My friend sent me a card the other day with this quote on it:

We have not inherited the world from our ancestors. We are borrowing it from our children.

It is a remarkable thought because it shifts our view of history from a series of events culminating in the crowning glory of this present life, to a vision of an even better future, for which our lives are the foundation.

For some reason it is difficult for us to plan ahead, though, to plan our present with a mind for what we hope for in the future. I remember when I was first organizing events at Hazon and we wanted to have them listed in the JCC calendar. An event taking place in June needed a blurb, title and date by the previous December, and I was incredulous at the lead time.

On a farm, the lead time is even more tangible. The entire year is a process of planning, planting and harvesting. The glimpse I’ve gotten of this in one week on this farm is quite a powerful example of how growing your own food is so cosmically grounding, and so profound an experience of Jewish life.

The radish plants we put in the ground this week were potted up in the greenhouse several months ago. Yesterday I saw three tiny cucumber shoots pushing through the dirt in their flats in the greenhouse, and this morning about two dozen were up. These will be planted in three to four weeks, for harvest (and pickle making!) in July.

Some farmers are fortunate enough to work a piece of land for decades. They learn the weather and the flood patterns, watch the trees grow up and around the edges of the fields, perfect techniques for taking care of a certain piece of earth, with its idiosyncratic needs for nutrients, water, heat, protection.

I wonder if these farmers feel immortal because of the constant renewal and growth of their land.

I, on the other hand, have only three months on this field. It feels absurdly short – especially when I think of the previous Adamah generations on this land. Adamah is now in its fifth season. The field we are planting was sown with cover crop last fall by previous Adamahniks. The health and fertility of the soil is rich from five years of rotational planting and enrichment.

The land is healthy and bountiful, not despite generations of farmers who have extracted all that they could from it but because each generation of farmers has been harvesting from the work of previous seasons, and planting for future ones.

At this point, we’re even growing from our own seeds (saved from previous harvests or shared by previous Adamahnicks from other farms or gardens they have moved on to). Our garlic is all Adamah garlic—meaning we’ve planted cloves from heads harvested last year, which will grow into a new crop of heads. And in our seed-saving garden, the Gan, we are growing herbs, vegetables and flowers from seeds brought by former Adamahnicks at the Adamah seed exchange. The basil I planted the other day came from the Edible Schoolyard project in Berkeley, CA, where one of the Adamah alumni went to work. We call these plants l’dor v’dor, and we honor them by making note of them when we harvest them: “The greens in this salad are from the Sadeh (field), the columbine flowers are from the Gan, the garlic and herbs in the dressing are l’dor v’dor…”

Three months on a farm. A lifetime on earth. Jewish tradition places much emphasis on building a world for our children, and this can be one of the most tangible ways to think about why we should bother to make a difference in the world, even if the time scale can be hard to grasp. The more we can remember we are a brief part of the chain of creation, the more our present becomes a gift to the future.