I waded into the ocean, the saltwater reaching up to my waist.
Every half-minute or so, a wave would come hurtling my direction, threatening to douse me with chilly seawater. I didn’t like the feel of that. So I would jump as the wave approached.
Each leap kept my face from getting drenched by the surf. But it also gave me a moment to see what lay beyond it.
As I reached elevation, I could see the ocean rolling out majestically before me. The crests of waves extended for what seemed like miles. Somewhere off in the distance, a sailboat plodded across the water.
And beyond all this, there was a line. A line where the dark blue of the water and the light blue of the sky combined.
I was flummoxed by this mysterious line in the distance. So, I asked my father — who was wading in the water beside me — what it was.
That’s the horizon, he replied. It’s the furthest point we can see.
My father then explained to me that there’s plenty of life — and, in this case, ocean — beyond the horizon. But we would have to travel out there if we wanted to say what lay beyond. And if we did that, we’d see a new horizon. One located even further from the shoreline.
This was all a bit much for my 5-year-old mind to unpack. As far as I was concerned, what lay beyond that line was beyond comprehension.
If I couldn’t see it, it didn’t really exist.
There’s an old proverb you’ve probably heard of. It reads If a tree falls in the forest, did it really make a sound?
We nod intuitively at this phrase, as if it is common knowledge. And yet, many of us have not wandered through the forest at all. And even if we have, there’s a good chance we didn’t hear a tree falling.
We’ve had no connection to the scene that’s being set. And yet, when presented with the idea of its absence, we nod, smile and hope that no one will call our bluff.
Lately though, something has changed. That abstract concept has started to come into focus, in terrifying detail/
As I write these words, the world remains mired in a deadly pandemic. A virus continues to run rampant, causing suffering in hundreds of countries.
As the virus first made its way across the globe, the world largely shut down. With no known cure, a high level of contagion and overwhelming caseloads, many countries were in a tough spot. So, government leaders ordered local or national lockdowns to slow the spread of the disease.
This tactic had been used in previous pandemics. But there was a new wrinkle this time. For even as millions were confined to their homes, technology was there to help them stay connected.
Life under lockdown would still be unpleasant. But the experience would be far less isolating than it would have been in the past.
After all, it was still possible to connect with family and friends through a smartphone. And many workers bring their jobs into their homes, with nothing more than a home computer and an Internet connection.
Even after the lockdowns were lifted, the world continued to adapt. A new normal has taken hold — one where people connect in-person far less than they traditionally did.
We’ve largely been able to rise to this strange occasion. Yet, it still feels as if something substantial is being lost.
For there is only so much reality that we can virtualize. There is only so much that videoconferencing and email can cover.
When we look at our computer screens or smartphones, we get a window into the world that lies beyond our reach. But surrounding that window lies the sobering reality. Us, driven apart from each other and the traditions we are familiar with. Us, staring at the same familiar scenery day after day. Us, contending with the world getting smaller and smaller.
It’s hard to hide from these sobering facts. It’s hard to feel attached to the world around us. It’s hard to even remember that world still exists.
For once we hang up the phone or shut off the computer, it’s game over. We have no sense of what others outside our bubble might be thinking, feeling or doing. We have no channel to build ongoing trust or provide them reassurance. We have no inertia to keep the conversation going.
When that virtual portal closes, it does so with a resounding thud.
Sure, we can try and fill in the gaps. We can guess what’s going on beyond our walls. But the bounds our imagination is all we have.
Object permanence is winning the day.
Querite et invenitis.
For years, these three Latin words have followed my name on every personal email I’ve sent. They translate — roughly — to Seek and ye shall find.
This phrase has long served as a rallying cry for me. For only when I have made the effort to venture beyond that horizon have I yielded the rewards.
This principle has held true throughout my life. Going to a university nine states away from where I was raised helped me grow up — and fast. Studying abroad in South America took my Spanish comprehension to another level. Taking a job, sight unseen, on the dusty plains of West Texas taught me to make peace with the unexpected.
Travel isn’t about glamour for me. It’s not about taking iconic photos or sharing epic stories — even as those sometimes come with the experience.
No, it’s about the exploration. About learning more about the world, and my potential in it.
Of course, the pandemic has put that on hold. Mass movement has gone from an essential to a danger. And like many, I’ve mostly hunkered down in the same zip code for months.
Sure, I’ve gotten outside for some exercise, for work and to run some errands. But I haven’t roamed as freely as I used to.
I didn’t fully recognize the toll of all this at first. In those hectic initial weeks of this reality, my focus was on adjusting to meet the moment.
But now, all I notice is all that I’ve lost connection with. All I can remember is all I’ve forgotten.
Object permanence has set in. And I don’t like it one bit.
This too shall pass.
There will be a day when this strange era is behind us. When the trepidation and restrictions no longer dominate conversation. When conversation can happen in-person more regularly.
But just because it can doesn’t necessarily mean that it will.
For object permanence doesn’t just disappear. It’s a fog that doesn’t just lift under the heat of the midday sun.
All this time we’ve spent away from each other has come with a cost. We’ve said goodbye to spontaneous interaction. We’ve forgotten the art of the follow-up. We’ve lost track of the rules for nonverbal communication.
These are not just critical tools for connecting with our community. They’re also essential social skills.
And the longer they’re removed from our lives, the less likely they are to return.
It’s on us to keep this from happening. It’s on us to keep our gaze on the horizon. It’s on us to remember in a world that has us primed to forget.
It’s not an easy proposition. But it’s an essential one.
What we can’t see still does exist. It’s time for us to find it again.