I live near a rich agricultural area. Up and down the roads and highways, it’s common to see crops in all stages of growth, from green shoots, barely poking through the surface, to fruits and vegetables ready to be picked. Right now, artichoke fields are producing by the thousands. And strawberries are also in season…not to mention tomatoes, corn, and all sorts of greenery.

Then, in stark contrast, sometimes side by side, there are plots of land that lie fallow. The soil is plowed, as you can see by the rich brown, almost mahogany color, yet the field is empty, not a crop in sight. 

I learned about this practice a long time ago. My father had a large backyard garden and each year he would rotate what he planted and where he planted it. He taught me that it was important not to overproduce in a specific area. Planting the same things, year after year, in the same places, could deplete the soil of valuable nutrients. So, periodically, he would switch things up. He told me that the soil needed time to rest and regenerate, time to let the sun shine down on it and time for nutrients and moisture to rebuild. Sounds very wise…

If there’s an accepted and expected ebb and flow in nature’s growth cycle why, then, do some of us worry about not being productive enough? As with the soil, after one growth cycle has come to fruition, we, as human-beings, need to wind down, rest and regenerate, in order for another growth cycle to commence.

We’re told to “trust the process” because life has a rhythm to it. Some forward motion, some backward motion and maybe even the perception of standing still. Yet, in contradictory fashion, many of us have been socialized to believe that something tangible always needs to be happening for us to be considered productive. Otherwise, something is wrong. That dichotomy can be tiring and utterly unrealistic. Not to mention untrue…

Even at my age, I have to remind myself that growth first happens below the surface, both in nature and within us, as human beings. An idea, a thought, a feeling must first germinate, just like a seed, deep inside of us before it can sprout. No matter what I’d like to believe, I can’t rush it along nor hasten its growth. I have to be patient whether I like it or not. That’s a bittersweet midlife lesson.