The sun overlooks our cultivated fields, prairies, and forests without favor—it shines equally upon them, reflecting and absorbing its rays. These fields constitute only a small portion of the magnificent vista it beholds daily. From its perspective, the Earth appears uniformly verdant, akin to an expansive garden. In light of this, we should welcome the sun's beneficence with a sense of trust and grandeur. My focus may be on nurturing the beans to their harvest, but this vast field does not view me as its primary caretaker; it gazes beyond me to the nurturing elements that render it lush—water, warmth, and more. The beans' growth extends beyond my own benefit; they serve the woodland creatures too. Indeed, they grow partly for woodchucks. The ear of wheat is more than a symbol of hope for the farmer; its kernel yields far more than anticipated. Thus, how can our harvest ever fail? Should we not take joy in the profusion of weeds, which offer a bountiful granary for birds? Ultimately, the success of the fields is not measured by filling the barns but by the peace of the husbandman, akin to squirrels' indifference to the chestnut crop in the forest. The true husbandman will finish each day's labor without anxious anticipation, relinquishing all claims to the fields' produce, even the last fruits of his toil, offering them up in his mind to a greater cause.
