Qoya

I reached the settlement late this afternoon, hungry enough that the smell of cooked maize caught my attention before anything else. A woman was sitting above the terraces with two llamas wandering nearby. Around her were baskets of maize and potatoes, folded textiles, flowers, and two keros resting within reach. I had barely introduced myself before she motioned for me to sit and had food brought over. One of the keros was filled and offered across the space between us.

At first, I thought she was simply being kind to a tired traveler. Then people began arriving. One came to speak about the fields. Another carried a beautifully woven textile for her to examine. Someone else seemed to be asking her opinion about something happening farther down the valley. She listened carefully to each person, asked questions, and occasionally gave an instruction. Nothing about her felt hurried, yet there was a quiet authority around her. People did not come to her only because she cared for them. They came because her attention carried weight.

I stayed longer than I intended. From where we sat, I could see water moving through the terraces, crops growing along the mountainside, animals grazing, and people working among the fields and buildings below. It struck me that abundance is rarely accidental. Someone plants. Someone weaves. Someone protects the herd. Someone maintains the water. Someone remembers what will be needed later. Everything flourishing around us was connected to work, knowledge, resources, and people who understood what was worth cultivating.

Before I left, she filled the second kero and lifted hers toward me. I still don't know whether it was a welcome, a blessing, or simply a drink shared before a traveler returned to the road. Whatever it was, I understood something differently as I descended toward the valley. To cultivate something is to decide that it matters enough to receive your attention, your resources, and your care.