Every harvest that passes from my hands into the soil and from the soil to your table is not just an ordinary agricultural routine. It is an entire drama played out between the sky and the earth, between hope and fear, between my heart and the often merciless breath of nature.

In spring, when the first warm rays of sunlight awaken the earth, I feel it breathing in return. Plowing the field is not just loosening the soil — it is a promise I make to myself and to those who will taste the fruits of this labor. Every seed buried in the ground is a tiny spark of faith that ahead lies abundance, not disappointment. But along with this faith always comes anxiety: how many times have sudden night frosts destroyed what only yesterday seemed alive and strong?

Summer is the season of trials. The scorching sun burns not only the leaves but also the heart, as you watch the sprouts wither. Every drop of water becomes precious, every rainfall a celebration. And yet, even in this celebration hides fear: will it turn into a storm, will the heavy winds break the still fragile stems, will the blossoms — meant to become fruit — be torn away before their time?

And then comes the long-awaited moment — the first fruits. They are still timid, still small, but within them already lives the energy I have invested. This is not just food. It is hope materialized, transformed into a form that can be held, smelled, touched with the fingertips. And every time I pick a ripe fruit, I feel that a part of my soul, given without hesitation, goes with it.

But behind this beauty, there is always a price. At night I listen to the rustle of leaves — is silence creeping in, the silence that often foretells a storm? I search the sky — are the clouds thickening, ready to destroy everything that has been grown with such care? Sometimes nature is cruel: one sudden gust of wind, and the work of an entire season can be destroyed in minutes. Then, in your hands remains not a harvest, but only bitterness and emptiness.

When at last I bring the fruits to the market or to the hands of those who waited for them, I see simple gratitude in their eyes. But behind that gratitude, they don’t always realize that in every tomato, apple, or bunch of herbs lies the morning cold, the afternoon heat, the evening fatigue, and the faith that all of this is worth it.

I often think: people take food for granted. They do not stop to imagine that behind every loaf of bread stands not only earth and water but also the heart of a human being who year after year repeats the same cycle without ever knowing how it will end. Farming is a game without guarantees. There is no “undo” button. There is only you, the earth, and the sky, which can be generous — or merciless.

And yet, I continue. Because in every season, in every new sprout, I see more than just a plant. I see life being born, filling everything around with meaning. I believe that food grown with love carries something greater than taste or calories. It carries the breath of the earth and the warmth of a soul. And perhaps that is what makes it truly real.