The other night, I went to close my shades and became enraptured by the night sky. During a prairie winter, the sky is normally densely overcast and claustrophobic but on this night I stared out at the stars - albeit few, albeit faint - as well as some scattered, low-hanging cumulus clouds that reflected the crimson light of the city. During a time when I feel I’ve become completely disconnected to nature, I feel like my appreciation for it (and need to preserve it) is growing. When you’ve been stuck in your home for almost a year, the desire to explore the wilds is all-consuming. This pause has given me time to reflect though, on life and what really matters.
In late 2004, I left my job at an advertising agency to freelance. A lot of 2020 is reminding me of that time. I was working at home on a bondi blue iMac when the earthquake and tsunami struck countries bordered on the Indian Ocean. I recall non-stop footage of it playing on the television in the background as I tried to work. I’m an empathetic person, sometimes overly so, and the sadness of it all really affected me. With 230,000+ dead, it was the worst disaster I’d witnessed in my lifetime.
Sixteen years later, I’m once again working at home—again, on an iMac—but this time the disaster hits closer. I’m not watching the tragedy of a far-away land through the safety of a screen, I’m living it everyday. I’m connected to risk and reminded of it through the daily death count on the evening news. My empathy here serves me well. With over two million deaths worldwide, it’s important not to lose sight that these were human beings who lived and loved and deserve to be remembered. Regardless of age, health or any other factor used to discriminate, they are people.
And people are what really matter in life.
The most happiness and bliss I’ve felt have been in the presence of people I loved. The greatest memories of my youth are traveling the west in an old RV with my parents, visiting such legendary sites as Yellowstone National Park, the Rocky Mountains, Deadwood and Wall Drug (okay, that last one is legendary for a different reason but memorable all the same). I remember the fun of playing license plate bingo with my dad or having my mom wash my hair in a rest stop sink because that’s where we slept overnight in lieu of a campground. I didn’t grow up wealthy, so moments like this were currency towards future resolve. Some of the fondest memories of my twenties are just cruising around Winnipeg after-hours listening to music and being present with someone who values and understands me through shared experience.
The brief high one gets through a material purchase does not compare to receiving a message from an old friend who felt the need to check in and say “hello”. Having someone remember and acknowledge your existence is to feel seen. To feel human. These moments have been some of the most memorable during the pandemic.
I’m thankful to have someone to share this moment in time with. Another soul to bear witness to history and the real, raw emotions and fear we all felt while living it. Having someone to talk with, to play with, every day is helping me get through. I look forward to the day when we can one day explore the wilds again, together.
My mom and I somewhere in the Rockies. My dad’s truck is pictured in the background. Before buying an RV, we used to sleep in the back of the truck during family road trips (©Deborah Clague).
My mom and I, probably on the same trip as she’s wearing the same clothes. For some reason, I’m not wearing pants (©Deborah Clague).
Eleven-year-old me in Yellowstone National Park (©Deborah Clague).
