On lying fallow

and re-learning the art of noticing

Photo by Tomasz Filipek on Unsplash

There’s something refreshing about lying fallow for a time. About choosing to engage, not in a focused period of preparatory work, but instead in a time of absolute “un-use”.

I just finished writing my novel, over at my other newsletter,

Blinking Blue Line

. It was a seven-month long process—exhilarating and exhausting and rewarding… and now I’m in the thick of what we call a “writing hangover”. Having sustained a steady pace of three posts a week (two here, one there) for much of the last year, the field that is my mind is ready for a break. Even reading has been a challenge, and I’ve made the decision to skip over many essays or stories I know I would have enjoyed.

I know this is a season, and I want to enjoy it, to appreciate it. Farmers will let a crop field lie fallow for some time in order to replenish the nutrients in the soil, to reduce the strain on the land, and to ensure a healthier, more robust crop when one is planted. Likewise, after a season of heavy “production,” it has been a prudent choice—fruitful in its own way—to allow myself to lie fallow for a while.

There is a poverty in lying fallow that is, in and of itself, a powerful gift and a powerful reminder that, “without Me, you can do nothing”. Just as the Lord speaks of the faithful being pruned in order to bear fruit, sometimes we must also take time and space away from our productivity, away from our pride, away from our endless going and pushing and doing, so that we can remember our littleness. We are all children before the Lord, after all, and like little children, we must take our quiet time.

As I mentioned last week, my daughter is getting ready to drop her afternoon nap, and we are trying to institute “rest time” or “quiet time” on the days she doesn’t nap. This involves her taking some time alone to play with quiet toys, read books, and rest. As an imaginative, extroverted child, this is not always easy for her—just like going down for a nap has not always been easy lately. She resists rest, wanting instead to continue her play-and-work uninterrupted by an enforced fallow time.

And yet, as her mother, I know that the rest is good for her, in the same way that I know this rest has been good for me.

As I write this, a week away from May, I am struggling with inertia: having stilled my “writing brain” for a few weeks, it is a challenge to wake back up, to get moving again. Is this a sign that I’m rushing back in too quickly? I ask myself, or a sign that I took too long of a break?

Writing like this—noticing things in my life, making connections, and processing by putting these words out into the world—is a funny thing. A disconnect in any one step often seems to throw a wrench into the whole work. In other words, while I have only formally taken a break from writing, I have watched as my habit of “noticing” has also gone into hibernation, and like a sleepy bear slowly awakening, I am having to coax my attention away from my screens and back into my life, away from unrealistic expectations and back into concrete observations.

Writing—and noticing—is good for me. Not only does it ground me and draw my attention to the real world, it also forces me allows me encourages me to remain attentive to the working of God in my life.

Why do I share this?

I am practicing the art of noticing, and this is what I am noticing. I am noticing that lying fallow has been good for me. I am noticing that I am slowly beginning to feel “ready” to get back to writing, but not at the breakneck pace I was producing before, and reminding myself that I don’t have to. I am noticing the side-by-side feelings of futility (“am I serving anyone by adding more ~ c o n t e n t ~ to the internet?”) and necessity (“when I am writing regularly, I am most myself, most happy, most attentive, most at peace”) that constantly surround my words.

I am noticing that I want to continue showing up with you all, and I am noticing a heaviness, a pressure, to show up in a way that you “like”. I am reminding myself that you have chosen to be here, and that you will choose to leave when you need to. For now, I don’t have more than that. I am simply inviting you into this noticing.

Getting back into writing (and noticing) after this last month of lying fallow excites me. Where before I felt tired at the very thought of writing, I am beginning to see the first hint of fertile soil once again, the promise of green leaves yet to come. I’m excited to return to this space refreshed, refocused, and simplified. The call toward spiritual childhood—toward learning about spiritual childhood by observing my own family life—is strong right now, and I’m excited to see where the Lord takes me through this season. He is always working in and around and through us, if only we have eyes to see.

All this to say: welcome back, friends. If you are in a fallow season, I’d love to hear what you’re resting from. If you’re in a growing season or a producing season, I’d love to hear what you’re working on. And either way, I’d love to hear what you’re noticing these days.