I’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing these past few weeks, trying to take full advantage of the time I have off from teaching. During the academic year, I keep busy juggling my face-to-face and online teaching obligations; during the academic year, there’s always something to do. My online classes started last week, and my face-to-face classes start next week, so soon enough, I’ll be neck-deep in paper-grading and other teaching tasks. But at the moment, I can let my brain lie fallow, a season of rest before the business of a full semester resumes.
Initially, I felt a bit guilty for this year’s lazy lack of productivity. Most of the time, I feel obligated to get something done during academic breaks: this is, after all, a prime opportunity to focus on my own writing rather than my “day job.” But this year, I’ve felt the need to step away from the niggling urge to be perpetually productive. Sometimes you just have to leave your mind alone, and that’s largely what I’ve been doing these past few weeks. I’ve continued to write in my journal, and I’ve been reading a lot, but I haven’t been blogging or taking many pictures. (These images of Tara Donovan’s untitled installation of Styrofoam cups at the Museum of Fine Arts are a significant exception.) In time, my enthusiasm for writing and photography will return, I’m sure, but for the moment, I’ve been enjoying the rare (to me) luxury of being lazy.
Farmers allow their fields to lie fallow for a season to restore soil fertility: even though Walt Whitman famously declared that “the earth never tires,” sometimes her creative energies become depleted. A fallow field is a blank page that quietly whispers “not yet” rather than “no.” A fallow field isn’t permanently retired: she hasn’t been put out to pasture like a swaybacked nag. Instead, a fallow field is simply resting, incubating in her earthy gut the promising seeds of future fecundity.
After several days of unseasonably mild temperatures, we’ve lost most of our snow cover, leaving the rain-soaked earth as bare and muddy as in spring. Right now the grass in our backyard is a sickly shade of yellow-brown: fallow. Instead of mourning our lawn as dead, however, I know it’s merely dormant, marshaling its energies for an inevitable spring.
Jan 13, 2014 at 10:08 pm
Those cloud photos were just perfect for this post. Seeing them and reading about your rest put me at ease, too.
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Jan 14, 2014 at 10:02 am
I hadn’t intended to take many pictures at the MFA last week, but this piece really intrigued me. I’m glad you enjoyed it, too.
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Jan 14, 2014 at 2:17 am
That top photo, especially, is so eye-catching! Is the little flying person a part of the installation, or a separate artwork? I probably need a fallow season, too. 🙂
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Jan 14, 2014 at 10:04 am
The falling man is part of another work: Jonathan Borofsky’s “I Dreamed I Could Fly,” which I’ve photographed on a number of occasions, including when it was wrapped in plastic during Museum renovations. It’s a happy juxtaposition, I think.
I suppose everyone needs a fallow season every now and again.
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Jan 14, 2014 at 2:39 am
I’ve been enjoying the exuberance of paperwhites blooming from the dormant bulbs with papery brown skin that I received in the mail a few weeks ago and placed with hope in a bowl of rocks. I gave them only water and light and a little time and was rewarded with an incredible foretaste of spring beauty tall on my windowsill.
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Jan 14, 2014 at 10:06 am
I’ve never had paperwhites, but I’ve always admired the photos I’ve seen from friends who grow them every year. They seem to bloom exactly when they’re needed.
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Jan 16, 2014 at 2:55 pm
Glad you’re getting some time off and that you’re “using” it to actually rest, Lorianne. I need the same. That installation looks pretty amazing; I don’t quite see how it’s made but will go look at the MFA site too. Thanks!
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