Fallow

Recently I took a trip deep in rural Iowa to a friend’s farm. I lived in Iowa for over 20 years, but this landscape took my breath away: the signature rolling hills of the eastern area, creeks winding around bend after curvy bend, dotted plots of fallow land, some looking as if it was about to speak but not quite. The area of Iowa I grew up in was starkly different: corn and soybeans over flat terrain, every inch used for production.

Fallow is an interesting term for land, because some use the term to imply useless and inert. Here, instead in the magical Iowa shangri-la, ambitious goats cleared invasive plants to make way for prairie plants. Here, multitudinous flora waved their heads in the whirl of the wind. Here, unpretentious pockets of fertile earth sustained hopeful efforts of food and nourishment.

As I thought back over the landscape of my life, I revisited fallow periods in my own life. Some of those times were ones that I did not choose, with unfortunate seasons of illness and inability. But others of those seasons were more intentional, and chosen specifically for reasons where attention needed to shift. What I have learned is that fallowness allows growth in hidden places: rooting, deepening, strengthening. This work may be unseen by ourselves and by others. The work of letting things lie fallow hinges upon the long arch of time: upon a story yet unwritten, a season yet to come, rest that restores.