When a High School Maths Teacher Takes Up Farming

I. On the Farm, I Said Goodbye to Allergies

In fact, I had scarcely any recollection of allergies before turning thirty. It was only in recent years that I began experiencing them frequently. A walk through the grass in sandals would almost certainly leave my feet swollen and red by nightfall. On occasion, a few nights of poor sleep would make the palms of my hands swell, redden and itch – sometimes so badly that I could hardly sleep.

I reasoned that something must be fundamentally wrong with my lifestyle to make me so prone to allergies.

I decided to become my own doctor, starting with improving my overall health. I remembered how, when I was still teaching maths a few years back, I used to suffer from frequent migraines. Yet whenever I went hiking in the mountains for a few days, even with intense physical activity, the headaches never returned. It showed me that I was at my healthiest when immersed in a good environment and physically active.

Then there were the allergies. Because my living environment was so sterile and I rarely came into contact with soil, spending just a short while in my mother’s vegetable patch would invariably leave me itching all over. What was the solution? I simply needed to reconnect. To allow my body to readjust to a richer environment, complete with its microbiome, and become part of it once more.

And so, during my break between jobs, my underlying health gradually improved. Migraines became rare, though the allergies still made occasional appearances until I arrived at Xiqing, when they vanished completely.

In Beijing, around the cusp of March and April, the temperatures were mild enough to spend hours in the fields each day, working close to the earth. As a complete novice to farming, I would invariably soak my shoes while watering and frequently slip into the mud. To better feel the soil and work more effectively, I often went without gloves. Returning from the fields each day with mud-caked clothes and shoes, I’d occasionally joke with my husband that I was turning into a little mud figure.

The muddy water in the fields carries its own pH level, and the soil is teeming with microbes. When I took off my shoes and socks at night, the tops of my feet were most often intensely itchy and flushed red.

After about a month of frequently damp shoes, the allergic reactions suddenly ceased altogether. When my placement ended and I returned to my hometown in Hubei, I tended to my mother’s small vegetable garden every day. Aside from a few mosquito bites, I no longer suffered from large patches of redness and itching. Even working in the soil wearing flip-flops, my feet never swelled or turned red. In short, I seemed to have outgrown my allergies.

What exactly changed in the journey from being highly prone to allergies to being completely free of them?

I ate fewer snacks and focused on healthier food;

I moved more, replacing dedicated workouts with physical labour in the fields;

My daily routine became more regular, and by immersing myself fully in nature, my mindset improved.

Intensively cultivating and diversifying crops across just five mu felt so fragmented that I didn’t know how to schedule my tasks. At first, I could only identify cucumbers and tomatoes. I knew nothing about the finer details of how they grew or were planted, and daily rounds through the fields yielded no further insights into the other crops.

By the second month of my internship, I was still selectively ignoring several plots, such as the melons. Another intern at the farm, Ma Hao, was in charge of the melons. I wasn’t interested and paid no attention to how he managed them. I took the same approach with the first batch of watermelons.

Initially, I thought focusing only on what caught my attention was simply a matter of limited energy, given I was entirely new to agriculture. Gradually, I realised this revealed that I was still trapped in the mindset of an intern, lacking a holistic view of the farm and failing to keep every crop in mind. It became clear that, despite the heavy labour during those first two months, my attitude remained leisurely.

That changed in June, when the farm owner, Wang Xin, left for a two-and-a-half-week exchange programme in Germany, leaving just Ma Hao and me to look after the fields day to day. Although no new crops were being planted in June, the entire farm was at full capacity. Almost every plot was active, requiring considerable time just for daily inspections. Each crop was at a different stage of growth and had varying water requirements, yet I was still a complete novice with barely two and a half months of agricultural experience.

During the weeks he was away, various management issues cropped up on the farm. Still, compared to when I first arrived, I truly gave it my all. Throughout this period, I kept every crop in the fields—even the flowers and herbs planted in the odd corners—constantly in mind.

Now, as I write this at my home computer, the entire layout of the farm remains vividly etched in my mind: over thirty different crops, multiple plots sown at different times. Running a farm demands such a strong ability to manage the big picture; you can imagine how daunting the challenge must be for a beginner.

During this time, I came to deeply appreciate how difficult life is for small-scale farmers practising diversified farming. The time invested in the fields is immense, yet it is impossible to measure.

On hot days, little work can be done in the fields at midday. Yet this is precisely when plants are experiencing peak heat. Understanding how crops and soil change at this time is essential; the more you observe, the deeper your grasp of the crops, soil, and environment becomes.

It was through this cycle of repeated observation and verification that I began to develop an intuitive ability to make quick judgements. Take the example of transplanting cucumbers.

In mid-June, temperatures in Beijing soared close to 40°C. During this period, Ma Hao and I transplanted a batch of cucumber seedlings. The extreme heat, combined with some seedlings having weak roots from being repeatedly waterlogged during propagation, meant they struggled to absorb water and their transpiration was insufficient. As a result, twenty seedlings simply succumbed to the heat.

That same evening, we carried out our first round of replanting. We promptly loosened the soil and increased watering frequency to help the young plants survive the high temperatures. Unfortunately, some of them died anyway, prompting a second replanting. Yet again, a significant number failed, which was deeply disheartening. However, it was right after this that things began to shift.

I was in the cucumber patch observing and reflecting when a sudden breeze swept through—what a relief! The moment I felt that coolness, I immediately recalled the weather conditions Brother Xin had chosen for planting sweet potatoes. I realised we should replant immediately. I checked the forecast for the next day: it wouldn’t be hot. Wasn’t this the perfect window to transplant? The survival rate would surely be high!

I went straight to the greenhouse, selected some robust cucumber seedlings, and planted them. Sure enough, this batch had a remarkably high survival rate. I took it as a personal milestone and felt genuinely pleased for quite some time.

First become a farmer, then become a cultivator.

III. On the farm, harvesting a sounder mind

When doing this kind of work, my attention rests entirely on the crops. I observe how the strawberries grow, noticing a flower that received poor pollination; I ponder what the thinned fruit would have become left unchecked, and how the remaining berries would be affected by it; I begin to see the field’s past and future unfold.

While weeding, I often visualise the soil below, the various stages of crop growth, the species and sizes of weeds, and the subtle differences between them. When might it be possible to skip weeding altogether? How should I guide the blade? Should I pull them out by the roots? How do I deal with weeds close to the crops, and those further away? What would happen if I left them be?

The insights gained from pondering these questions are intrinsically tied to the land. Perhaps, given enough time in the fields, the answers will simply appear.

After the placement ended, I often found myself looking back to my first day at Xi Qing. It was late March; little had yet sprouted on Beijing’s open ground, but the hints of spring were already there. On the final leg of the bus journey, tall poplars lined both sides of the road, their drooping branches just beginning to bud.

I recall the weather must have been splendid that day: the sunlight was gentle, neither harsh nor obscured by gloomy clouds, and the strawberry leaves were a lush green. Standing to the east, I watched Brother Xin standing in the strawberry patch a short distance away. It felt as though every plant joyfully gathered around him, mirroring his smile.

A feeling welled up within me, as if I were beholding a masterpiece. For a moment, I couldn’t tell if it was the wind or the quiet atmosphere he had cultivated across the land.

For a fleeting moment, I imagined what it would be like to have a plot of land of my own. I knew I would tend to it with the utmost care and dedication. When I stood upon it, it and I would be one.