Dear readers,

There is something about the sky that feels so much like home, even if we are thousands of miles away from it. Of course, home can be whatever we say it is; where we grew up, where we feel like we most belong, the comfort of another person’s embrace, or the soft relief that comes with being at home in your body and mind. But the sky, no matter where we are or who we are with, is reliable in ways no building or structure can ever truly be. The sky changes hour by hour and day by day. It constantly shifts and bows with the rumblings of life, filled with clouds or thunderstorms or such blueness that it looks like a suspended sea. But it will always be the canopy that drapes over the backdrop of our time here on Earth. The first reliable and solid thing in our lives, and the last. Our first and last taste of home.

Whenever I think about my happiest memories, the sky always plays a large role; biking through long grass as the sun begins to set, learning how to fish while large and pillowy clouds lazily drift through a deepening blue, watching the tide roll in on the pier of Santa Monica during an overcast day, beams of sunlight piercing the clouds every so often. Everything comes back to this one constant in my life—never at the forefront, but forever giving support to the memories and moments that make life worth living.

A month or so back we tweeted out a poll asking our followers to vote on what the theme of our sixth issue should be. “Halcyon” won by a landslide, and it is not hard to see why. In such dire times as these, why wouldn’t we want to go back to those halcyon days of long ago, when the trees were full of ripe fruit, the rivers were teeming with glistening fish, and blue birds sang to welcome the coming morning? It is easy to close one’s eyes and remember what life was once like and what it could have been if things had not change. Those idyllic, carefree days of youth. Why didn’t we appreciate what we had at the time?

Nostalgia is relentless in its pursuit of idealism, clouding our vision with rose-coloured glasses. This is not to say our pasts were not happy, but that our memories change and develop as we grow older; never stagnant, but always there, at the surface of our minds, or borrowed deep within.

Our memories do not define us, but gently pull us towards the path that will allow us to grow. Maybe then, our memories are like the sky, forming the background of our lives—a soft reminder of where we have been and who we used to be.

If only we can remember to look up from time to time.

Yours always,

Kanika Lawton
Founder and Editor-In-Chief
L'Éphémère Review