Good morning from the Valencian huerta.
Today I woke up with a very clear thought: Here, we live with one eye on the future and the other on what's happening right now in front of the furrows.
Why am I telling you this? In the fields, we plant trees thinking about the next ten years, and at the same time, every morning we harvest what you've ordered.
The plan is in the fruits that will come in the future, but also in those we have right now hanging from the branches.
It might sound simple, but the truth is that the field quickly teaches you that a plan is a map drawn in pencil. It works, of course, but you must be willing to erase and redraw.
And I'll tell you why...
On paper, everything fits nicely: pruning dates, harvest stages, crews, shipping routes. The spreadsheet looks beautiful on Sunday evening, and by Monday morning, it already looks like a treasure map with scribbles and arrows.
But the sky has its own humor, and so do the plants: an unexpected foggy morning, a wind that knocks down a line of ripe fruit, an irrigation pump that decides to retire just when it shouldn't.
And when it's not that, it's the tractor, which has a knack for breaking down on the crucial day. It must have a Swiss clock.
Even so, planning is vital. We couldn't coordinate with our colleagues or harvest only what you ask for if we didn't have our house in order. But I've learned that the value of the plan isn't in it being followed to the letter, but in how quickly you can adapt when reality deviates from the script.
And that lesson isn't just for farmers. Life is the same.
I know what it's like for a storm to jeopardize a whole year's work. Here, the "gota fría" (also known as DANA), can pull the tablecloth and turn the table upside down. You see the fruit on the ground, you calculate in your head, you look again, and you take a deep breath.
In that moment, you understand two things. One, that effort is a necessary but not sufficient condition. Two, that it's still worth continuing.
The next day you collect, sanitize, adjust, re-tie ropes, call your colleagues, coordinate. And you continue. Not because you're a hero, but because the field educates you in a strange mix of humility and stubbornness. Many things escape us, but our hands do not.
There's also another side to this story. Living with the future in mind forces you to meticulously care for the present. The earth is read with the senses. The color of a leaf tells you more than a weather report. The crunch of the soil under your boot tells you if there's a lack of water. The smell of wet earth warns you how the day will unfold.
This attentiveness is like a small school of presence.
Between the morning orders and the harvest, you have moments of silence that are worth gold. Sometimes I think our grandparents invented mindfulness without even knowing it.
To be honest, this way of life has changed how I see things. It has taken away a bit of that illusion of control that is so appealing when one is in a hurry. And it has given me something more useful: serenity.
It's not that I believe everything will be perfect; it's that I trust that, no matter what happens, we will know how to respond.
I hope this Sunday reflection brings you to the field for a moment. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and think of a small row of trees gently swaying in the breeze.
And if something goes off script during the week, remember us here, with our plans in pencil and our hands in the earth, doing what needs to be done today without losing sight of tomorrow. 🌱
A big hug and thank you for being on the other side. Tomorrow morning, I'll check the orders again, and we'll go out to harvest yours.
Until next week,
