My 2020 recap and time capsule

What. A. (insert swear word) Year.

Why revisit this year? Fair question. Chapters 3 through 12, aka March through December, jumble in my brain. How could anyone unscramble this unbelievable time in history — with a global pandemic, devastating wildfires in the West, a derecho in the Midwest, racial inequity and social unrest, and a polarizing nail-biter election in the USA. I can’t make sense of it, but a few things encouraged me to try.

Scrolling through my photo gallery one day sparked surprising joy. And after starting on our family time capsule, the thought of opening it in the future reminded me that this year’s storm is blowing over.

I want a record of 2020, good and bad, beyond the memory of masks and hand sanitizer.

Oh, and I had plenty of time to reflect.

I friended Des Moines Parks in 2020.

Looking back, I took much for granted. January and February are one mostly happy blur of coffee/lunch/dinner dates, movies and plays, baby showers, concerts, trip planning, and wedding dress shopping with my future daughter-in-law. I never imagined that nearly a year later we’d be editing the wording of a COVID clause in the invite for a spring 2021 wedding.

Like many families, both sides of my family were eager to celebrate weddings this year, including my niece’s planned for South Bend, followed by a second wedding later in Ecuador, Nicho’s home.

Virtual shower party favors They were the epitome of grace when they chose to postpone their wedding celebration.

In early March, family gathered at our house to meet my great-nephew and to celebrate an early St. Pat’s. Little did we know how fast life would change or for how long.

We loved on sweet baby James Patrick in March and were sad to miss his first birthday party.

On March 17, Iowa’s governor declared an emergency proclamation, closing many businesses, including bars, on St. Pat’s Day. A new March madness.

Around this time, my husband began working from home, eventually converting our son’s old bedroom into his office. We are fortunate that he has a good job that he can do remotely. And on the bright side, I now had 24/7 tech support.

This Sheryl Sandberg quote became one of my early 2020 mantras.

I was never one to swear. But this year. I swear.

In the beginning I was an optimistic cheerleader, rooting for all. I was wowed by every single person who was kicking the sh*t out of Option B — doctors, nurses, teachers, home schoolers, students, parents, my hair salon and Pilates studio owners, truck drivers, direct-support providers, mail carriers, restaurateurs, small business owners, Black-owned businesses, musicians, artists, nonprofit leaders …

But over time, compassion/COVID fatigue set in. Scanning news headlines day after day brought grim death milestones, scenes of makeshift morgues, depressing drone images of car lines for food, and stories of businesses struggling to stay afloat and the elderly isolated.

Friends and family lost jobs. Took pay cuts. Became seriously ill with the virus. Cancer took their breasts, lymph nodes, and spouses. Families were upended by suicide, accidents, bomb-shell health issues, miscarriages. A beloved Dowling teacher, and my son’s former field coach, died.

My son had to put his cat down. My nephew’s dog had to have her eye removed.

Sadness, big and small, stacked up.

I was fine. But others were not. While I nature walked, kids were doing PE online and parents were juggling work and dizzying choices and changing statuses about distance learning and hybrid schedules and extracurriculars. While I lounged in comfy PJs, frontline workers labored in personal protective equipment. And while I looked for new recipes, others struggled to put food on the table.

This quote from a mental health therapist in a news article said it best: “We’re not all in the same boat. We’re all out in the same storm, but some of us have a yacht, and some have a piece of driftwood.”

I was fortunate to cling to something in between, grateful for my safety but weighted down by the ongoing sadness and stress depleting so many.

In August Iowa reached a grim milestone: 1,000 lives lost. A joyless day. Iowa’s death toll from COVID today: 3,745. A grieving family behind each number.

Some days I was between wanting to save the world and binge-watching Ozark. Some days I was productive. Some days not.

I discovered a Clean Washer setting on our washing machine. I rediscovered the fuel notice on my gas cap. Closets tidied, emails deleted, socks matched, photos sorted, mismatched stationery mailed, seasonal totes organized, the toaster tray wiped clean of crumbs. I had a cleaner house but couldn’t safely entertain.

Early on I lost my lonely PR battle on “physical” distancing versus “social” distancing. But words matter, and this was no time to social distance.

I zoomed Pilates, coffee chats, Bingo, family holiday parties. On the “Our Family in 2020” time capsule prompt sheet I wrote my name under “Likes to be outdoors the most.”

Walk after walk, friends and I surveyed uprooted trees, whether from the August derecho or some unknown ailment.

Uprooted trees reminded me of lives upended by this year’s death and destruction.

After a few years of attending the Day of the Dead at the Art Center, I became intrigued with the tradition. When they had to move this year's event online, they encouraged patrons to make their own ofrendas, or offerings.

I enjoyed creating this offering for Fatima Medina’s 100th birthday.

