A vast field
Once upon a time there were people who owned sizable plots of land inherited from their great-grandparents. In winter their land was swathed in a fluffy snow-white blanket; in spring it was caressed by the sun; at the peak of summer small clouds would appear, casting whimsical shadows on their land. Far away, over the barely visible boundaries of their fields, beyond the thick clusters of huge trees, was the horizon, the line linking their land to the Universe.
The owners of these plots of land hired farmhands to till them, but they retained the privilege of collecting, storing the harvest, and consuming the produce. Everything was apparently well organized, but this was only what met the eye. For there was never a year that the fertile black and oily topsoil (“rich enough to spread on bread”) would fail to yield a bountiful harvest, despite all the outwardly favorable conditions. Meanwhile, there were many landowners, and all of them had quite an appetite and civilized living needs — just like those antipodes living on the other side of the world, way past the field and over the horizon.
We still don’t know what caused those meager crops, even though a number of domestic and foreign researchers have been busy studying the problem. After all, the tillers of the soil seemed to have made every effort, handling their plots in what seemed the only right way, abiding by the dictates of science, applying fertilizer, plowing deep enough, and always keeping the best kind of grain for sowing. And nature seemed to be on their side, with the sun taking care of the land, along with timely and sufficient rainfalls, with weather experts forecasting the best of weather and bumper crops. However, those forecasts were not correct.
Time passed inexorably and year after year the same thing was repeated in the fields. As soon as each tiny seed was placed in the soil and began sprouting tiny roots, once myriads of such merry roots broke the surface, reaching for the sun, and the whole field had turned into a silky green carpet caressed by the merry breezes, impatient people, the owners of the field, would appear, accompanied by harvesters, tractors, winnowers armed with scythes, spades, rakes, and sacks, who would proceed to harvest the yields. Farm machinery operated from dawn till dusk, sometimes around the clock. There would be a lot of mechanical noise, with truckloads constantly on their way to the silos, warehouses, and stores. Before long, however, everybody would know the sad truth: only several poods of roots and sprouted, bitter-tasting grain were harvested in that vast field, along with several stacks of fresh grass for hay — so much for the long- awaited “harvest.” That was all that the people had been able to gather on the Great Field that stretched all the way to the horizon. What could they do to last through the winter? What grain could they use to plant next spring? All they could do was tighten their belts and fall into a winter slumber, which many did. A panic started, with “weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Merchants were sent to all corners of the world to buy grain. Those merchants would visit neighbors, who could not understand why people who owned such a Great Field are wandering the world in search of salvation. Just imagine if they had such a Field.
It is also understandable that the angry, deceived, and hungry people would pounce on those sowers and tillers of the soil. The latter had their arguments, they justified themselves as best they could, offering their alibis. Yet those were mere words compared to the empty grain silos and the specter of famine looming so close that you could almost touch it. It does not take a prophet to guess what happened next: the tillers, failing to comply with their quotas, were roundly condemned and chased away, and were replaced by others. This was not difficult to accomplish; there were always many people eager to take their posts. Some of the replacements would work hard, trying to secure good harvests, but they were so naive.
Most of the “tillers of the soil” had a totally different tactic. Mindful of their predecessors’ experiences, they ignored the Great Field altogether; they didn’t even know its location. Besides, their professions and interests lay elsewhere, so it often turned out that when people went to bring in the harvest (in spring as usual) they could not even harvest the roots and sprouted grain. After all, the professional “tillers of the soil” had long ago stopped sowing, correctly assuming, “Why should I throw into the earth that which I can earn big money with?” Moreover, they secretly planned to turn the Great Field into a “global flowerbed” that would not only amaze mankind, but would keep their people supplied with hay from grass mowed on that flowerbed.
This story is also unfolding today. Some tillers of the soil are sowing grain, perhaps even conscientiously, but impatient people cannot — they are simply incapable of waiting until the actual harvest season begins. The field has not even begun to sprout wheat ears, but already they begin to gather the harvest. Today, other “tillers” — ”reapers” by their nature — do not even know the verb “to sow.” And so the Great Field is still waiting for the true sowers (those who plant seeds in the soil, not their pockets). It is also absolutely necessary to have patient and sensible reapers. Wise people, meanwhile, are casting horoscopes, warning that, unless properly tended, this field will eventually transform into something very different, not a lifeless desert but perhaps an empty lot overgrown with giant weeds, stinging nettle, and poisonous hemlock. Then we will never again have any bread for the winter, let alone any surrounding landscape. After all, who needs the horizon when the grain bins are empty?
