Fallow

“There can never be a single story. There are only ways of seeing.” - Arundhati Roy

To insure their crops against loss from natural disasters or adverse weather, farmers must submit detailed reports to the USDA. This includes specifying the type of crop, total acreage, how much of each field is devoted to a specific crop, and the date planted. This information must be submitted to the USDA Farm Service Agency (FSA) by a July 15th deadline. The acreage report is often submitted on printed maps with hand drawn diagrams, field notes, and dirty fingerprints and later deciphered at the FSA field office. Each field within a farm must be reported and certified by the FSA. If no crop is planted, the farmer marks the field as fallow. The FSA records it in the system as idle. Therein lies a fundamental distinction between farming and administration.

To be idle is to ignore time. To lie fallow is to allow time to pass, recognizing its potential.

During my years in retirement, I have sought to embrace fallowness. It has been a forming and conditioning, shaping me for an uncertain future. Often, when nothing seemed to be happening, I have had to simply wait, seeking to align myself with a rhythm that can far better contrive for me than I can contrive for myself.

This chapter has opened new vistas as my fallowness was intertwined with new plantings. I enrolled in writing classes and began crafting stories. I joined, and remain active, in study groups, both in-person and online. I found ample time to read and reveled in tending my small farm. Most unexpectedly, I fell in love, which was the best part of it all, even though it ended.

Antagonistic to my efforts was an innate resistance to change which sought to leave me forever standing in the same spot. Settled there, I could rationalize a static existence, convinced that “this” was enough. And, no doubt, I am free to sit down anywhere along life’s path and call it quits, to say this is far enough, to declare: “This is who I am.”

But, if I am aware and willing, the soft wind of spirit can propel me forward. The more I live in concert with this rhythm, the deeper I connect with myself. My progress has often emerged from moments of seemingly arbitrary action only to find the reason emerging afterwards. And in one such serendipitous moment, for reasons both good and bad, I returned to work full-time as an FSA Field Service Technician.

In New Jersey, the Farmland Assessment Act of 1964 allows land that is at least five acres and meets certain requirements to receive preferential tax treatment based on the land's agricultural value rather than its market value. After applying for and obtaining the assessment, I signed up for weekly emails from the USDA. Occasionally, an idea or program would come along, and I would try to implement it or sign up for a seminar.

One cold day in January, an email arrived announcing a job opening for a Field Service Technician. I found the description interesting, and the office location was only ten minutes from my home. I applied, and to my surprise, I was invited to an in-person interview with three women, all young enough to be my daughters and, again to my surprise, I was offered the job. FSA shares a building with the Natural Resources Conservation Service (NRCS), and both are staffed with an energetic collection of young people with strong backgrounds in farming and conservation. It’s a joy to work with colleagues who remind me of my own unbridled enthusiasm at such an age.

The farmers I have met were exactly as I had imagined - friendly, direct, and imbued with a farmer’s sense of humor. In one committee meeting, the Executive Director asked what date they expected to start planting. One fellow humorously replied: “We don’t follow the calendar. We go out in the field, pull down our pants, sit on the ground and feel if it’s time to plant!”

My six-month ‘experiment’ at the FSA has been revealing, but I am resigning in two weeks. I have grown tired of a forty-hour work week which takes me away from my writing and other projects and I look forward to sleeping late some mornings. I will leave with a USDA cap, a rain gauge, and many fond memories.

Now, with potentially fifteen vibrant years ahead, I’m reevaluating my life on the farm and my identity as a “gentleman” farmer. It’s time for a new experiment. I love the land, the trees planted for loved ones, each tagged with their name, and tending to the chickens, geese, and bees. But I also recognize that my desires are evolving, calling me to challenge my identity.

As, in adolescence, I struggled to establish a persona (I cringe at the thought), I must be careful not to glue any identity to my personhood. Any high school reunion provides ample examples of people locked into an image and being locked into a specific identity is among the worst kind of cages. It matters little whether we developed it ourselves or dress in one by shopping the prevalent cultural milieu. And sadly, today’s cultural milieu finds some young people undergoing alterations in pursuit of an identity that may be mistaken or outgrown and will be hard to undo.

Clinging to an image of oneself is not just a failure of the imagination, it’s believing in the permeance of a story that you created, or someone crafted for you. All life is a recurring experience of mistaken identity. I am deeply indebted to certain individuals who led me, directly or indirectly, to challenge who I thought I was and the masks I wore. The unveiling showed me that the world offers so much more.

As I reflect on these thoughts, my gaze turns to Manhattan, a city I’ve long enjoyed for its rich culture, vibrant energy, and diverse dining scene. I plan to immerse myself in city life for a month or so, eager to contrast its dynamic pace with my serene pastoral existence. This change is not just about seeking novelty; it's an exploration of new dimensions that might offer a deeper sense of fulfillment. Even if this experiment doesn’t go as planned—whether I find the pizza disappointing, face unexpected challenges, or simply feel out of place—the journey will likely reaffirm my path. Past ventures have often brought me back to my core with renewed purpose and clarity.

My period of fallowness has proved fertile ground for new experiences, unearthing a long-buried memory of the joy of physical connection, of holding and being held. Amidst the musings of city life and rural tranquility, I feel a blissful excitement coursing through my veins. While I have cherished my years of solitude, it no longer feels enough. I am ready to set aside my solitary ways for the promise of new, shared experiences.

Yet, the path to the dance floor is covered in shadows and with baleful voices whispering a warning. They insist it’s too late for me to dance, that I’m too old and might hurt myself. They whisper that no one will join me on the dance floor, that I lack grace and am out of sync with the rhythm of life.

In defiance of these voices, I will dance.

As I step into this next chapter of my life, I see the fallow periods not as barren wastelands but as fertile grounds for unexpected growth. The dance of life, whether in the serenity of the farm or the bustling rhythm of Manhattan, is a reminder that it's never too late to reinvent oneself and find joy in the ever-evolving narrative of our lives. Like a field scattered with new seeds, I am open to whatever emerges and grows.

As for my dancing ability, it won’t matter if I’m off the beat or snapping closely with the rhythm. It doesn’t matter if I stumble and fumble or glide with the grace of Fred Astaire. What matters is that there’s someone out there who loves to dance just as much as I do. Together, we’ll go hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, and dance by the light of the moon.