As a farmer's child, there are times when I feel a deep longing. A longing for the sights and scents of the rice fields, so unique and irreplaceable.
To others, it might seem strange. But to me, it feels like stepping back into a peaceful chapter of my past.
I remember us, running along the narrow paths between the fields, with golden stalks of rice swaying gently in the breeze. We’d search for bird eggs nestled in hidden spots among the crops or cast our fishing lines into the river, hoping for a lucky catch.
Those moments weren’t just about play—they were about a simplicity I now yearn for, a world untouched by haste.
I can still remember it so vividly—us roasting sweet potatoes in our little hut. It was nothing fancy, but to us, it was perfect. The hut was spacious, comfortable, a place to rest and gather.
When harvest season drew near, even as a child, I could feel the joy swelling in my chest. Somehow, I understood that those ripened stalks of rice symbolized prosperity, a promise of better days ahead.
That’s why I often find myself wandering through the rice fields in my village. The fields here stretch endlessly. While they may not be as picturesque as the terraces carved into mountain slopes, the yield is unmatched—four times as much.
This abundance doesn’t just sustain the village; it contributes to the nation’s needs.
I don’t do much, really. Most of the time, I just watch the farmers as they work, or sit quietly, letting my gaze wander to where the rice fields meet the sky.
Sometimes, I sit on the edge of the field, enjoying a simple snack.
And that alone is enough to make me happy. Perhaps because, in those moments, the emptiness in my heart is filled again. My longing finds its answer in the serenity of the fields.
