From the Editor

Threads Across Time

I recall enjoying the creation of timelines as a child. There was something reassuring and fascinating about seeing these events arranged in a thread across time. There are, as far as I can tell, only two distinct events that can be tied to a specific point: birth, and death. Even these represent a progression leading up and to the recorded (official) moment in time. 

Spring equinox arrived on March 20, 2022 and the days have been getting longer. I notice and rejoice in the additional light but there is a lingering fog from recent life events that has resulted in a pale hue cast on many things we do. 

As I worked on this current issue, I received news of several deaths—some tragic and unexpected, some culminations of gradual life progressions. These losses included Sam Hall, author of Owl Light’s “Bee Lines” column—a regular part of Owl Light since 2017, soon after we first went to print. 

There are also the wider repercussions of humanity’s struggles against the forces of nature and against our own better natures: most recently evident with Covid-19 and the Russian invasion of the Ukraine. Some of these effects are felt quite close to home. We have, as of late, been traveling into southeastern and western parts of New York to spend time with relatives on the decline, their timelines far nearer the ends than the beginnings. Both of the care facilities we travel to now require Covid tests before entry, and notices of “Red Units” and “Yellow Units” greet us upon entering—along with paperwork and trepidation. Add to this the sometimes present, sometimes not states of the people in these facilities that offer glimpses into our own crystal balls.

Seeing a map of Russian forces circling the Ukraine, no matter how far and remote this may be from us geographically, is disorienting at best. Seeing the human toll of such action, even if by remote video, is maddening. There is no way to grasp through images the impact of missiles falling on neighborhood enclaves, the fear and desperation of families racing underground and toward borders to find sanctuary. Nonetheless, these images and the realities on the ground can be felt, even here in our rural land where—despite the increased prevalence of people declaring their “side” through divisive flags and banners in our own civil war, of sorts—we have relative freedom and safety. A hard-won freedom and safety, made possible by those who came before (by those residing now in private and institutional homes for the elderly). 

I often think of spring as a time of renewal. I love it when life begins unfolding again and a green cast settles over the land. I love the spring rains and the warm breezes that transition us from winter to the balmy days of summer. Yes, there is a reassurance in this cycling of our planet in its continuing journey through space and time. Yet, I am finding it a bit more difficult to find solace in the songs of the birds and the warming temperatures that usher us toward the summer segment of our seasonal timeline. 

This shadow in time, like a slow moving storm cloud, has lingered into 2022, making it much more challenging to see the sparks of light that propel us forward, the rays that offer up moments of inspiration and reflection. I feel this in my travels, hear it in conversations overheard, and feel it as I write. Believing is challenging right now and this is evident in how we approach all aspects of our lives, from work to politics, to the ways we create and grow. 

It is evident in our lead story—a welcome, albeit true to life, reflection “On Trees and Transience” from Derrick Gentry, and is echoed throughout this issue in subtle ways. The surest way to understand and feel is with eyes open. There lies within the definitive beginning and ends of the timeline a hopefulness that draws us deeper into our experiences and, in the best of times (even in the worst of times), can bring us closer to one another.

D.E. Bentley, Editor