The title of this post is the line my publisher chose to introduce Tell the Turning on Kickstarter. It’s from a poem called Kin.
Because of 214 generous and interested humans (as of this writing), Tell the Turning will become a real, physical book this autumn. The process of funding the book has proceeded much like the process of making the book: quietly, joyfully, non-stressfully. Family, friends, friends of friends, and new friends have backed this book, telling each other about it along the way.
Network is the word I reach for automatically to describe this phenomenon. But the metaphor is wrong. I prefer kin.
The pictures above and below came from my fields, earlier this week. It’s always rewarding to walk there at dawn, but early to mid-summer is, objectively, the glorious season. The grass is reaching for my hips; 2-inch-high daisies and 20-foot-tall hawthorns blossom in white; the edge of day beckons like a ripe peach.
I’m allowing myself to imagine bringing Tell the Turning home to the fields, showing them what they have helped me create.
I don’t think, precisely, that they will care. (What do I even mean by “they?”) But their indifference to the written word is a friendly one. I do think they are always glad to have me there, observing and praising and thanking. Tell the Turning may feel to me like a field offering in written form, but the offering my fields want—if indeed they want anything from me—is my careful presence.
This, I promise faithfully to continue holding out to my sacred places, as long as I may.