This morning, there is a pall over the sky as the sun tries to break through. I am in a local coffee shop where every table is full of conversation, except mine. My
conversation is in my head, with you, trying to discuss our forthcoming issue when my mind is elsewhere. It is difficult to drink coffee and look over the town, to focus on writing, and push aside the helplessness I feel about a war across the world that shames me.

 

Every generation has its own unprecedented times. This is ours.

 

I was fortunate to grow up after the Vietnam War, during the late 70s through the early 90s, when we had what we believed to be peaceable politics. We could disagree without being dismissive. We understood, if not agreed with, certain military actions. We took our votes and our rights for granted. Our own families spoke Italian, Polish or Arabic without looking over our shoulders.

 

Today, our brains are being bombarded by bad news – from ICE to War, pedophilia to the price of gas, US government shakeups, and Canadian crime ring shakedowns. And here we still sit, talking about our Easter holiday, gossiping about friends, complaining about work, drinking coffee, and eating scones. Whether we call it coping mechanisms, stoicism, compartmentalizing or even resilience, we are forced into carrying on our lives. Maybe with more ferocity. With more conviction. With more dedication to being a good person and raising a good family. Being a better friend, a better co-worker, a better
sibling.

 

Right now, I am reading Kettle Bottom, a book of poetry by Diane Gilliam, and Night Comes to the Cumberlands: A Biography of a Depressed Area by Harry M. Caudill. Both concern conditions in the coal mines during the 1920s. Gilliam’s book is a beautiful, if heartbreaking, collection of narrative poetry about the conditions that led to the “mine wars” and strike at a West Virginia mine as told by the miners and their various family members. Caudill’s book details the history of the Cumberland Plateau, located in the Appalachian region of eastern Kentucky.

 

The weaving of truth and fiction, whether prose or poetry, opens our hearts to the knowledge that we are all subject to events beyond our control. We all must cope in the best way possible in the face of our own helplessness, confusion, fear, and yearnings for peace. We all live through unprecedented times.

 

Here in Michigan, the temperatures are still hovering around freezing. Our winter is not over, but the sun is shining and April’s 32 degrees is different than February’s, as every Midwesterner knows.

 

Our lawns know this, too. The daffodils are not comfortable yet, but the crocuses are doing their best to bloom. Like us, they are subject to the season’s temperament. And every season is unprecedented in nature.

 

We hope as you sit at your various tables, whether in a coffee shop or your own kitchen, you will take the time to browse through the Winter issue. Like the daffodils, our next issue is just around the corner.