THE PLACES THAT STOOD

The Earth is ancient and powerful. The mountains, hills, and trees all have eyes and memories.

They have witnessed many of the trials and tribulations of human existence — war, famine, disease.

It is possible to hear their voices and stories. Venture deep into the forest. Breathe in the scent of pine needles and animal musk. Feel the rough bark of the trees on your palms. Wait for a pause in the call of the songbird and close your eyes.

Listen.

Maddie Davis and Lutfor Rahman

THE PLACES THAT STOOD

Near Marselisborg Forest.

I woke to the light of the sun shining directly into my eyes.

And for a moment, before it all hit me like a wave of water crashing down over my head, everything was right in the world. I was in Denmark, the second happiest country in the world, in the middle of a semester abroad at the Danish School of Media and Journalism, doing a program that had been my dream for four years. But then I remembered.

Ever since COVID-19 spread its long, dark tentacles across Europe — and now, across the world — I’ve felt them slowly tightening around me.

At first I barely noticed. I was too busy with school, too busy with my friends, too busy making the most of the time I had in Denmark. But when school was moved to online-only instruction for at least two weeks, when we were all told to avoid gathering in groups, and when it was strongly advised that we stay at home as much as possible, I finally realized the danger I was in. But it was already too late. For most of my life, I’ve been locked in a never-ending, no rules, fight-to-the-death battle with my brain. Although it’s no easy feat, I’ve become pretty well-practiced in the art of keeping my mental illness at bay with medication, routine, and staying busy.

But when something as disruptive as the coronavirus was added to the mix, it was like a sucker punch I never saw coming. And when I woke up after the knockout, I was in a place in my mind that I had been to many times but never wanted to return to.

Forest near the Moesgaard Museum.

I wasn’t any more anxious about the coronavirus than the average person, but what really got to me was the gradual realization that for an indefinite period of time, there was going to be a lot more uncertainty and change than anything else. And while a healthy dose of both of those things is more or less a part of life, for someone like me that struggles with mental illness, too much of either — or in this case, both — can lead to disaster.

It became harder and harder to get out of bed. Individual days didn’t exist, and every waking moment stretched into what felt like one long hike through the desert with only one canteen of water and no oasis in sight. My family often called to see how I was, trying to reach across the distance of over 4,000 miles to give me some comfort. Hearing from them helped, but every time I hung up the phone it was hard to forget that it felt like everything I had worked so hard for was slipping through my fingers like sand.

After I had spent four days alone in my room, more or less just switching off between staring out my window during the day and staring at the ceiling at night, I became so detached from reality that I was starting to feel more like an inanimate object than a person.

I had almost abandoned the idea that I could somehow pull myself out of the abyss I had fallen into. But on the fifth day, I opened my window and saw a flock of seagulls had gathered on the grass outside my room.

Maybe it was the fact that I was actually starting to go insane, or maybe it was because it was the first sunny day in Aarhus in recent memory, but I felt like nature — and those seagulls especially — were calling me to go outside. People who have had near-death experiences talk about seeing a bright white light as they die, but for me, with the sunlight in my eyes and each breath of fresh air, I felt like nature was bringing me back to life.

- Maddie Davis

Near Risskov Beach. (Left) Forest in Brabrand.

Near Brabrand Lake.

I was freezing when I landed in Copenhagen. I was waiting for my train to get to Aarhus. I could feel the cold run through my veins.

As my journey started, I was looking out of my window at a totally new landscape. The landscape changed from a chaotic noisy ocean of people, to a strange silent isolation with everything in order.

Silence in a foreign place can be unsettling and unnerving. It is as if one just immersed oneself in the ocean cutting out all noise and the explosion of anarchy. It felt like a wonderland. Small farmhouses, clear skies with so much open space. The greenery throughout the land, stretching till the horizon. I was excited and it kept my fear in control. I have never been outside my country and photographs were the only reference to Denmark that I had.

John Szarkowski, the director of MoMA, writing about the famous American photographer William Eggleston once stated that “…. the poem or picture is likely to seem a faithful document if we get to know it first and the unedited reality afterwards….” I was a stranger to this country and started matching pictures from Denmark with what I was seeing in front of me. This February, Denmark had received the most rainfall in the country’s history. The weather has been cold without the sun on most days. I had visited the sea on my second day of arrival and it made an impression on me, like a wet hand on a sheet of cloth. Not firm, yet present.

I started getting used to my new life in this new country, new friends, roommates. We bonded over kebabs in cafes run by people from Turkey and the Middle East. I was battling out of the grasp of the awkward silence that had gripped me, when the COVID-19 pandemic broke out. Because of the pandemic my roommates were called back to their home countries.

All of a sudden, I was companionless in my apartment. In the previous week, these people had made me feel better whenever I was low. They had become my support system. With these new friends leaving and the country in lockdown, isolation grappled me even more.

The entire apartment was empty and silent with only the constant sound of the refrigerator and the ventilator. Occasionally birds would chirp. The sun was still hiding, and it was dark and gloomy — almost reflective of the days that were.

Before my friends left, we went back to the sea and swam naked in the cold freezing water. The sea attracted me in this hour of isolation. In this melancholic time spring arrived. Nature started to grow and prosper. Cherry blossom blossomed everywhere, colouring the trees red and white. The sun was shining longer, clearing the dark skies. The evening light of the sun cast a golden hue in my room. I started to go out to the sea, and photograph nature.

I travel everyday 45 minutes towards the sea to observe spring decorating nature like a bride. Going back to nature helps me find beauty around me in this unkind and isolated time.

As Charles Dickens once said “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”

- Lutfor Rahman