. . . these things reveal a gentle path where busyness is no longer a god; and where, in stillness, I hear the whisper of Wisdom.
I sow a row of spinach in the middle of my garden where beans once grew. The harshest heat of summer is behind us—I’m hoping for a sweet fall spinach salad.
I have chosen to leave areas in the garden fallow as I’ve harvested the last of the beets, turnips, beans, and carrots. I’ve chosen to allow the soil a season of rest.
The practice is in line with my own season of intention. I’ve done far less canning this year than in any other since I left the corporate world. I’ve gone to the library more often; I’ve spent more hours reading this summer than in any other since I retired.
Meanwhile, I chop vegetables and preserve the harvest in ordinary time.
Soon, I will return to my manuscript and begin crafting sandcastles.
Later, I hope I’ll harvest a spinach salad.
Rest and hope, a season of fallow, and a season of intention, these things reveal a gentle path where busyness is no longer a god; and where, in stillness, I hear the whisper of Wisdom.