Fallow Ground

Let it rest. The years before have taken toll. The future calls for more – more tilling, more sowing, more crop. So for now let the land do the good, slow work of rest.

Let it be. Let excrement and detritus – so unwanted, so uncouth – be transformed ‘til earth is fertile and fierce. What’s called “filth” in busyness becomes most treasured sustenance, but only if it is let be.

Seasons. All life is defined by seasons. Seasons of plenty of time and seasons of plenty of tasks. Seasons in want of laughter and seasons in want of silence. Seasons.

Let there be a season of suspense…

Wonder at what will emerge from the land let be lazy. Walk along its edge. Smell the pungent aroma of the husks and sheaves breaking down. Take clods in your hands and squeeze until the granules escape your fists like drops of water. Watch the tears fall and find their places in the cracks like canyons at your feet. Dust off your hands in an ovation for the thrill of the mystery played out.

Dawn. Dusk. Dawn. Dusk. Storm and sweltering sun. Snowfall and shower. Puddled and parched. Frozen and freed. Time husbands with grace and loves relentlessly.

Oh, what miracles abound within the fallow ground! Death and resurrection hide in dirt. By patience land is healed. Faithful waiting yields what labor could not draw from the earth.

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