A New Year's Appeal.

Plus an announcement about an event in Durham, NC tonight.

I began writing for this Substack in April of 2023–almost two years ago, believe it or not. I have found it to be a fun way to formalize some writing habits that, while not having gone totally dormant since my university job, have alternated between periods of stasis and growth. I’ve been surprised (and delighted!) to encounter a readership that cares about the subjects I write about as much as I care about them: farming, literature, art, music, history, climate, theology, and ethics. And I’ve been grateful (truly) to connect with people all over the world. The short version of what I want to say today is that I’d like to keep the Substack going. It’s a valuable practice to me, other people seem to gain something from it, and so I see no obvious reason to suspend or halt it, even as new farm and writing projects continue to vie for more and more of my attention. 

Having said that, I have struggled with the questions of whether and how to monetize the work I do here. In the wide world of Substacks, my essays and newsletters have tended to fall on the longer side of things. I like it that way; I’m often talking about complicated texts or topics that require sustained acts of attention. Maybe it’s my own modest way of resisting the instant-everything of social media in a digital age. In any case, I don’t really see any way around my mode of operating. For those who struggle to hang with me, I do my best to present things clearly and cogently. There’s not much fustian on this blog, and if there ever were, I hope someone will call me on it.

Here is my dilemma: do I want to put some of my writing behind a paywall? Not really. I want it to be available to everyone who wants to find it. But if I am to write two long(ish) posts per month, with a few notes and announcements scattered about in between, do I need to figure out how to monetize this work? Yes, I probably do. 

This is what I propose. If you’ve enjoyed reading any of my posts in the last year, and you haven’t contributed anything before, would you consider giving $5, maybe $10, a month? I’ll hold up my end of the bargain–perhaps I’ll even take a few commissions. If there’s a question or a topic you’d like to see handled here, let me know and I’ll do my best to accommodate it. 

So there’s my awkward ask. Do with it what you will. On to other business. 

If you didn’t catch it last week, Goodie wrote an essay about cows, motherhood, and embodiment for Plough Quarterly–a “gem” of a piece, as their editors said. And I agree. It came out January 1st, their first publication of the year. If you didn’t already see it, read it here. She also included a reading of a lovely poem by the Welsh poet Gillian Clarke. The reading got cut from the final piece, so I’ve included the poem at the bottom of this post. 

A heads up for local readers: tonight Goodie will be hosting a roundtable discussion at Blacknall Memorial Presbyterian Church in Durham on Christian approaches to mental health care. Warren Kinghorn, a psychiatrist at the Duke VA Hospital and a theologian at Duke Divinity School, and John Swinton, a theologian based in Aberdeen, Scotland. Warren is a lovely and brilliant person, and I’ve been told by multiple people that Swinton’s book on dementia is a must-read. If you’re interested in learning about a more just and human vision of mental health care, come listen and join the conversation that will take place from 7:00 to 8:30pm. 

That’s all for now. Here’s the poem.

CALF

On the hottest, stillest day of the summer

A calf was born in a field

At Pant-y-Cetris; two buzzards

Measured the volume of the sky;

The hills brimmed with incoming

Night. In the long grass we could see

The cow, her sides heaving, a focus

Of restlessness in the complete calm,

Her calling at odds with silence.

 

The light flowed out leaving stars

And clarity. Hot and slippery, the scalding

Baby came, and the cow stood up, her cool

Flanks like white flowers in the dark.

We waited while the calf struggled

To stand, moved as though this

Were the first time. I could feel the soft sucking

Of the new-born, the tugging pleasure

Of bruised reordering, the signal

Of milk’s incoming tide, and satisfaction

Fall like a clean sheet around us.

From The Sundial (Gwasg Gomer, 1978)