Some say the new year is a fresh start — a chance to look back and reflect on our past and a time to plan for our future. Walking into 2024 feels a bit like peeking through a crack in the door and slowly, carefully slipping into a space. This new year I believe we are all relieved to start a new year. I’ve reflected on how much my life has changed and how much I’ve grown through the pain and the difficulty of the last year. By Spring’s arrival, I hope I’ll have arrived at a place of peace and acceptance, much like when a plant first sprouts, it breaks through the hard shell of the seed and the muddy soil, almost simultaneously, to find the warmth of the sun. Once its above ground, its will to grow doesn’t end there, and neither does the hardship. Similarly, after pushing through our pain and suffering, we never come to a place of arrival. We’re constantly evolving. Much like crocus coming out of the dead of Winter, we continue to stretch and stretch until we get the light we need. And even when we reach the light, it won’t stop there because it is not in our nature to stop. This Spring, as I reflect on the crocus, I think of resiliency. I see it also in the tulips who must endure harsh winters to become vibrant blooms. I see it in the dogwoods who go on thriving even after their blooms have gone, because they know they will bloom again. It can be difficult to see growth in oneself. Perhaps you feel as if the hard earth is too deep to reach your surface. That’s what it feels for me, but in moments of stillness I feel in my gut that facing my pain means that I am growing. In Issue 29 we’ll explore resilience once again.

When I was a kid, I lived in Pittsburgh where I visited Phipps Conservatory frequently. I’d spend time there marveling at the lush green, the thick humid air, the freshness I could breathe in. My favorite room at Phipps was the Desert Room with its permanent summer. It’s the most relatable room, being home to the African tree grape, a plant that has rapid periods of growth followed by long periods of dormancy. In front of the African tree grape during these dormant periods is a professional-looking green sign with white typeface: “I’m not dead, I’m dormant.” That about sums up the last year as I’ve experienced it: not dead, just dormant, and looking for glimmers of light to pull me from my dream-state, from living in my own head. And, let’s face it, it’s easy to live in your own head, your own echo chamber, to not venture outside of yourself. This issue is a surprising vehicle for these feelings, for this moment where the space between my selves is more like a pathway than a void. I feel a gentle awareness that connection is possible if only I step out of myself. That’s the ideal outcome of art for me: to invoke memory, evoke emotion, to deepen the lived experience, to help us find ourselves in a meaningful way. Certainly, finding ourselves in a tumultuous era makes our growing pains even more raw. We are searching and hopeful and afraid and angry, but most of all, we are undergoing a process of discovery. As the world moves forward at a breakneck pace, there is an overwhelming need to control the tides, to repave the roads, to set our sails for better shores. While humanity continues to create and destroy and rebuild, we find ourselves in the middle of it all, wondering where we go from here and what we could possibly do to make a difference.

This issue of Emerge Literary Journal has been incredibly motivating for me. It makes me think about object permanence, how babies don’t quite understand when you place your hand over your eyes that you’re still there, still you. Through pain and its isolation, I’ve atrophied. I’ve become the baby who doesn’t understand that there are still other people outside of myself experiencing the same things. Working on this issue came at just the right time for me: reading the writing of others, taking the time to sit with art, was refreshing and needed. As I write this, I don’t feel so dormant or singular—I’ve stepped into that familiar yet unfamiliar territory process of finding myself in other people’s work and letting go of what no longer serves me. I’m not certain of much, but I am sure that we need each other.  I am sure we owe it to one another to leave space for making, for sharing the precious things we are timid about. I am so grateful to have read these pieces and am proud of what this issue has been molded into by Diane and myself. I hope you take the time to read it and open yourself to feeling more deeply connected—be it to yourself or to the writers highlighted in these pages. To our contributors: thank you for being here and for trusting us with your work. To our readers: welcome and thank you for being here. Stay as long as you like.