I think CJ might have captured it best in this poem. Here is a short excerpt:
We’ll brush shoulders and walk down the same aisles
I’ll make you a meal
I’ll never leave the party early
Without a really good excuse
And we’ll dance
Bump and grind
Spin and dip
I’ll give you a spoon full of my ice cream
Let you try my beer
A fork full of my favorite dessert
We’ll have hugs so close and tight
The world will burst into giggles
I’ll hold my friend’s children
Kiss the foreheads of my nieces and nephews
I’ll bump your hand as we walk down the sidewalk
We’ll hold hands without guilt
The Music
The beginning of May seemed like an endless parade of bad news — reading horror stories from New York City, reading about how we had yet to reach the “peak” of the pandemic.
And then one afternoon, Ryan brought home a copy of The Indy. On the cover was none other than my dear friend, Skylar Gudasz. Reading the full feature article on one of my oldest friends from college brought a much-needed smile to my face, and reminded me of one of my favorite mantras:
Ryan playing guitar by the pond behind our house on a warm day in April.
Only music can save us.
And indeed, there were countless moments during 2020 where I felt immense gratitude for the music (and especially the musicians) in my life. From tuning in to Skylar’s streamed concerts, to listening to my brother record a capella renditions of pop songs, to simply watching Ryan play the guitar in our backyard, live music offered a soothing balm in the midst of this hellish year.
I’ve had many conversations over the past few months about the uncertain future of music venues, concerts, and festivals. I’ve donated to Save Our Stages. I’ve thought about all the festivals I attended throughout my 20’s and wondered when (or if?) those wild-and-free parties will be possible again.
In the meantime, I feel extra thankful for the musicians in my life. Especially the one I live with.
The Photography
As a photographer, I have always enjoyed seeing vibrant and dramatic images captured by my friends, colleagues, and well-known professionals in this field. But the connective power of photography has rarely felt as essential as it did this year.
From Lynsey Addario’s global coverage of COVID19 to Andrew Dye’s incredible images of protests for Black Lives Matter, I was proud to see photojournalists across the world rise to the challenge of documenting unprecedented situations, again and again. If you have not yet viewed the images from A Year Like No Other, I highly recommend sitting down with a cup of coffee and scrolling through them.
At home in Carrboro, I had the pleasure of teaching photography to my partner. Ryan and I flew the drone on the beach and in the mountains. We jumped into a friend’s pool with the GoPro. And he patiently learned the ins and outs of my Canon DSLR.
“So if you want to blur the background, what should you do with the aperture?”
We’re hiking in South Toe. Ryan and I kneel in the middle of the trail, peering closely at a patch of bright green moss. Ryan looks pensive for a few seconds, calculating.
“I should turn the aperture down… to 1.8?” he asks hesitantly.
“Yes!” I say encouragingly. “Exactly!”
One of Ryan’s photos from South Toe.
A snapshot of Ryan’s joy while flying the drone in Beaufort, NC.
Ismar and Beth on the playground at Branches.
The Little Ones
The second week of November was tough: anxiety about the upcoming election, skyrocketing numbers of COVID cases, and the tragic news that an old friend from college had died unexpectedly.
That week, I spent two days filming and taking photos at Branches Community School, the preschool my dear friend Beth Branciforte founded three years ago.
There is something — some fundamental, primal thing — about being around happy, small children that can help you forget your worries, at least for a moment.
As I filmed and photographed dozens of tiny humans running around the playgrounds of Branches, I imagine I felt a glimmer of what parents must feel when they watch their kids play.
Look at how they create their own worlds! Worlds that don’t contain politics or pandemics or police brutality. Worlds full of wonder and joy and magic. Worlds free from toxic thoughts, anxiety, and fear.
To be in that world, even for just a moment, is wonderful. To know that child-like joy is still possible, even in the midst of so much sadness, brought a much-needed reprieve from my adult mind.
Viola playing at Branches Community School.
Frankie discovering the joy of feeling sand between her fingers.
The Trails
No matter what happens in my lifetime, I hope I can always find peace and tranquility in the Black Mountains of western North Carolina. The Toe River Valley has been my “happy place” for years now, and I have written many posts about the magic of South Toe.
This year included eight trips to that lovely little mountain valley, and I was immensely grateful for every single one of them.
Smiling at my favorite spot on the Woody Ridge trail.
Hanging out with Ryan at Albert’s Adventure Inn.
The Partner
For all the confusion, uncertainty, and fear that 2020 brought, there was one thing I didn’t have to worry about: my relationship with my partner. Throughout this turbulent year, Ryan has remained a steadfast source of joy, comfort, and love.
Ryan and I kissed for the first time just over a year ago — at the beginning of a two-week scuba diving trip in the Florida Keys, where we were helping our good friend Kate Gould with her coral reef research.
That trip now feels like it was ten years ago. And it feels like Ryan and I have been dating for much longer than nine months — a funny thing considering my stance on romantic relationships before this year.
For the better part of a decade, I reveled in the glories of single life. Traveling the world, falling into brief romances in far-away places, and priding myself on being fiercely independent. A year ago, I thought my relationship with Ryan was like all the others — a fun, ephemeral romance in an exotic place. It surely wouldn’t turn into anything serious.
And then the world stopped. My constant travel schedule came to a screeching halt. I stayed in Carrboro for six months straight, and during that time, the man I liked became the man I love.
While 2020 may well go down in history as “the worst year ever”, I will also always remember it as the year that Ryan and I fell in love.
And that’s a pretty bright light.
An epic kiss at Hanging Rock State Park.