Tend and Turn

Every living thing is root and branch ; what shows above ground, and what holds it up below.  And everything turns: the year comes round, and comes round again, without asking permission.

 

Both are ours, differently.

 

Tending is ours to choose — where to put our hands, and where to leave well alone. Turning is ours to notice, and to work with. You can't argue a season into being something else. You can read it, and tend accordingly.

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Most of the trouble comes from missing that; pushing at what this season can only grow slowly, or waiting on what needed our hands months ago. Calling a fallow stretch a failure. Forcing a harvest that isn't ready.

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This is a practice for telling the difference.