The Harvest I Became

THE HARVEST I BECAME

By Lori Burchmann

All my life, I have been gathering—

not the simple fruits of days,

but the hidden ripenings

tucked beneath each moment:

the seed of sorrow,

the pulse of wonder,

the quiet grain of something I was meant to keep.

In the bright fields of youth

I learned the orderly magic of growth—

knowledge opening like straight, obedient rows

beneath a calm and certain sky.

But life does not love straight lines,

and its winds led me ever outward

to wilder ground.

I wandered through many seasons—

some soft with kindness,

some trembling with loss,

some sharp enough to cut,

some unexpected with laughter

rising like light through cracks in stone.

Each season planted something in me,

though I often mistook pain for barrenness,

and did not know until later

what had taken root.

There were harvests of love—

full, fierce, imperfect—

each offering its sweetness,

each leaving a few fallen fruits

that taught me how to begin again.

There were storms, too,

the kind that split the sky

and level a life in a single moment.

When the ground gave way beneath me,

I learned to gather differently—

strength in fragments,

hope in handfuls,

courage in the slow return of light.

In time, I rose—

weather-shaped, yes,

but rooted deeper,

my branches stretching wider

toward whatever sky remained.

I became more tender where I had been hard,

more open where I had closed,

more whole than I ever was

before the breaking.

And now, when I look back across the years,

I see not a trail of losses and triumphs,

but a vast and intricate field:

every joy a blossom,

every sorrow a seed,

every season necessary.

For how else does a soul bloom

except by surviving each turning of the earth?

How else does a life become luminous

except by gathering everything—

the beauty and the bruise,

the wonder and the wound—

and calling all of it

harvest?

So I stand here,

hands full of the life I have grown,

and I understand at last:

Life is gathering.

Life is harvest.

Life—wild, merciful, mysterious—

is the wonder we cultivate,

and the wonder we become.