Doing Nothing While the Bread is in the Oven

For the past few months, I have found myself returning to the idea of lying fallow. 

After many harvests, a good farmer must let his or her land lie fallow for a season. When the land is given time to rest, the soil is able to replenish its nutrients, creating a healthier environment for the seasons to come. 

This whisper to rest–to leave time for my soul pores to unclog–is one of which I’ve ignored more times than not.

One of the hardest moments of deciding to lie fallow is the challenge of twenty minutes, one hour, two of something in the oven. The timer is set, and I skid on my feet from kinetic energy overload–the way Bugs Bunny starts off running so fast that his feet just spin in place, or when you missed the exact moment to take your thumb off “A” and Baby Peach somehow out-speeds you on her little stroller cart . . .

I clean. I write. I work. I do tomorrow’s to-do list. Accomplishing whatever I can to get ahead.

I move fast, yes, but I am stuck in speed, because after tomorrow comes another day and another list. I go nowhere.

I forget to do nothing while the bread is in the oven. 

This week, my challenge is to leave time of waiting in cooking and baking unfilled. As crazy as it sounds, perhaps I can do tomorrow’s things tomorrow. Perhaps today, my nose will concentrate on the fragrance of my mint plant, melting into the smell of dough heating. It smells like summer. Maybe I’ll discover a favorite cushion on the couch–the left? All three? Maybe I’ll shuffle through the photo albums laying dusty on my great grandmother’s delicate coffee table. Maybe I’ll reminisce. 

Perhaps I’ll pray and take one deep, important breath. 

As I pay attention to the whisper of fallowness, and my soul catches up with my body, may my ground become ever more nutrient-soaked. I wonder what beautiful things will grow.