I stumbled into the intersection of culture and commerce last week. A late-model shiny black Mercedes SUV came slowly down my farm lane just after the farm opened on Sunday evening. A fifty-something man drove; a younger man sat next to him. In the back seat, her face barely visible underneath a head scarf, a woman sat next to a small baby.

“Do you sell vegetables here?” the driver asked. His face was lined; his short wavy hair immaculately and conservatively styled; his manner brusque.

I answered yes.“Where?” he queried. “There's an acre's garden over there.”

He hesitated; my farm has no traditional farm stand. People pick their own food. “Where do we park?”

I motioned to the end of the driveway. I found them wandering through my small orchard. “Cherry,” said the father as he looked at one tree. He seemed to soften, as one does when reconnecting with old friends. They had just come from a local farm that specializes in providing a place for Muslims to butcher their own meat. That farm had recommended my farm as a place for them to buy organic produce. As we walked into the garden, they spoke among themselves in another language.

“Where are you from?” I asked. Jerusalem, the son answered: the father twenty years ago, the son and his wife twelve years ago. The couple took turns gently carrying their fat-faced happy baby.

“What do you have?” the father asked brusquely.

“Tomatoes, beans, potatoes...” my words trailed off. I was embarrassed by how little I had. Usually, in late July, the summer crops are producing heavily. This year, the spring had been rainy and cool; then the weather had turned dry and hot. In the last week, it had rained more than ten inches. I had struggled all season just to keep my plants alive, the weeds under control.

We went to the tomatoes. The woman picked and ate her first tomato. She let out an audible sigh, as if she had found something precious: a real tomato! She eagerly picked every tomato that had even a blush of pink on it, as if she were starved for flavor.

“Peppers!” The older man, in his black polished leather shoes, moved to pick even the smallest pepper from the plants in front of him. I picked the two largest—small by any standards—and said that the others were not yet ready. We picked a bunch of carrots, the only eggplant and cabbage that were ripe; every hot pepper that was even close to ripe; every bean; every squash.

“Cucumbers?” I had the best vines I had ever grown, but no fruit. Usually a local beekeeper brings several hives to the property in early summer. When I had seen him in late May, he was exhausted. He talked in low tones about how more queens were due to arrive soon. In the last few years, half of his bees have died every year. I had not had the heart to call him again to ask him to do more work. Just last week, I noticed that the vines had no fruit—there were no bees to pollinate the blossoms.

The woman asked; I responded: “Cherries?” “June.”

“Strawberries?” “May”

“Lemons?” “Florida.”

“When will your garden be full?” The son asked. “I don't know.” The weather website now predicted thunderstorms for the next ten days. The ground was already saturated: my crops might simply rot.

We went into a building where we had stored trays of potatoes. We had harvested last Tuesday, rain falling steadily as we worked. The older man deftly picked the finest potatoes out of one tray. His sense of discrimination was sure; his hands fast. Here was a man who had known and touched vegetables.

“Did you have a garden?” I asked.

“Yes, we had a big garden: 5,000 olive trees. We made the finest olive oil,” the son said proudly. “You can grow anything in Jerusalem,” he added.

We took the food to the wash station and bagged produce that more than filled one large tub. The mother asked for even the old squash to make food for her baby. They paid me forty dollars for the vegetables and fifteen dollars for a large jar of honey, the prices I quoted to them.

“Open seven days?” asked the son.

“Open Sunday evenings” I responded.

“We'll come back often and bring lots of people!”

I shuddered: they had harvested like locusts, picking everything in their path. Then the woman smiled. Her eyes, open and warm, met mine. She spoke earnestly, “Thank you so much.”

“I am so glad you came,” I responded spontaneously. I surprised myself. I meant it. She had touched my heart; my land and garden had touched hers: we had connected with the land and each other. Had we been alone, I may have said, “Please leave me some tomatoes, I have a big party on Saturday night.”

The language of the men I heard as filled with possession, control, though a friend commented later that had I had a chance to talk to them more, we too may have connected. They paid me what I asked. they wanted to come back often and bring friends. They had the money; I did the work. I felt like a servant to system that separates producers and consumers: modern agriculture.

I spoke with a fellow farmer later. She laughed knowingly. Women from other cultures visit her farm regularly. One woman drives to her front gate, then calls her on her cell phone,”Can I come?” Such behavior disrupts my friend's work. She is frustrated, but she continues, “These women seem hungry to touch the land, and I won't deny them that.”

Both of us are now working because we love the land and life itself? Neither of us are "making a profit" from our farming; both of us believe our work is essential for our own health, the health of our communities and ultimately of our planet.

How do we shift our focus from making a profit on commerce to growing food so a mother can feed her family well, to creating space so that people can touch the land and its life force, to giving people the joy that comes from eating fresh and vital food?

“You can't sell wholeness, but you can share it,” I said as three of us worked in the garden last Friday. One woman agreed and paid me generously for the sunflowers and basil that she and her daughter had just picked. We had become one heart touching another heart touching the heart of the land; we had created community, communion, culture. How can we honor such culture as we attend to commerce? 

I welcome your responses!