There are fields and gardens that once were beautiful and robust, alive and yielding a bounty of lush pride. Then, in a blink, they are idle. The ground becomes dormant. A once cultivated ground becomes latent. Empty. Useless.
It happens in fields, and it happens in souls. They become vacant.
It is called fallow ground, and it is both dead and free. It’s an intentional decision to become dormant with the hope of one day becoming more fruitful. Rest is necessary to regenerate and heal.
First, the thorns and weeds push through. It becomes overgrown, then dry and brown. It is barren. Soulless and vacant. It seems it is the end.
It lies idle for many moons as the earth orbits the sun and the tide moves in and out. Other fields grow strong. Other gardens bloom. The fallow ground stays at rest. It is unused.
After what seems like too long, but is rightly just enough time, it is cultivated—broken and turned. Rich soil is unearthed. You can smell the warm nutrients, the healing, the peace that matures with time.
And so it goes with my own soul. It has been lying fallow and now, after what seems too long, but is rightly just enough time, it is the season to unearth it.