Working the Land: Why I’ve Come to Love Repetitive Labour

At the time, nature was everywhere I looked. Yet, whenever I passed through the fields, I was mostly a mere observer, someone who simply thought they looked beautiful.

For the local farmers, planting is a means of survival. How do they collaborate with the land and nature to make it a part of their lives? What of this survival wisdom has vanished over time, and what remains? This was a world of experience that I, as an observer, could not enter—something difficult to convey in words, existing only in the daily toil.

But I didn’t want to remain just an observer; I wanted to participate in agricultural production first-hand to see what that world was like. So, this spring, I signed up for Foodthink’s ‘Ecological Farming Internship Programme’ and came to Xiqing Farm in Changziying Town, Daxing, Beijing.

Looking back at everything I have done in the fields over these three months, I believe I have come to ‘know the land’ through actual labour. To an outsider, this work might seem repetitive and tedious, but without it, one could never truly experience the intimate connection between the earth, the weeds, the insects, and the natural foods they produce.

II. Weeds are More Than Just Weeds

In truth, every weed has its own name. As ‘permanent residents’, they are among the creatures who know this land best—through them, one can receive vital local information. If one understands their growth habits deeply enough, they can even become essential collaborators in enhancing agricultural productivity at a critical moment.

When I first arrived, the plot at the end of the greenhouse had been left wild all winter. ‘Wild’ isn’t quite accurate, as the golden-yellow common chickweed was growing lusly. Shortly after spring began, we created ridges in the same plot and transplanted potted pepper seedlings. We only cleared small circles of bare soil around the planting holes, leaving the rest of the surface untouched. The chickweed continued to grow densely here, not only helping to retain soil moisture but also suppressing the growth of other weeds.

During my daily rounds, I noticed that in the maize fields, the soil at the edge of one ridge was pale and dry, while the soil right next to it remained moist. There was no cover from weeds around the pale surface, but near the moist soil grew knee-high amaranth, its oval leaves unfolding in overlapping layers to shelter a small patch of cool shade beneath.

Chicory and fat-hen are also common weeds in the fields. At the end of March, I first spotted dense clusters of aphids on the stems of the chicory; a month later, in the same patch, I was delighted to find that seven-spot ladybird larvae had begun to hatch. On one hand, the aphids’ preference for chicory and fat-hen reduced their interference with the crops; on the other, the seven-spot ladybird, the aphid’s natural enemy, found a hospitable environment here.

As I recall, Beijing only had three days of rain in May. While weeding in the parched sweet potato field, the Bermuda grass had curled its leaves across a wide area, creeping close to the ground; it could be pulled up in large clumps with a simple tug. As a member of the grass family, it has a very high demand for water and struggles to take root without it. At the end of the month, it rained; weeding the same spot the next day, I found that even the tender shoots of the Bermuda grass were no longer easy to pull. In just a single day, they had rapidly strengthened their root systems. It turns out that information about the land and the weather is hidden within the bodies of the grass.

III. Dealing with the Insects

Days with little human contact are never lonely, for I am surrounded by so many insect friends. Though ‘friends’ might be a stretch; for the protection of the crops, we must occasionally ‘intervene’.

On March nights, slugs feast heartedly in the baby bok choy beds. There is no need to search for them; just push aside a few leaves and you will find a cluster. They frequently emerge on cool, damp evenings, greedily eating the endosperm of corn seeds. If they aren’t caught in time, the seed trays are soon left with nothing but empty hulls.

In April, mole crickets appear frequently, fond of the tender roots and stems of young seedlings. For several nights running, tomato seedlings were attacked, collapsing one by one. Since mole crickets operate underground, they were impossible to thwart. By sheer luck and chance, we occasionally destroy their underground nests while watering, catching them as they are swept along by the flow.

Ants have been ceaselessly busy since the start of spring. They are busy building houses whenever the sun emerges after rain; busy clashing with other species in territorial disputes; busy herding aphid larvae, climbing up and down the pepper plants to find habitable spots to settle them. The ants protect the aphids from their natural enemy, the seven-spot ladybird; in exchange, the ants feast on the sweet honeydew excreted by the aphids as they suck the sap from the crops.

In May, Cabbage White butterflies enter their hatching period, producing vast numbers of cabbage worms on the leaves of cruciferous crops such as cauliflower and cabbage. They munch through the leaves, leaving behind bright green droppings. To be precise, they only eat the soft, succulent flesh of the leaf; the veins, with their tough fibres, are too difficult to chew and remain as the only surviving parts. The larvae are a translucent yellow-green; as they grow, their colour deepens, blending further with the leaves. They can even mimic the translucent white texture of the waxy layer on the leaf’s surface; these little creatures truly know the art of survival.

Often, one does not see the creatures themselves: earthworms leave behind small mounds of oval castings; bees leave golden trails where they have rested on a leaf; mole crickets leave jagged clumps of broken soil where they have pushed through the shallow earth; leaf miners doodle across the leaves in a cryptic insect language yet to be decoded…Simply tracking the traces of where they have been is a fascination in itself.

IV. The Life Wisdom of Crops

During my labour, I am often struck by the desperate will and wisdom of crops to persist in life. Beneath their seemingly silent and unassuming exteriors surges an infinite longing for survival.

After pinching off the axillary buds of a few robust tomato seedlings and planting the cuttings in soil, I would give them a handful of water every morning, waiting for them to take root. For the first few days, the cuttings lay slanted on the ground, their leaves gradually withering and drooping, looking for all the world as though they were on the brink of death. Then, after a few more days, just as the upper parts of the leaves were curling and drying up, new, vivid greenery began to sprout from the lower sections. Each leaf told a story of the intersection between death and rebirth.

