I learned something this week.

This is not at all surprising, as I am having new experiences almost constantly these days. This particular new thing was related to something husband and I had noticed on our walks to and from the forest. We had even come up with a couple of theories about it. But, as it turns out, we were out in left field — almost literally.

I present to you the field of barley that runs along the left side of the road we take to head off into the forest. This is how it looked ~~a few~~ several weeks ago.

I’ve taken many early morning photos of the gently hilled section closest to our house.

At first, I confidently thought the crop was wheat, so that should tell you something about what I know about crops. Industrial farming — any farming, really — is a long, long way outside my area of expertise. My interest in this field has to date mainly been variations of “Oh wow, that’s pretty!” — and so it was with the barley tops swaying in the breeze. The field looked like water, or feathers, so delicate and moving in such a soothing, endless motion. The greens, too, were varied and gentle, simultaneously vibrant and soft — a magic that has eluded capture on camera.

As time passed, the spikes and beards took on a yellow-orange hue. Against blue-gray skies, the field shimmered gold, though up close it was still rather green. Another couple of weeks later, the fields became a vibrant amber-gold. Nature doing its thing. My role is merely to observe and marvel at the beauty of it.

What husband and I noticed that started us questioning what was going on were dark green areas where the crop was flattened. These weren’t tire tracks like we see in some fields but random patches where the barley seemed to have been crushed or trampled. But how? No tracks led in or out.

We surmised that perhaps deer or boar had caused the damage — there are good populations of both in these parts. Our second theory was that wind gusts were responsible. Many of the seed heads drooped over as if too heavy to hold up, like babies asleep in car seats, chin to chest.

This last observation edged close to the truth, but still missed the mark.

More extensive flattening than when we first noticed the patches.

Observation: The plants went from upright to lying flat on the ground overnight.

Hypothesis: Something or someone caused the plants to bend or break or fall over.

The real cause was more or less an invisible force. Once explained, it made perfect sense.

The invisible cause dates back to the early spring, to the soil, and more specifically, the fertilizer.

The farmer who lives at the end of our road and who has hands-down the best view in the whole village from his front porch explained it: Barley has an optimal height, beyond which the plant structure can’t support itself. The field was fertilized with too much nitrogen, causing the plants to grow too tall. The stalks fell over under the weight of their developing seed heads.

Normally, the seed heads would continue to develop and the plant would mature, becoming a pale yellow color by harvest time. But a plant that falls over is broken, and the seed head ceases to mature. The harvester will still pick it up but the fallen barley will cause a lower quality harvest — and an expensive one at that, given the dramatic increase in fertilizer prices this year.

Growing pains are real. Oh, I suffered my fair share of midnight “achy legs,” treated by lifting me up onto the kitchen table and serving me a glass of milk, which I dutifully drank, blinking under the harsh fluorescent lighting. That my parents were awake at these unknown hours of the night was mysterious to me. That I had briefly stepped into their strange evening world was disorienting. I quickly scurried back to bed, belly full, leg soothed, and went to sleep.

As I grew and matured into a right-sized adult human, my growing pains (mostly) stopped. At least, the physical ones did. Thankfully, I was never one of those kids in danger of self-destructing before I had the chance to develop fully, and so I emerged from my childhood and teen years as a more-or-less well-formed and whole adult. Some are not so lucky.

Eventually, we stop growing taller and start directing our energy into developing the seeds of the future, our true destiny. Our whole purpose is to bring our progeny to their fullest development, that they too might grow and propagate.

Are we so different from plants? Once our legs stop aching form the ridiculously rapid growth, we lean into menstrual pains and heartache, the variety of poorly expressed natural urges that so plainly embody the need to procreate.

Is there anything more, I wonder? Is this the great reductionist answer to life — an endless procreation?

I notice that along the edge of the fields and, here and there in clusters and corners, flowers have flourished. They are sneaky in a way that barley is not. Opportunistic and alert. The cornflowers and poppies never sleep. They do not hunch under the burden of their existence, and they never give up and fall over without having given their all.

Writing this post has taken far too long and has not gone the way I wanted it to. I had great ideas, which I have forgotten. I’ve struggled, perhaps because I’m forcing a parallel or perhaps because the crystallizing moment was fleeting and it fled before I could capture it. I will sheepishly publish this cobbled together narrative because I am tired and I have other ideas, other things to write, and because it has been weighing on my late-night conscience, night after night, disrupting my eagerness to work on my next project.

The barley has been harvested, and I have no photos to show you of the brush cut terrain, the broad expanse of blonde spikes, stiff like so many recruits. Besides, it seems somewhat harsh and cruel to show you the outcome. It’s nothing nice to look at. Spoiler: the truncated barley stands firm and headless, and the wind blows ruthlessly across this now unfriendly field.

Where has the gentle swaying gone? Where the soft rippling, the soothing lullaby of potential, the feathery horizon? Only stubby gold stalks remain, and even those will soon be ploughed and turned under.

But I am still standing. I’m not as tall and successful as some, it’s true. Nor do I want to be. I am of a quieter, solid stock, raised not to stick my head up above the crowd, raised to hold my own, to carry my own weight.

There are moments when I would rather lie down, thank you very much, pull the blanket of invisibility over my head and wait out whatever is to come. But there’s the next generation to ensure, my children, and they need the fresh air, the sunshine. They need to be able to sway this way and that atop a solid and stable stalk. And so we stand strong, not bowing under our own difficulties, not giving in to the overwhelming urge to rest, that these seeds we nurture might become the source of something stronger and braver than us.

The time will come when I will fall asleep in my chair on the porch, under the bone-penetrating warmth of the midday sun. My chin will rest on my clavicle and time will stand still (and no one will care if snore or drool) because I will have done my duty, and I will be tired and deserving of rest.

I’m not quite there yet, but there’s a tug, an appeal, a voice that sings to me from the other room, entreating me: Rest your weary head.

And so, because it is now very late, and the dogs are in a sleeping puddle on the couch, I will pack myself away. Tomorrow is another day.

Silent Questions

The unbearable weight of growing