Think of a field — imagined or from memory. You can describe the field, but I’ll suggest another challenge:
Write down all the rules of that field.
Every field has its rules. A meadow or clearing abides by the rules of its ecology (ecologies). A magnetic field or a field of energy has its rules. Think of graveyards and gardens, which are curated fields. Or mine- and battlefields. One of the horrors of war is that its violence exposes the interior of buildings and homes to the outside–an abrupt return to some version of their original state— field. (Most human structures seem to want to arrest the field, which isn’t just a space but a process; the field in nature is always changing.)
I wrote down some questions:
How does the field of your imagination/memory change when one or more of its rules are broken?
What’s the difference between a field over which only seven sparrows can fly at a time and a field in which a piano must always be burning? What happens when they become the same field?
What happens when you place yourself inside this field?
What becomes possible only when you leave the field?
Is what’s under the field part of the field? How far down? How about above it? How far?
In ten years, when you give your field and its stewardship away, what condition will it have to be in when you let it go? Will you be able to choose who or what takes possession of it?
If someone offers to buy your field what will it cost the buyer? What will it cost you?
Look at your field again in a week or a year. What has entered the field since you last looked at it? What disruptions do you notice after leaving it for a while? Can you describe them? Have the disruptions become part of the field?