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#everydayeveryday

“The beauty of the natural world lies in the details”- Natalie Angier

I’ve always considered myself to be a detail-oriented person. This project only affirmed that. I started it because I wanted to challenge myself to deliberately slow down and take an extra moment or two to stop and smell the roses, quite literally. I decided to call it #everydayeveryday — a pretty straightforward title to describe my goal to take a photo (or two or ten) of an everyday moment in my life, every day.

I did it. I never missed a day. I always managed to find some detail, some reflection, witness some moment or capture some scene. I took more than 750 photos, most of them with my iPhone 7. However, for the sake of loading speeds, I only included my favorites.

Obviously, when I started this project on Jan. 1, I had no idea that a global pandemic was brewing and would fundamentally change the way everyone lived and interacted with each other. I tried my best to be optimistic, even when the world felt so heavy, especially in the spring.

I can’t help but consider this project as a time capsule and a journal of sorts. I think this year has felt both like a blink of an eye and an Ironman triathlon for all of us. This project helped me maintain a sense of purpose and admire the smallest of details that are always present, but not always seen.

I hope it can help you too, in some way. Enjoy.

JANUARY

In January, there was hardly any snow on the ground until the 10th. I was working at Iowa PBS, getting to the station as the sun rose each day. We were preparing for the Iowa Caucuses, having no idea that chaos would ensue mere days away. I took photos of several Joe Biden campaign events for Buzzfeed, not knowing that in ten months, he would become the president-elect. I attended a musical at the Civic Center along with a theater filled with 2,500 other people, one of the last times I was around that many people.

Much to my amusement, I discovered that at night, my dog’s shadow looks like a gremlin with a hunchback.

I noticed that when snowflakes fall in front of a streetlamp, it looks like dandelion fluff.

I learned that snow can make the sky turn purple.

Sunsets are magic and can make anything glow.

FEBRUARY

Much of the news in February was about the caucuses. On Feb. 3, I woke up at 3 a.m. to watch David Greene and Rachel Martin host NPR’s Morning Edition from Smokey Row, later went to Drake University where I tagged along to assist a PBS NewsHour crew at a caucus precinct and waited for results for hours at Pete Buttigieg’s caucus night rally. I walked a total of 7 miles and was awake for 21 hours that day. I spent a warm morning cross country skiing with my dad under a bright blue sky. I went to the movie theater (in hindsight, had I known it would be the last time I would step in one for the foreseeable future, I would have ordered a larger popcorn.) We began screening the Iowa PBS documentary, Carrie Chapman Catt: Warrior for Women. I took lots of long walks on local trails.

I took an extra moment to admire the break room at Iowa PBS, not knowing it would be one of the last times I would set foot in it for the rest of the year.

MARCH

Iowa PBS’s annual pledge drive and our coverage of the girls state basketball tournament still went on as planned in early March. I started working part time at the Business Record. I was listening to a lecture at Sheslow Auditorium when I felt the world shift through a series of push notifications saying that Tom Hanks had tested positive for COVID, President Trump was banning travel from Europe, the NBA season was suspended and the stock market was plunging. The cleaning supply aisles at Target and the bread section at HyVee were emptied out. I went to the Business Record office to pick up my laptop after news that we would be working from home. I walked around the skywalks downtown to document the emptiness. For at least a third of March, the skies were gray and the sun didn’t make much of an appearance. Fortunately, by the end of the month, flowers started popping up and pale orange sunsets returned.

I marveled at the 7:30 a.m. pink sunlight that would stream through our living room every morning.

On March 26, the day that the U.S. reported the most positive COVID-19 cases thus far (81,321), I found solace by walking through an area of burned prairie, admiring the lack of vibrancy.

On March 27 I took a walk alone around a foggy, quiet, still lake. My glasses were filled with raindrops, the air smelled wet and I distinctly remember hearing a lone loon calling out. When everything else seemed like it was dying, I felt so alive in that moment.

APRIL

April was quiet, yet busy. I made pictures of empty restaurants, talked with local business owners and nonprofit leaders about their fears. I took a series of portraits of frontline workers for dsm magazine. I shadowed Operation Downtown workers in hopes of conveying the importance of the waste management industry. I took lots of long walks and hammocked on the warm days to help ease my anxiety. The world felt incredibly heavy, but the spring blooms and green grass did wonders.

