The fields had once danced with golden grain, swaying in the wind like waves against the sky. But that morning, I stood on the soft earth and saw only emptiness.
I was a farmer's daughter, and for three summers, our village had planted the finest millet. Strong rains had kissed the soil. The sun had been kind. We were ready for harvest.
And then, the grain vanished.
Not eaten. Not withered. Simply... gone.
It was the first time I saw grown men cry. My father stood motionless, staring over the fields as if the grain might walk back in out of shame. I, only twelve, wanted to scream at the skies. "Why take it now, when we needed it most?"
That day, an old man passed through the village. He wore robes the color of clouds and walked with a gnarled stick. His name was Shen, and he said little. Yet, something about his eyes made the wind seem quieter.
He stood atop a fallen stone and looked around. “When the stream runs dry,” he said, “do you chase the water?"
"No," someone muttered, “you wait for rain.”
Shen smiled. “And if you stomp your feet and shout at the sky, does the rain come?”
There was a silence then. One that settled heavy but soft. I didn’t know what it meant, but it made my chest loosen a little. That night, I followed Shen where he slept near the woods. I asked him the question burning inside me.
“Why does the grain vanish when we worked so hard?”
He opened his eyes, and for a moment, I thought the moon had slipped into them.
“You ever seen a fish jump from a net into the river?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“It doesn’t worry how to swim again. It just does. You look at the field and see sadness. I look and see the start of something else. This emptiness? It’s not the end.”
“But we need the grain,” I said.
He nodded gently. “And you needed to learn this moment. Not all growth is seen above the soil.”
I returned to my father and helped him plant again. This time, not to force the grain—just to let the earth breathe. I watered only when the rains didn’t come. I sang to the seeds, not to make them grow faster, but because the melody felt right in my chest.
Seasons shifted. The sun came and went. The grain returned—but not because we begged it. It came in its own time.
I never saw Shen again, but his words stayed with me.
Years later, when storms knocked down our fence, I didn’t shout. I let the wind blow. I waited. And when I woke the next morning, a wild peach tree had planted itself where the fence once stood.
That day, I understood a little more.
Sometimes, when we stop pushing, the world gives more freely. Just like the vanishing grain, real growth begins when we learn to let go.
The fields had once danced with golden grain, swaying in the wind like waves against the sky. But that morning, I stood on the soft earth and saw only emptiness.
I was a farmer's daughter, and for three summers, our village had planted the finest millet. Strong rains had kissed the soil. The sun had been kind. We were ready for harvest.
And then, the grain vanished.
Not eaten. Not withered. Simply... gone.
It was the first time I saw grown men cry. My father stood motionless, staring over the fields as if the grain might walk back in out of shame. I, only twelve, wanted to scream at the skies. "Why take it now, when we needed it most?"
That day, an old man passed through the village. He wore robes the color of clouds and walked with a gnarled stick. His name was Shen, and he said little. Yet, something about his eyes made the wind seem quieter.
He stood atop a fallen stone and looked around. “When the stream runs dry,” he said, “do you chase the water?"
"No," someone muttered, “you wait for rain.”
Shen smiled. “And if you stomp your feet and shout at the sky, does the rain come?”
There was a silence then. One that settled heavy but soft. I didn’t know what it meant, but it made my chest loosen a little. That night, I followed Shen where he slept near the woods. I asked him the question burning inside me.
“Why does the grain vanish when we worked so hard?”
He opened his eyes, and for a moment, I thought the moon had slipped into them.
“You ever seen a fish jump from a net into the river?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“It doesn’t worry how to swim again. It just does. You look at the field and see sadness. I look and see the start of something else. This emptiness? It’s not the end.”
“But we need the grain,” I said.
He nodded gently. “And you needed to learn this moment. Not all growth is seen above the soil.”
I returned to my father and helped him plant again. This time, not to force the grain—just to let the earth breathe. I watered only when the rains didn’t come. I sang to the seeds, not to make them grow faster, but because the melody felt right in my chest.
Seasons shifted. The sun came and went. The grain returned—but not because we begged it. It came in its own time.
I never saw Shen again, but his words stayed with me.
Years later, when storms knocked down our fence, I didn’t shout. I let the wind blow. I waited. And when I woke the next morning, a wild peach tree had planted itself where the fence once stood.
That day, I understood a little more.
Sometimes, when we stop pushing, the world gives more freely. Just like the vanishing grain, real growth begins when we learn to let go.
