Harvest time

I’m beginning to notice how those who planted in their gardens are already seeing their crops start

to bloom. This has led me to reflect on the process of harvesting.

One of my favourite stalls at the Cambridge market renowned for selling exceptional tomatoes has returned! The vendor told me it’s still not time to look for melons; some produce just isn’t ready to be picked yet. He began sharing stories from his years as a farmer, and how, sometimes, many of the things he sows don’t flourish.

Are all years harvest seasons, even if you sow? The truth is: no. Many farmers, despite their efforts, lose their entire yield to pests, heavy rain, or prolonged droughts.

Why am I talking about this? Because, personally, I’ve been sowing new seeds in my mind for some time now—new beliefs, new projects. I keep watering the ideas that excite me with care, and I’ve also learned to let go of those that don’t bloom in my soil.

Last year’s harvest wasn’t what I had hoped for. But nature, in its wisdom, held back that harvest because I needed to move. This made me think about the mindset of a person who owns a farm: how do they live with uncertainty? How do they prepare for the hard times?

If the harvest fails, how does a good farmer choose to keep innovating on the same land?

In today’s world, resilience is a rare skill, especially in the face of immediacy. Today, I paused to reflect on the importance of cultivating it if we choose to be sowers: the need to innovate, to keep learning, to seek support in order to better understand our inner soil—our seeds. It’s vital to observe what other growers around the world are doing, what technologies they’re applying, what we can do differently to improve what we already have. Leaving our land and returning to it is part of the growth process.

I’m preparing for harvest time. Projects are starting to bloom after much study, practice, and hours of work. The land is beginning to bear fruit. I’ve had to step out of my familiar zone, explore other soils, smell them, sit down to learn. I’ve also connected with my sacred femininity—the one that sustains, that has patience, that knows how to dance while waiting.

When you know your land is sacred, you don’t abandon it. You nourish it, strengthen its roots so you can keep sowing. Patience is needed in every season even in harvest time, when the work doubles.

Amazonia Arroyo

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