Shmita – A Year Apart
A year apart. A held breath that lets the whole earth breathe. A respite.
What could it be? What will fill the space created by such cessation?
Will weeds fill the cracks and empty spaces? Will their flowers glow and surprise us? Will bees nestle in their pollen? And hummingbirds drink their nectar?
Will unexpected time open up before us, like animal paths through a wilderness?
Will we learn to make or mend? Will calm observation lead to the smile of understanding? What will our children learn about learning?
Will we go hungry, when the markets close? Will we find our way back to the garden? To the field? Into the forest, where the nettles, and mushrooms, and fruiting vines abide?
Will we open our gates, our doors, our pantries and cupboards?
Will we learn the names of new people, new friends, new plants; our wild neighbors?
If our exile came about because we forgot to let the land keep its sabbaths, what will homecoming feel like?