My, our, hearts were burned in the fires; we were all deeply saddened. We tried to do whatever we could, but it wasn't enough; we failed. Once again, we realized how much harm humans inflict upon nature. If it weren't for humans, nature would quickly recover with its worms, birds, and insects. If only it were left in peace...
In such situations, I always go back to the old days because I miss them so much.
And I start the day saying, "my grandmother's soil."
When summer arrived, my heart would pack its bags first. As soon as schools closed, we would rush to the village. Even back then, I would escape the city's hustle, the heat of the asphalt, and the suffocating city air, and run to the smell of the earth. The village felt like another world to me. It was warm like my grandmother's hands, cool like her house, and peaceful like her voice.
My grandmother would wake up early in the morning, take her hoe, and go down to the garden. Just beyond it was the forest. If only you knew how many gates opened to that paradise. I would follow her, forgetting my shoes and stepping barefoot on the earth. My grandmother would tell me, "If you don't connect with the earth with your feet, the earth won't know you." She was right; the earth knew people.
When she was going to plant something in the field, she would first fill a basket with old manure from the dung heap. Then, she would add ash from the stove. She would mix a handful from here and a handful from there into the soil. Artificial fertilizer? Its name wasn't even known back then. There was a proper way for everything given to the earth, everything planted, and everything harvested.
One day I asked:
— Grandma, why do you do it this way? Oh, dear, she smiled and said, "Because the earth gives you what you give it, my child. Manure and ash are heartfelt thanks given to it."
And I remember the tomatoes that grew in the garden that summer.The moment we picked them, their scent would spread not just to our noses, but several meters away.As we peeled the cucumber, we felt like we were speaking the language of nature. If a watermelon was cut, my childhood friends from the neighborhood would come running as if they smelled it. Everything was so natural; it was as if the fruits came not from the branch, but from the hearts of our people. Time passed, the city grew, the lands changed, the fertilizers changed, and even the fields fell silent. Whenever I think of the village, I still sometimes smell the scent of those summers. The scent of ash mixed with earth, and manure mixed with love.
And my grandmother's voice!
"If you don't talk to the earth, the earth won't answer you."
