It’s been a surreal few weeks (maybe months, by now) as my book has been released into the big, wide world. I was going through some old writing the other day, trying to organize file folders full of old essays I had done when I did a writing program with Simon Fraser University years ago. I still remember the first thing I presented to my professor and classmates, reading it aloud and being absolutely petrified. Who was I to be there? I felt like a silly woman, an imposter with grandiose, self-inflated ideas of her talents. But the feedback I received was encouraging and moving. They got what I was saying and found secrets that revealed themselves in my words, but were still hidden from me. They could see things I was blind to.
Writing was always clarifying in a way my mind couldn’t be. I’ve always been that way. It was in putting pencil to paper that I found my way through the muddled, fog-blanketed bogs of my experiences. Sometimes my emotions were so thick and turbulent that my ability to sort out what was real and what I needed to see or learn, was impossible in the milieu of other people’s views or condemnations. When I was in my early twenties I read a quote by Graham Wallas from his 1926 book, “The Art of Thought” that forever changed my understanding of my own mind and my ability to comprehend.
“How can I know what I think ‘til I see what I say?”
It’s simple enough, but it was profound to me then. I thought there might just be a kink in my think, something not altogether functioning, but when I saw that quote it was like a door to some vast dance hall opened before me. And inside there were people of all ilk, doing their own little dance, however they were moved to move. I wasn’t broken, I just needed time and space to sift through my world and to reassemble the pieces into an understanding that came in through the ether and down into the tip of my pencil. My pace just doesn’t match up with the pace of a fast moving world.
As I read through some of that old writing I was sorting through, I found a young woman finding herself. I remember that most of the people in that writing class were older than me. They asked questions and found in my stories some little girl looking for a way out. Or maybe she was just looking for a way through. And with their kindness, I began to believe that there might have been a reason I felt so called to write even when I had no confidence in my ability.
Over the years I have discovered how passionate I feel about a wide variety of topics. At one time I was certain I would write a book about on-farm animal harvest because of my conviction of it being the humane and right way to harvest animals. I even flew to Alberta to spend time with some of my favourite farmers, interviewing them about the ethos and principles they were guided by. But that felt too limiting and there were bigger threads and more things I wanted to say.
Then I thought about how nutrition is so intricately woven into the raising and harvesting of animals. And in there, the soil. And how is it possible to write of soil without writing about all of life? And seeing I’m writing about life, especially around animal harvest, I would have to write about death. And, my word! What is this book even about?!
I’ve never been good with summarising or finding my category. I prefer to get in close and look at the weave and patterning and the way things fit together. To some, they may see incongruence, but to me, it’s all there, perfectly woven into one large tapestry and the thread that pulls it altogether is love. That’s it. It’s that simple.
My first drafts of my book (the one that is, but I had no comprehension of how that might even come about back then) are stories of me and Richard, my mentor and best friend. I open Radiance of the Ordinary with a story or two about him. I had to. He changed my life. I love him with all my heart and I miss him every day. I see now that there had to be time, years of time, for more of my life to unfold before I could figure out what and how to write my book. I didn’t know then that profound tragedy had to break me into shards before I dare ever write about grief or faith. I would never have done it right years ago. And that’s why, I realize now, I never wrote it then at all. Instead I collected moments and observations and waited until the call from God became so persistent, that to ignore it would be an utter failing in my understanding of my purpose for even being given this shot at life.
After our daughter, Mila, died, Heather Heying published a story about the circumstances around her death. Since then, she’s become a friend of mine. I adore her. I adore her mind and her heart and her understanding of these precious lives we get to live and her principled values and morality. Last week she was kind enough to publish an excerpt from my book entitled, “On Blood and Butterflies”. You can go to her site to read it if you haven’t already.
This week, Chelsea Green Publishing, has allowed me to share with you another excerpt from my book. This is a part of a bigger chapter entitled “Hands of the King”. It’s a little play on words for the most important position of the king’s hand - a most trusted and powerful position. Anyway, in this case, those hands are for my king, my beloved husband and that’s what that chapter is about - love, marriage, and steadfast commitment.
The following is an excerpt from Tara Couture’s new book Radiance of the Ordinary (Chelsea Green Publishing September 2025) and is printed with permission from the publisher.
Hands of the King
We sit in silence. Fire crackling and popping intermittently in the cold room. There are candles and empty coffee cups. You, staring out the window. Snow and skeletal trees.
I hold your hand, rubbing the bones of each finger. Your big, powerful hands. Thick with life. Strengthened with trenches dug, felled trees lifted and turned, enormous loads heaved from the ground and thrown over your powerful shoulders.
These hands that could crack a nut in their palm opened and softly closed around the tender little hands of our small daughters. These hands, dense with flesh that skim across my skin like a delicate water bug. Barely even there.
These beautiful hands. Wrapped in sinew and muscle. Your skin cannot hide the toil, the effort, the sacrifice. The determination. I see it all, and soon enough there will be no more use for your flesh. Or mine. It will all fall away, leaving bone and ruddy joints. I can feel them now beneath my fingers.
My bones next to your bones. Buried deep in the earth. So similar, what we each will leave here, yours and mine. I imagine us there, bones beside bones. Threads of mycelium tying those bones back together. All the traces of this mortal life melted away.
Now I hold your hand ever tighter. I try to remember everything these hands, guided by your mind and heart, have done for your family. Have brought me. Have offered to me. My whole life in these ageing hands.
My king, my king, until my last breath, my king.
[pg 133]
I’ve come to realize that there is nothing more meaningful in this human experience than us removing any barriers we have around being able to give and receive love in whatever shape or form it comes. I burst into tears when I read the last sentence here. My heart longs to experience a deeply devotional partnership before I leave this world. Thank you for sharing this. I am so happy to know that you found your king 💞