Dispatches | Editor’s Note | May 9th 2020

Dear Reader, 

In the old nook again, screen dimmed, failing to compete with the sun, dripping through the trees, clouds and all-sorts like liquid. There are a few birds pinned in the blue like faraway kites; the “beds” in the garden have become a honey trap for small things, mostly bees. There’s a pride I take in this private scenery, enjoyed with the nature of the countryside. I’m reminded about a recent conversation with an old friend: they seem to be accessing, in particular, the “stillness” of the moment. I read often about this new stillness – a gift, perhaps, that comes with the adjusted pace of our times? Things have slowed down just enough to notice the details; and I think its timing with May, the early Spring, is a small victory. 

Nowadays, I’m inspired to write about the countryside. This curiosity is equal measure motivated by my reading – a happy record of Cockshutt Woods by John Lewis- Stempel in The Wood – and by the supposed “stillness” of the month. Lastly, thinking about nature, and spectating it, I’m considering how it’s an unstoppable force. 

Commonly found in cinema, the notion of an unstoppable, often invisible, force has long-lived in narratives as a way of temporarily thwarting a hero’s journey. Though elusive in character, it’s a familiar foe. In academic parlance, you might call this a trope, a recurring trick, something predictable and unexciting, and often seethed by critics as lazy, familiar scripting. Elsewhere, popularly in the news media, it’s being called force majeure. 

Yet, life feels unscripted, if too tricky for our plans. For now, this feels true. Projects have given me a new weight, as does an afternoon dip into a book. On this particular day, I’m in-between all-sorts. My “desk” has busied with writing projects. My reading-list has, quite amusingly, multiplied since I was last able to visit a bookshop.

From the garden: I am watching the usual and faraway vista of tall trees, walled and upright on the rim of the woods. The high canopy, where it’s thinnest, allows sunlight to spread. It’s the still afternoon, more and more like the summer, where breezes rattle every now and then. For now, I’m finding inspiration in the stillness. 

Signing off. 

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