The Story of the Farmer

In the fertile valley of Andong, where the Nakdong River wound through emerald rice paddies like a silver ribbon, there lived a farmer named Choi Myeong-su. He had inherited a small plot of land from his father, and his father before him, stretching back through generations of farmers who had worked the same earth with calloused hands and patient hearts.

Myeong-su was known throughout the valley not for the size of his farm—which was among the smallest—but for his extraordinary dedication to his work. While other farmers might rest during the hottest part of the day or the coldest winter mornings, Myeong-su could always be found in his fields, tending his crops with the devotion others might show to their children.

“The land speaks to those who listen,” Myeong-su would tell his wife, Soon-ja, as he returned home each evening with soil under his fingernails and the satisfaction of a day well spent. “Every grain of rice, every stalk of barley has its own needs and its own wisdom to share.”

Soon-ja would smile and nod, though she sometimes worried that her husband cared more for his plants than was entirely practical. “The land cannot love you back, husband,” she would tease gently. “But rice and vegetables can feed our family.”

Myeong-su would laugh and embrace his wife. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear. The land does love us back—with every harvest, every season of plenty, every moment of beauty it provides. We just have to learn how to recognize that love.”

The year Myeong-su turned forty-five, a terrible drought struck the valley. The spring rains failed to come, the summer sun blazed mercilessly from a cloudless sky, and the Nakdong River dwindled to a thin stream. Throughout the region, crops withered and died, and many farmers began to speak of abandoning their land to seek work in the cities.

While his neighbors grew increasingly desperate, Myeong-su remained calm and thoughtful. Each morning before dawn, he would walk through his fields, not just observing his struggling crops, but listening to the land itself—feeling the soil, watching the movement of insects and birds, noting which plants showed more resilience than others.

“The earth is telling us something,” he told Soon-ja one evening. “This drought is not just a punishment or a random catastrophe. It’s teaching us that we’ve been working against nature instead of with it.”

“What do you mean?” Soon-ja asked, concerned about their dwindling food stores and the brown, cracked earth that surrounded their home.

“Look at the wild plants on the mountainside,” Myeong-su explained, pointing toward the hills where some vegetation still showed green. “They survive because they have deep roots and they know how to conserve water. We’ve been planting crops that need too much water, in patterns that don’t work with the natural flow of moisture in the soil.”

Instead of giving up like many of his neighbors, Myeong-su began an ambitious project. He studied the traditional farming methods his grandfather had mentioned in old family stories—techniques that had been abandoned in favor of newer approaches that promised higher yields but required more resources.

Working through the hottest days of summer, Myeong-su began reshaping his fields. He created terraces that would catch and hold rainwater when it finally came. He planted drought-resistant varieties of crops in patterns that mimicked the way plants grew naturally on the mountainsides. He diverted a tiny stream that ran along the edge of his property, creating a series of small irrigation channels that would distribute water efficiently throughout his land.

His neighbors thought he had lost his mind. “Myeong-su has gone crazy,” they whispered. “He’s working harder during this drought than he ever did during good years. What’s the point of reshaping dead fields?”

But Myeong-su continued his work with quiet determination. As he labored, he began to notice something remarkable. The few surviving plants in his redesigned fields seemed to be thriving better than expected. Birds that had disappeared from other farms began returning to nest in the small trees he had planted as windbreaks. Beneficial insects that helped control pests made their homes in the diverse plantings he had created.

One evening, as Myeong-su was working late by moonlight to complete his irrigation channels, an elderly woman appeared at the edge of his field. She was dressed in simple clothes that seemed to shift color in the moonlight, and her presence brought with it a sense of ancient wisdom.

“Young farmer,” she said, though Myeong-su was no longer truly young, “you work very hard for very little visible result.”

Myeong-su straightened up and bowed respectfully. “Honored grandmother, I work because the land needs care, whether it rewards me immediately or not. A farmer’s relationship with the earth is not measured in single seasons, but in lifetimes.”

The woman smiled, and in her smile, Myeong-su saw something that reminded him of spring rain and autumn harvests, of soil rich with earthworms and trees heavy with fruit.

“Most farmers see the land as something to be conquered and controlled,” she said. “But you see it as something to be understood and partnered with. This wisdom deserves recognition.”

She reached into her simple bag and pulled out what appeared to be ordinary seeds—rice, barley, vegetables—but as they caught the moonlight, they seemed to glow with inner vitality.

“Plant these when the rains return,” she said. “They will grow in harmony with your redesigned fields, and they will teach you even more about working with nature instead of against it.”

Before Myeong-su could ask who she was, the woman had vanished as quietly as she had appeared, leaving only the precious seeds and the lingering scent of fertile earth after rain.

Three days later, clouds began to gather over the valley. When the rain finally came, it fell in gentle, steady showers that soaked deep into the earth rather than running off in destructive floods. Myeong-su’s terraces and channels worked exactly as he had planned, capturing and distributing every precious drop.

As soon as the soil was ready, Myeong-su planted the mysterious woman’s seeds. They sprouted with remarkable vigor, growing faster and stronger than any crops he had ever seen. But more importantly, they seemed to work in harmony with everything else in his redesigned fields—the plants supported each other, created beneficial microclimates, and attracted helpful insects and birds.

When harvest time came, Myeong-su’s yield was not just adequate—it was extraordinary. His small farm produced more food than many of the larger farms in the valley, and the quality was exceptional. The rice was fuller and more flavorful, the vegetables were larger and more nutritious, and the soil seemed richer and more alive than it had ever been.

Word of Myeong-su’s success spread throughout the region. Farmers came from distant villages to see his methods and learn from his techniques. But when they asked for his secret, Myeong-su always gave the same answer:

“There is no secret technique, only the willingness to listen to what the land is trying to teach you. Work with nature, not against it. Understand that you are part of a larger system, not its master. And remember that the health of the soil is more important than the profit of any single season.”

Soon-ja, watching her husband teach younger farmers in their thriving fields, finally understood what he had meant about the land loving them back. Their farm had become a demonstration that when humans worked in harmony with natural systems, both prospered together.

Years later, when agricultural scholars studied the traditional farming methods that Myeong-su had helped preserve and adapt, they found that his techniques not only produced better crops but also improved the long-term health of the soil, conserved water more effectively, and supported biodiversity that strengthened the entire ecosystem.

But Myeong-su himself always credited his success to a simple realization: “I stopped trying to force the land to serve me, and started learning how to serve the land. When I did that, we became partners instead of adversaries, and both of us flourished.”

And in the valley of Andong, where the terraced fields still catch rainwater and the diverse crops still grow in harmony with their environment, the story of the farmer who listened to the land continues to inspire those who understand that the greatest agricultural wisdom lies not in conquering nature, but in learning to dance with it.