Playing with the horizon line within the square. The quote is one of my favorites. It reminds me that I’m my own worst enemy, but I’m also my best protector. I burn myself and my work down more effectively than anyone else can, but I can take control of my thoughts and actions to build myself up, too.

MAJ: Wow. Our backyard looks creepy.
Me: Yes. Yes, it does.

This is what my back horizon looks like now. Without the leaves, it’s easier to see the sheer devastation.

I know the city has sent people to evaluate cleaning up the debris in the flood plain, but other areas have higher priority.

If nothing else, it’s good for giving me decidedly creepy inspiration.

I’d been expecting that Covid-19 would be the thing that waylaid our home and changed my horizon in 2020. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I had 15 minutes of warning before the derecho hit Cedar Rapids, Iowa on August 10, 2020, just enough time to call the dog-walker and let her know: bring the doggo home and go get hunkered down yourself.

I took this from my back deck as the winds were dying down. The branch showing in the foreground on the right of the picture came from the 40+-year-old ash tree, the trunk of which should have been blocking my view from that angle.

I still cringe when the winds start to howl, can still hear the crack of its rootball breaking, sharp and clear like a bat against the horsehide of a softball you didn’t expect to hit.

My roof was finally fixed in November. The deck repairs have to wait until the spring. Too many other people needed new roofs. There simply weren’t hands available

I can see all the way across the wooded area behind my house now, a green space defined by where Dry Creek flooded in 2008 on its 1000 year flood plain and a safety margin beyond where no one may build. I can see apartments I knew were there but were hidden by trees. My horizon has been expanded at the cost of the trees and I’m not comfortable with the view.

I’m learning to live with discomfort for the sake of expanding my horizons.

I took this picture in Hawaii, on our first and last trip of the year. It was March and the first news of Covid-19, the novel coronavirus, was still sketchy at best. My gut said “stay home,” but as a group, we decided to go with whatever the travel recommendations were from the CDC.

I was the one tasked with doing the checking because I was the one most concerned. When I checked the CDC website, there weren’t any travel restrictions or recommendations unless travelers were heading to China. Those restrictions started coming the day after we landed.

We spent the whole trip with our planned activities either closing on the say we planned to do them, or the site planning to close the day after we visited — like it was chasing us. Only being with good friends made any of it tolerable. The things we didn’t know then.

The rest of the year felt the same way: Like we just needed to get over the horizon and we’d be safe. Just get back to the hotel. Just get through LAX. Just get home. Once we’re there, everything will be fine and then we could go back to normal.

That’s not what happened, though. By the time we got home, new challenges were navigating a world with masks, social distancing, essential workers, and Zoom meetings, to add to the challenges that already existed (some of which I had the privilege of never having to experience personally, like systemic racism, but other familiar ones, too, like our fractious society in general.)

Last year, it became evidently clear that the horizon is a moving target. By the time you’re to the point where you thought the horizon was, your perspective has changed. The next mark is set, but the goal of going “beyond” can never be attained.

Nothing can wait until we get around the next bend or over the horizon. The best anyone can do is adapt, keep moving, and make time for the things we want right now, however doing them in this present moment looks.