Other new traditions emerged. For Halloween we set treats on the porch. I pulled up a stool and watched trick-or-treaters (and the treats) from behind glass. It offered a different vantage point, one I loved and plan to repeat.

Trick-or-treat in 2020 brought me a needed sense of normalcy and joy.

Two dinner places set for Easter. Three for Thanksgiving. Four for Christmas. My holiday dinner table temporarily altered while others dealt with permanent loss much greater. A friend's tip led us to Howell Tree Farm in Cumming when our traditional Christmas tree stand closed. Both sides of the family had Christmas Zooms, one with lottery ticket scratch-off, one with with Bingo and old home movies.

Option B: Kicking back in our living room for the Garcia/Medina Christmas Zoom.

I kayaked and snowshoed for the first time. I created a blog. I played in sunflowers and visited 20-plus parks. I joined the local NAACP. I welcomed wee ones to the family and mourned angel babies. I delivered peace offerings. I washed my hands incessantly. I saw my nephew marry and went to the summit of Pikes Peak. I read in my hammock. I bird-watched. I consumed fewer material things and ate more plant-based food. I binged on Doritos and Netflix. I longed for Noce, the Fleur Cinema, my Pilates studio, Okoboji, large noisy family gatherings, live music, and travel.

The moon seen from the Brenton Arboretum 12-21, the night Jupiter and Saturn converged.

Why revisit a hella crazy year? I doubt that I’ll remember that I voted early in an October snow squall, or that my band from the 1970s, Fleetwood Mac, was trending because of a guy on a skateboard drinking Ocean Spray juice. Or that I made a mask from a T-shirt sleeve. I may soon forget about quarantunes, maskne, Blursday, doom-scrolling, pods, and bubbles.

My eye smile needs work, but this was a fun Saturday with a friend at McHenry Park.

But I do hope I remember that I/we kicked the sh*it out of Option B a few times.

© 2020 by Catherine Broderick Medina

Coming “into the peace of wild things” on Iowa trails

“Who cares about the clouds when we're together? Just sing a song and bring the sunny weather.”

Check out our scenic picnic spot at Jester Park.

I was fortunate to find a simple way to escape nearly every not-to-be-named dark cloud of 2020. While I’d like to say that my path to discovery was simple, the truth is I stumbled upon it.

Walking isn’t new to me. Years ago I mapped a hilly two-mile route in my neighborhood. Sunday mornings start with a regular walking crew at rotating locations. And I’ve been walking at Gray’s Lake, solo or with friends, for many seasons. I’ve circled it during a “moon float,” when canoes, paddleboats, and kayaks launched at sunset. I’ve looped the lake on an icy day when I shouldn’t have.

I’ve merged onto the path, falling into a happy cadence with skateboarders, baby strollers, and dog walkers. I’ve “tunneled” through the underground connector from Water Works to Gray’s.

That’s me on a borrowed bike scouting out the tunnel under Fleur Drive.

But this year was different. Unfortunately, my friend lost her job because of the pandemic. I’d left my work as an editor last November. We decided to make the best of our free time, fully aware of its gift. I was grateful to gain a partner in adventure. Starting with the sunflowers at Badger Creek, one trip to a new park quickly led to plans for another. And another. Around September we set a loose but ambitious goal to visit 20 Iowa parks in 2020.

When you’re out walking and find BCycles for rent, you start pedaling.

Now I had something good to pencil in my day planner. And each day trip brought an unexpected little joy or small adventure.

At Lake Ahquabi we chatted with an artist painting the treed shoreline and traded tips about scenic views.

These weekly outdoor outings with a small but ever-changing circle of friends became part of my pandemic mental health plan. Walking freed my mind, however briefly, from all bad things. It connected me to both friends and nature.

I learned the term shinrin-yoku, which translates to “forest bathing” or “absorbing the forest atmosphere,” where you slow down and become immersed in the natural environment using all senses. I inhaled Christmas-scented pine trees at the Brenton Arboretum on a warm November afternoon, our 20th park. I gauged river levels from eye level and from scenic overlooks.

We looked, really looked, and marveled at “really neat” cloud formations. I realized I had much to learn about native birds, bees, berries, trees, and flowers. We drank in the red-green and gold leaves, and land reflected on water. It was eye-opening, literally, to see the speed of deer in their habitat, the delicacy of butterflies, the sweet shyness of diving turtles.

A few of us narrowly dodged the derecho that hit after a morning walk at Raccoon River Valley. On our first time on the Coal Miner’s Daughter trail at Banner Lakes at Summerset State Park we heard gunshots from what we later learned was a nearby shooting range. We scouted the state’s best picnic spots, many on peninsulas. Another day we chatted with two well-dressed sage-age women sharing a bench by Blue Heron. They were patiently watching and waiting for fish to jump. Girls — at any age — just wanna have fun.

“I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water.”

Girls Day Out with Mother Nature became my new Girls Night Out. I like the ease and comfort of dressing down in old clothes, a ball cap, and minimalist makeup and catching up with old friends over walks.

