Every year as I start to write my editor’s note for the current issue, I am struck by how much has happened, not only since the publication of the last issue of Oyster River Pages, but also since the beginning of the current calendar year. Here in Texas we had a terrible freeze in February—the electric grid failed horribly and everything froze, literally and figuratively. Hope grew in March and April with the proliferation of vaccinations, that soon we could return to some of the things we love—spending time with friends and family without anxiety or fear. Over the course of this year we lost friends and loved ones to illness, old age, injustice and cruelty. With each new blow, we tried to make a new start. We said the names of those we lost, and we planted, with tremulous fingers, still aching for what once was. We held each other close, horrified by each new assault on our humanity, hoping it would keep us from falling apart. The lemongrass seedlings we planted in our garden at the end of March are now a splendidly monstrous green waterfall. A new generation of anoles suns itself on the milkweed. Cities are falling, homes are burning, families are lost. Even as we watch ourselves trying to find a foothold, trying to hold out a hand, we realize that there is no going back to “how it was.” When I call the essays in this collection “life-changing,” I do not say it lightly, for these essays examine those in-between places, that breathlessness between breaths where life continues to happen. They show us that to live is to hope, and to hope defiantly, in the face of terror, violence, loss. These essays remind us of all that is the best in us—our humanity, our capacity for empathy and kindness and grace—and they charge us. In the midst of uncertainty, they highlight what is, and allow us to imagine what could be.
—Ranjana Varghese
Creative Nonfiction Editor
In a time of collective trauma, it’s been impossible for me not to think about where we are heading. From raging wildfires fueled by climate crises, a fatal pandemic continuing with little end in sight, to a great political divide and Black bodies in the streets, I’ve spent hours ruminating over the future. What is next for all of us? And as artists, how can we continue to create? I write in order to build a space to contemplate what is coming next, to solve what I fail to fix out loud. In this issue, these artists do the same; these essays remind me of our beginnings. It is my belief that we cannot think ahead without first looking behind. These pieces bring us a kaleidoscope of familial histories: from fearful mothers, misunderstood daughters; fathers that carry their children, sisters that lose their brothers; our earth as our beginning, nature in its ends; a gaping hole of grief to a hole filled with memory. In this life, we fill a role as a child to someone, a parent to someone, and if we are lucky, a sibling, a lover, a friend; all these labels with which we give ourselves. Our beginnings are as important as our ends and our middles, because after all, we live as one big circle. When we create in such, the art that comes out of us speaks to our minds and to our bodies. I urge you now to read this collection of essays from the beginning to the end, and contemplate from where you come; how can that tell you where you are going?
—Zoey Gulden
Creative Nonfiction Intern