My backyard has grown positively wild. Oh, I’ve mowed it (or most of it) throughout the spring and summer, but the edges, the fence line, and the beds where I’d waste money planting annuals each year have gotten zero attention from me. I’d like to blame my hysterectomy, but I’ve long since healed and have no “real” excuse for letting my backyard go, except I had no reason not to. This year, I just didn’t care.

I had an inkling something was going on – with my yard and with me – but I didn’t have the words for it until now. I’ve decided this year we were both lying fallow.

I know I began 2024 touting big plans for learning something new every month, but that only happened in January. Then I made my usual vow to write more (or at least more often), only to experience my usual summer slump, where I question the purpose of this blog and wonder what I have left to say. And somewhere amid all this nothing, when I was tempted to judge and reproach myself for my lack of productivity, I opted instead to reframe this season – for my yard and for me – and celebrate the choice to let us both rest.

Today, I did a brief walkabout in my backyard, with no mower or pruners or plans of any kind, and used Google’s image search to identify what I found growing. Most of what I encountered was unremarkable – just your average invasive species and backyard weeds. But there was also this:

The jungle in my backyard has several patches of goldenrod – a late summer and early fall bloomer that provides nectar for migrating bees and butterflies, encouraging them to remain in the area and pollinate crops. I stood and watched a group of bees feast on the goldenrod’s flowers, grateful that my yard produced something both beautiful and necessary. I want to believe something similar is cropping up inside me, something that will feed others, as well as sustain me.

I remember my sixth grade science teacher explaining the purpose of letting a field lie fallow – the decision not to plant so the soil can rest and replenish and be ready for future use. Although I haven’t been totally unproductive this year, I have let go of lots of shoulds. Perhaps my subconscious knew my soil didn’t have the nutrients it needed to carry those out? Or maybe I’m meant to rotate my crop and next year start planting something different? Either way, right now I will celebrate the untamed overgrowth that’s come from this fallow season. My landscape as lush. Everything that’s growing is thriving. And I hope next year’s soil (and next year’s Leah) will thank me for it.