The day at Walnut Woods when we found the bird blind but briefly lost our cars.

Cold sack lunches became routine and made for cheap dates. Water bottles replaced wine glasses. Cheers to the new healthier happy hour!

Two of my favorite books are stories of ordinary people turned hikers: Cheryl Strayed’s Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail, and Iowa-born Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, his funny Appalachian Trail tale.

Gray’s Lake will forever be close to my heart, but I have a new appreciation for other retreats, especially ones a little off the beaten path.

Our walks are far from book-worthy. But we can tell short tales of trails at Lake Ahquabi, Badger Creek State Park, Banner Lakes, Big Creek, Easter Lake, the Brenton Arboretum, Fort Des Moines, Gray’s Lake, Greenwood/Ashworth Park, Jester Park, Ledges State Park, Maffitt Reservoir, McHenry, McRae, Raccoon River Park, Union/Birdland, Walnut Woods, Winterset City Park, Water Works, Whiterock Conservency …

2020 was undeniably hard. But I have to credit it for drawing me outdoors for hikes, mural crawls, lunches at the Sculpture Park, patio dinners, Scenic Byway drives, and firepits. I'm grateful to have walked the path with good friends, many from high school. And to borrow a few words from poet Wendell Berry, I’m thankful to have “come into the peace of the wild things” on days I needed it most.

© 2020 by Catherine Broderick Medina

Here comes the sun (doo doo doo doo)

Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here

A girlfriend recently asked if I wanted to see the sunflowers at Badger Creek. Midway through a rough year with a battered social calendar, she didn’t have to ask twice. Wednesday looked like the best weather, so we arranged to meet in Van Meter — just 30 minutes from Des Moines. After Badger Creek, we’d head to nearby Winterset and picnic, hike, explore.

Word was out. On a rare comfortable July morning, we had company. Along with others, we quickly found our place in the four-acre field, completely captivated by the flower power.

Young moms with kids posed for sweet photos.

Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here

My friend Amanda and her little ones on their Badger Creek visit

Days after the trip I relied on my photo gallery to help me revisit the day — the flowers, conversation, the castle-like Clark Tower (and the mom with her six kids at the top), the old-time dime store, the Bridges of Madison County ...

It had been a picture-perfect day — a much-needed, healthy distraction from sad news and wedding/concert/vacation cancellations — a break in the clouds.

Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting

Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear

I’ve always liked sunflowers, but now I was curious about them. Later I’d learn that the Badger Creek sunflowers had been planted in crop-like rows to draw wildlife.

I also read a little about Vincent van Gogh, including 5 things you need to learn about Van Gogh’s Sunflowers:

“His fellow painters thought that sunflowers were perhaps somewhat coarse and unrefined. But this is exactly what Vincent liked ... He gave sunflowers the lead role in several paintings.

After he died, friends brought sunflowers with them to his funeral. Sunflowers became synonymous with Vincent, just as he had hoped.”

While Van Gogh painted his sunflowers in the south of France, I could imagine him painting here in Dallas or Madison county.

Near Hogback Bridge, one of the Madison County bridges, my friend and I crossed paths with a couple from Eastern Iowa. We asked the woman if she knew what the nearby purple flowers were. She didn’t but shared that she was supposed to be in Paris, checking into her hotel, for her daughter’s wedding and also touring the lavender fields. She was remarkably upbeat, happy to have found an unexpected field of purple here at home. And somewhere in the exchange, she told us that she was born in Russia.

Purple field near Hogback Bridge in Madison County

My niece had to cancel her September weddings, one in South Bend, one in Ecuador, home to her fiancé and his family. To varying degrees, we’re all weathering the dark storm of loss and heartache brought on by this pandemic. But we can still look for silver linings and purple fields.

The chance meeting with the woman at the bridge was one small part of the simple joy of a day trip with a good friend.

We had some laughs reading the teen-love bridge graffiti and browsing at the Ben Franklin. The shopping tradition started a decade earlier on a trip with other girlfriends to Winterset.

One of the scenic covered bridges of Madison County

Our picnic revealed this fun fact: My friend and I both like Fig Newtons. And later we had to laugh when we were denied ice cream in Winterset because the local shop only took cash. It reminded me of when we were two broke girls and scraped together enough to visit San Francisco and to see James Brown.

At San Fran's Fairmont Hotel when we purchased overpriced photos of ourselves and got the sax player's autograph

Where's a good professional photographer when you need one?

This July outing wasn’t extraordinary. It came together over a few days, texts, gallons of gas, food in our fridge, and $1.50 for postcards and candy stick “smokes” at Ben Franklin.

Maybe it took a pandemic for me to fully appreciate the everyday and ordinary right here at home.

Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo, here comes the sun

And I say it's all right

© 2020 by Catherine Broderick Medina