Fallow Time
All year we’ve been racing against mother nature to fix the roof of the old Grange hall in my village. We had to argue our case on Town Meeting Day to appropriate the funds needed to replace the leaky roof, a decision which ended up moving to a paper ballot after much debate over whether the building is an asset worth preserving or a pile of sticks just waiting to crumble into the Gihon River. I found myself channeling Jane Jacobs and speaking about mixed-use and “placemaking” in retort to elders who dismissed the idea of investing in a drive-by neighborhood. In the end, we won out with an impressive majority supporting the project.
At the time there was still snow on the ground, and we had months to get the repairs sorted. Our committee, a ragtag collection of neighbors interested in the vacant building’s potential as a community center, met every month and chipped away at the things on our to-do list and even managed to dust off the hall in time for a cheerful open house with live country music and chili and cookies on the first weekend of fall. By the time we were in a position to finally hire a roofer to replace the rotting old roof, it was a race to get it done before the weather turned. The last piece of corrugated roof panel was nailed down in late October, and a few days later a massive rainstorm ripped through northern Vermont. Trees fell everywhere, power lines were torn down, and the Gihon River overflowed its banks temporarily turning the nearby town of Eden into an island. But the hall roof held fast.
Currently, the building isn’t equipped to heat it through the winter. So after so much rushing to save the Gihon Valley Hall and open its doors to the public, the arrival of colder weather has forced us to pause. And with that, I exhaled.
Much modern advice exists about the importance of giving oneself mental breaks and space to recharge the human spirit. Call it self-care, call it me time, or call it fallow time.
Personally I prefer the notion of fallow time, first because it eschews the wellness jargon that’s been attached to everything from meditation apps to wearable fitness trackers. “Solutions” that while helpful in some regards are also just technology piled on top of technology to save us from our addiction to technology. Fallow time is less of a life hack and more of an acceptance of the idea that like any healthy farming ecosystem, a period of rest from production is actually the best possible way to avoid depletion and ensure a productive future.
It is awfully hard to slow down in today’s always-on America. I feel this intensely as I work remotely for a New York City-based business. While my body is physically in rural Vermont all day, my brain telecommutes to the big city where I must keep pace with the rapid work culture throughout the day until sometime usually well past six o’clock I tear myself away from my unfinished business and let the soothing balm of Vermont unwind my racing thoughts.
Fallow time can also be hard to find in the midst of a Vermont summer. There’s grass to mow, vegetables to grow, hikes to take and always some kind of berry to harvest. Autumn comes and we race to collect the apples, pile the leaves, preserve the tomatoes, winterize our homes and memorize the sound of those last shivering crickets as stick season blows in and then suddenly…
The snow.
And just like that, nature tells us it’s time to slow down. To surrender unfinished outdoor projects until the rejuvenating yawn of springtime. To hold plans for outings and activities lightly because so much depends on the road conditions. To blow off work because it would be crazy to not bundle up and play in the fresh powder.
To embrace the fallowness of winter is not to give in to laziness; it’s to intentionally switch gears such that the limitations of Vermont’s intensely snowy and disproportionately long winter rejuvenate the best of our human nature and keep the virtuous cycle of our lives on its axis.
