Pachakuti

The farmers told me yesterday that everything depended on timing. I thought I understood what they meant until I spent the day following them through the terraces.

One field was being prepared while another was planted. Farther down the slope, people worked among tall maize. In another place baskets were filling with harvested food. Families sorted potatoes while children sat nearby. Water moved through channels cut into the terraces. Above all of it were the mountains, and above the mountains the sun crossed the same sky that would eventually become night.

Nothing here seemed still.

An older farmer picked up a handful of soil and crumbled it between his fingers before handing some to me. I asked how he knew when it was ready. He answered at length, pointing toward the mountain, the clouds, the plants and the sky. I understood almost none of his words, but I understood the gesture. The answer was everywhere.

Late in the afternoon clouds gathered over the valley. Rain moved across the terraces and everyone adjusted. Work stopped in one place and continued somewhere else.

Looking across the fields tonight, I keep thinking about how easily I divide my life into beginnings and endings. The people working here seem surrounded by both at once. Planting happens beside growth. Harvest happens beside preparation. Day becomes night. Dry ground receives rain. What feeds us eventually returns to the soil.

The world keeps turning, whether I am ready for the next turn or not.