I walked past a small patch of clover growing in the middle of a slab of concrete, a small yet welcome reminder of resiliency.

Small offerings from folks in the neighborhood became a regular occurence.

Much to many people’s dismay, it snowed several times in April, but it was gorgeous nonetheless.

MAY

I’m convinced that May flowers were the only thing that got me through this month. I turned 23 on May 2 and cried multiple times for reasons I still don’t quite understand. Deaths both in general and in the family hit hard this month. I wanted to bury myself in a pool of cherry blossom petals. I began a running list of things that defined the COVID-19 era, some of which include toilet paper shortages, baking bread, 7 p.m. shift change cheers, teacher parades, Tiger King, the Room Rater Twitter account and the increase of decorated doors and windows. I walked more than 70 miles in May, mostly criss-crossing my neighborhood and taking a hundred photos of people’s trees and flowers. Our refrigerator stopped working and Jake and I had to throw out more than a hundred dollars worth of food. I photographed the Iowa Senate primary debate at Iowa PBS in an auditorium filled with no one.

It finally got warm enough to where I could sit out on our patio and watch storms roll in.

On the day that the U.S. surpassed 100,000 COVID deaths, the sunset was stunning.

JUNE

The killing of George Floyd at the end of May ignited large movements of demonstrations and protests that lasted through mid-June. Working for a business publication, I didn’t cover any of the initial gatherings, but their messages demanding and pleading for equal treatment and representation in all spaces of life had a profound effect on me. I saw a lot of stunning sunrises and sunsets. I went back to the Business Record newsroom for the first time in months for an all-staff training and discovered that my professional work clothes felt a liiiiitttle bit tight, likely due to the bowl of M&Ms I had been stress-eating for the past 12 weeks. A construction crew spent the month ripping up our patio and jackhammering their way through my Zoom meetings. I produced a short video for Iowa PBS giving a behind-the-scenes look at how the Des Moines Public Library pulls off their curbside service. Jake and I made the decision to postpone our October wedding. I worked on a series of first-person narratives about family and gender issues stemming from the pandemic. I spent an evening eating peaches and cream pie, playing with fire poking sticks and watching bats dart between the trees.

A room full of helium-filled balloons (and a 9-year-old to play with) gave me the chance to act like a kid again.

Being lazy and not washing my bacon grease-covered pan right away paid off because I got to see the white globs that formed.

I walked by a gold mylar balloon stuck in a tree for days, waiting for the right light to finally take a photo of it.

JULY

July was a month full of moments that felt like magic. Clouds were bigger and extra vibrant. Jake and I spent the evening before the Fourth of July watching the sun set on the High Trestle Trail bridge. I channeled my inner naturalist and examined a dead dragonfly for 20 minutes. I finished a book called Do Nothing by Celeste Hadlee and questioned why we base our lives on efficiency and productivity and doing more, instead of just being. I drove hundreds of miles across Iowa interviewing women about a time that they were fearless. I toured a renovated one-room schoolhouse and stepped inside an old concrete silo that was straight out of a fairytale. I gathered bouquets of black eyed susans. Construction moved to the siding of our apartment building. High winds ripped through West Des Moines, toppling several trees in our neighborhood and stripping others to the point where they looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss novel.

Thanks to a pop-up thunderstorm that cleared everyone out, Jake and I had nearly the entirety of Ledges State Park to ourselves after deciding to wait it out. Golden hour was stunning.

I experienced the familiar adrenaline of chasing a distant storm on a gravel road, searching for the perfect place to compose photos.

AUGUST

The lack of rain in August brought drought conditions throughout the state, but that also meant that skies were extra blue and made everything seem more saturated with color. I once again traveled across the state, this time taking portraits of people for dsm magazine’s Iowa Stops Hunger initiative. I spent a morning barefoot in my apartment parking lot taking photos of a rainbow that lasted at least 30 minutes. I drove through a derecho, dodging tree branches and speed limit signs that were frisbee-ing across the interstate, wondering if I would make it to my destination unscathed. (I did, fortunately). The day after, Emily Barske and I drove through Marshalltown, documenting the damage from the derecho, which had left more than 500,000 Iowans without power. Shortly thereafter, Jake and I spent a week in northern Minnesota, exploring Voyageurs National Park, watching the sun set over Canada, looking at the Milky Way with our naked eyes and spending a lot of time on Lake Kabetogama. A visit from a praying mantis on our bedroom window made my whole day.

