Every seven years

So last spring, not long after my Girl Scout troop had gone on its final field trip, not long before we left for Iceland, I commented to a friend that I was probably going to take a year off from Scouting and from long-term volunteer projects in general, and to think a bit on what I wanted to do next. And my friend commented, “It’ll be your sabbatical year.” This made some sense to me, so I kept thinking about it.

Then, about a month ago, haikujaguar did one of her Balance Card readings. I asked about career stuff, but I also said that mostly I just wanted to hear whatever the universe had to say to me. haikujaguar drew the following card/reading:

How appropriate, that crushed under the weight of several other cards that landed on it, the Wanderjahr was struggling to escape: the journey, the mad wild wonder of it for its own sake. The not knowing where you’re going until you end up there, and then the driving desire to get up and go again, to find where the road leads.

In the end, we’re not really planning any of this at all, are we?

And then willshetterly drew my attention to the fact that this really is the start of a sabbatical year by the Jewish calendar, a year in which fields are to be left fallow and certain debts are to be forgiven.

Clearly the universe is trying to tell me something here.

I don’t intend to stop writing for a year, which is of course one possible reading of all of the above. (Very few of us can really bring ourselves to take a year off from our chosen work every seven years, I suspect, though maybe it’d be good for us if we did.) But I’m thinking maybe there are other ways in which one can let one’s metaphorical fields lie fallow–being perhaps a little less planned and scheduled in other ways, a little more open to that mad wild wonder of the journey for its own sake.

What does it mean to you to let fields lie fallow? Have you ever done so, and in what ways?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *