They knew the back-breaking work of preparing the soil, adding fertilizer, planting seeds, and clearing weeds. They knew the heart-breaking work of being patient, waiting for rain to fall and for the earth to produce a harvest. Life was not exciting, but slower and more deliberate.
There is a natural rhythm to working the land that can be obvious. The good farmers I know appreciate when to work as hard as they can, and when to wait.
I live in another place now, with other people. I can go for months, surrounded by people who think food comes from a grocery store, until something reminds me. The aroma of freshly brewing coffee, the sound of a specific pattern of speech, the sunlight on the leaves of a plant. They remind me that, no matter how different my life might seem on the outside, nothing has really changed.
I do not ride a tractor anymore. I work a different kind of soil now.
I look for the signs that tell me this ground might still be frozen. I discern whether it is too early to plant, whether something might threaten what we are trying to grow.
I listen to learn whether it is time to work as hard as we can, or time to be patient and wait.
It often takes us more than one season, more than one year, to produce the yield we would like to see.
I am reminded by the scent of the coffee, the sound of talking, the sunlight. Together, we work to land.
How do you know when to work as hard as you can, and when to be patient?
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