A prime example of why I started this project: A group of kids decided to color some dead branches on the curb after the derecho. It’s not the greatest photo or scene, but it reminded me of how much joy there still is in this world.

SEPTEMBER

A football game during a pandemic means no more communal Gatorade cooler.

I said goodbye to summer by taking laps around Lake Diamondhead by tube and took at least three dozen photos of the sun set. You’re looking at the three best frames.

My dad’s iconic silhouette, after a late night taping an Iowa Press debate with Rep. Abby Finkenauer and Ashley Hinson.

OCTOBER

October was wonderful, considering the circumstances. My brother Lee didn’t tell anyone that he was coming home on leave from Ft. Irwin and when I opened my apartment door to him with his arms out, I immediately started sobbing. Instead of getting married on Oct. 3, I signed the contracts to get my new (used) car, we got takeout from Gilroys and watched Iowa State beat Oklahoma at home for the first time in 40 years. I went on a foggy morning walk around Waterworks Park with Barske. I went on lots of walks, admiring the yellows, oranges and reds in the neighborhood. I must have picked up two hundred leaves. I wiped out after my bike tire got stuck in between a railroad track and gave myself some scrapes and whiplash. I voted early and a nice man at the Polk County Auditor’s office gave me TWO stickers. I took Barske tent camping for the first time. It snowed on Oct. 18 and after taking photos, I immediately turned on the Christmas music and lit a holiday-scented candle. Jake and I spent a chilly evening out at Neal Smith Wildlife Refuge amongst a herd of bison. I photographed several ballets at Iowa PBS.

One plus from spending so much time at home this year was getting more time to admire the bright yellow ash trees that line our street. I became obsessed with the juxtaposition of the glowing yellow trees in front of a six-story, drab-looking office building.

I woke up extra early to beat the crowd at Ledges State Park. The fall colors took my breath away.

I became enamored with this ginkgo tree that had dropped its leaves overnight. It was so photogenic and I collected dozens of its leaves.

NOVEMBER

This month was a journey in and of itself. I tried every tactic in the book to distract myself from election anxiety: I put on my breaking news cap and photographed a four-alarm fire, went on a long walk, took my car to the car wash for the very first time, made homemade pizza, cleaned and napped. In the days following the election, when the whole world was waiting for official results, I continued to find solace outdoors, so that’s where I spent much of my time. My dad and I took my sister Anna on an informal tour of Iowa State and Ames. The day after the U.S. reported over 150,000 new COVID-19 cases my 20,000-word series of vignettes about women’s experiences with being fearless was published and I officially became the Fearless contributing editor at the Business Record. I was part of a team that won an Emmy for the Carrie Chapman Catt documentary. I photographed more ballets. I spent Thanksgiving in Iowa instead of Illinois for the first time.

The sunset on Thanksgiving was a stunner. I am thankful for many things this year, and sunsets are one of them.

I’m not really sure why I’m so drawn to this scene of a wall separating I-235 from a city park. But I stopped in my tracks to document it.

DECEMBER

December went by in the blink of an eye. It was hard to get into the Christmas spirit. Instead, I felt like I was on a train going 100 miles per hour and I was on the lower level, watching the world go by in a blur. I started the month by taking a COVID test as a precautionary measure (it was negative.) I interviewed two doctors that work with COVID patients, visited the emergency room and got to go up on the helipad. I wrote a 2,200-word story in one day, a first for me. I went for a 6-mile hike on the last 60-degree day of the year. Lee came back home for a few weeks and we spent several evenings together as a whole family, which felt so nice. I visited my grandparents for the first time in over a year. I listened to Taylor Swift’s album on repeat. I took time off of work for the first time since August. When I wasn’t going for walks in the snow — or attempting to, before being thwarted by a biting wind that made my mascara run — I was curled up underneath a blanket, reading, watching Home Alone or Soul or napping.

I’m having trouble accurately reflecting on my feelings about 2020. It was overwhelming, heavy, exhausting, relentless, chaotic, heartbreaking and eye-opening. I did my best to stay busy to keep my mind from tumbling into an anxious pit of despair. I am so glad I had the foresight to take on this challenge, because compiling all of these photos was cathartic. I was reminded of all of the small, fleeting moments where I felt alive.

Created By
Emily Blobaum
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All photos by Emily Blobaum