This morning, I went out to the field - I started early weeding, checking how the rows of potatoes and onions have taken root. The soil is no longer cold, but not dry yet, just the kind that "fits in your hand," as my grandfather used to say.

The millet sown a month ago has finally sprouted, but here's the problem - the sunflowers are growing sluggishly this year, as if they're too lazy to live.

And that's what I want to talk to you about.

You know that farming is always a balance between hope and risk. We don't live by the calendar or the clock - we live by the weather, by the soil, by how the seed behaves.

In recent years, I've increasingly caught myself thinking that the soil has become more capricious.

The climate is changing, the usual dates are getting out of sync.

Spring is increasingly coming later, and prolonged cold weather is washing away young shoots.

Cucumbers are taking root especially poorly this spring.

This is the second time I've transplanted seedlings - sometimes they stretch upward too quickly, sometimes they wither at the roots.

Neighbor Marianna says that she's also having trouble with her melon patch.

And on the other side of the village, Volodya, who keeps greenhouses, complains about mold - the humidity is jumping like crazy.

What's happening to the soil? Or have we become different?

But I still go to the field, because stubbornness is in our blood. Every day here is a struggle for life, for growth, for the harvest.

It's almost like a prayer: you put in work and love, not knowing if heaven will hear you.

That's how we live. From dawn to dusk. With dirt under our nails and aching backs, but with pride in our hearts.

Do you know what the earth smells like in May? Or what the silence of a field sounds like before the rain?