Like many of us, the first year or two of Covid was rough for me. I got very sick in March 2020, and, while not hospitalized, dealt with what my doctor now sees as likely, but not obvious, long Covid symptoms. Mostly, my muscles just weren’t moving right. No one was talking about that at the time, so I just thought I was falling apart. In the Before Time, I was pretty active- working with a local climate justice organization; offering workshops and events for folks trying to navigate the emotional and spiritual weight of the climate crisis; making art. That all came to a halt for the reasons stated above, along with our enforced collective isolation. My mother died later that year, thankfully at a time when I could be with her.

I tried mightily to honor the fallow state, as I called it. Even wrote a poem in its honor.

Fallow
To lay fallow
is perhaps to be silent
but not still

this rest time is meant
to feed the resurgence of life
that wants to become
more wholly itself

beneath the soils and grasses
there is much to behold
the mycelia, following the
open paths of worms,
gently reach and weave together
to share the stories of
the undisturbed layers of life

the drama of the armies of ants
now free to build their empires of dust
is unnoticed in the quiet

the voles repopulate fearlessly
and lavishly devour the roots
of their favorite plants
their growing boldness
noticed only by the local owls

This rest time is not still.
it is a flurry of the underworld
unfettered

If we allowed ourselves a fallow time
even in these times
what glorious sparks
and webs
and songs of creation
might find their way to the surface?

what tender roots might meet
with the net of existence?
what boldness emerge from the silence?
what affirmation of our simply being?