Dear Readers,
Yesterday, the first iris bloomed in my garden, and this morning, I find the dwarf irises under the oak trees in my backyard blooming as well. A pair of robins hop across the lawn, pick up dry grasses in their beaks, fly away to the old plum tree to build a nest. The redbud unfurls tender new leaves. The starling greets the day enthusiastically, flutes a melody, whistles and clicks to show off his vocal repertoire. Everywhere green and newness and promise. Spring fills me with deep joy.
In a chaotic, wounded world, joy seems self-indulgent. The onslaught of news makes us question whether we have the right to feel joy when bombs fall in the Middle East, when immigrant families are separated, when wildfires ravage the Southwest. The litany of woes is never-ending, depressing doom loops on repeat, and shouldn’t we sink into despair to signal solidarity?
But I believe in the power of joy in the face of darkness. I believe we have a responsibility to joy. A responsibility to observe and enjoy the beautiful and interesting in the world–despite all the ugliness and heartbreak. (And yes, that’s hard work sometimes.)
As poets, observing is what we do. And then write about it. A thread of noticing runs through the pieces in this edition. In Shisa Kankō…Pointing, Calling, Zary Fekete speaks of “Learning, perhaps, to notice.” The poems in this issue invite us to notice many-colored irises, yellow-rumped warblers, wrens. Observe six-year-olds doing cartwheels in the backyard. Watch skunks. In her poem Skunkwatching, Molly Remer reminds us that “being here to notice is its own kind of power.”
In a world out of control, where it is easy to feel powerless, we can still notice. We can take up, as Annika Nerf writes “a chance to look, to really look.” We can let it ground us and connect us.
I hope that you, dear readers, have a chance to look and notice and find joy today—maybe between the pages of Thimble. Let’s seek out joy as an act of resistance. Thank you for being here,
Agnes Vojta