One stunted pepper seedling with yellowing leaves was the first to produce a flower. Its environment was considerably harsher than that of the other seedlings that had yet to bloom—growing on the edge of the polytunnel, it faced intense sunlight and rapid soil moisture loss; chronic water deficiency was the key reason for its poor growth. The plant realised this early on, so it chose to divert nutrients intended for stem and leaf growth toward reproductive growth, allocating its limited resources to flower and set seed first.

The flavour of strawberries changes significantly with the seasons: in winter, sweet strawberries store sugars to withstand the freezing temperatures; in summer, their more acidic taste is an active choice for antioxidant protection in the heat. Clever birds and insects are attracted only to fully ripe strawberries, becoming the dispersers of the seeds. A ripe strawberry chooses the perfect moment to ‘speak’—emitting a sweet, delicious aroma to tell the world: ‘Come and eat me!’

V. Witnessing the Life Cycle of Food

During my time at the farm, I was always able to eat the right vegetables and fruits in the right season, experiencing the magic of food’s journey from soil to table every day. I began to spend more time observing the harvested produce—their shapes and colours—bringing them close, breaking them open, and crushing them to smell their fragrance. I tasted the complex interplay of flavour and aroma in my mouth, trying to understand the intricate connections between their appearance, scent, and taste and the way we plant and manage them daily.

To a great extent, this was made possible by the farm owner, Wang Xin, whose commitment to ecological farming based on “rebuilding local biodiversity” provided me with the opportunity to be so close to the food and accompany it through its growth.

In ordinary markets, produce comes in only two states: ripe or not quite ripe; their origins feel as enigmatic as an ancient legend. I never imagined that one day I would see a whole family of cucumbers, lined up on the vine from smallest to largest; see watermelon “babies” the size of date stones wrapped in a layer of fuzz; see the tart green fruits of tomatoes, their slender calyxes stretching powerfully towards the sky, with a layer of fine down glistening in the sun on their firm skins; see maize stalks sprouting numerous aerial roots like tiny feet, driving deep into the earth to absorb nutrients and supply the organs above; or see the tips of young maize ears with tender pink tassels swaying in the breeze…

In an interview, the writer Shin Yoshii recalled her life on a farm: “It was exhausting while I was there, but it felt like I was truly living—there was something special about the feeling that life and death were inextricably linked to oneself.”

It was only after having the chance to witness the complete life cycle of crops that I fully empathised with these words.

Three months felt like a long time, yet also like a mere flash. I can still remember the day of sowing; after the tiny seeds left my palm, they grew quietly in every invisible moment:

As the seed falls into the soil, the power nurtured in the darkness pushes it upwards. The surface of the earth cracks and loosens, and the stem and closed cotyledons break through the soil, pushing aside the seed coat and a small clump of earth;

If they are lucky, they continue to grow, their stems growing taller and their leaves more lush. Transitioning from vegetative growth to reproductive growth, they bloom and complete pollination through various means. Small fruits set and swell, until one day you find the branches laden with plump, mature fruit.

Yet, this journey is not always smooth—perhaps a native seed carries a virus leading to poor development, or perhaps it encounters irresistible climate changes or pests and diseases during growth. Any of these can cause them to be injured at a certain stage, or even perish prematurely.

Throughout this process, my heart wavered between joy and sorrow, but more than anything, I felt moved—moved by the fact that as long as I was willing to draw close, I could always see the transcendent power contained within their resilient lives.

VI. The “Joy” of Repetitive Labour

In early spring, when the fields were still barren, I had imagined the scenes of a summer harvest. At the time, I saw diligent labour merely as a means to serve our final harvest.

Looking back now at the bits and pieces of these few months—tilling the soil, weeding, raising seedlings, watering, and catching pests—and recalling the images in my mind of swinging a sickle to cut through last year’s maize stalks, dragging a harrow to level the uneven ground, and using a spade to scatter fertiliser across the ploughed earth… I realised that the long, repetitive labour itself is more precious than the harvest. In the day-to-day work, I felt my body and my heart, in certain moments, connect with the land—honest, tangible, and focused. In those moments, I tasted a kind of transcendent peace and joy.

Such moments are rare. More often, I was surrounded by tedium, exhaustion, and disarray, with the thought “I just want to give up” arising countless times. Yet, it is precisely because these “uncomfortable” feelings existed that I could remember the arrival of every moment of peace and happiness with such clarity. I know that moment existed, and I know and look forward to it descending again at some corner of my life.

Finally, I would like to quote a line from the *Huainanzi*: “Crops grow in spring, but man must apply effort for the five grains to truly flourish.” This is also the role I have gradually come to realise I should occupy in agricultural production over the past few months:

Crops in nature grow in accordance with the seasons; farmers, acting as collaborators, stimulate their vitality through sowing, fertilising, and tilling. Thus, the grains grow freely, and people welcome a bountiful harvest. When we treat nature with sufficient awe and respect, there is no exploitation, no conquest, and the gifts of nature happen naturally.

Foodthink Author

Tianyi

This person is trying to lead a more concrete life.

 

 

 

 

Eco-Agricultural Internship Programme

The Lianhe Project “Eco-Agricultural Internship Programme” was launched by Foodthink in 2021. It aims to provide support for young people interested in ecological agriculture and for established ecological farms, enabling young people to master farming knowledge and techniques through practice, and allowing the experience of seasoned farmers to be summarised and passed down. At the same time, it supplies high-quality talent to farms and injects vitality into rural communities.

To date, four recruitment cycles have been completed, supporting over 80 partners in entering more than ten ecological farms across the country for internships ranging from three months to one year.

All images in this article were taken by the author

Editor: Zheng Yuyang