I have spent much of my life in agricultural areas. My husband is always pining for some big-city-life...but I am reminded again in this flat, farmland of the seasonal nature of life.
A rhythm exists here that you can't find in NYC...because you can't hurry nature. Fields prepared in the spring hold the promise of new life...those seeds are planted...but no farmer can control whether they actually come up (despite the guarantee-to-grow on the seed packet). The active growing season is exciting and requires hard work and daily investment in the field...though farmers tell you again that they are caregivers, not growers. The life is still miraculous.
Now is harvest...seems pretty good this year. Field after field transforms from busyness to fallow in about a day. A plethora of farm workers and machines descend on the field for a short period of intense activity. Then, nothing...quiet...sometimes regrowth...but regrowth that struggles and never really fulfills its potential. Sometimes fields are plowed under....expanses of non-productive dirt resting under the harvest moon.
And then all is quiet. For a full season, we rest. Imagining for the next season happens. Some preparation is inevitable. Mostly rest. Even if scurrying and planting and fertilizing was happening, nothing would grow. It's not the right season. Rest...pray...heal...imagine. It's the season...
And then...resurrection...
What a gift.
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