What the date farmer sees

A date farmer in Siwa can walk past a row of palms and tell you which tree is thirsty, which one will fruit well this year, and which one is quietly sick at the crown.

To a visitor, they are just palms.

He was not born with this. Somewhere along the way he learned that a certain yellowing means one thing and a certain droop means another, that the colour of the fronds after a hot week is telling him something. Each of those signs was once invisible to him too. Now he cannot imagine not seeing them.

That is the odd thing about skill. Once you can see something, it feels as if you always could. The years of learning fade, and what is left is a sense that the world simply looks like this.

From there it is a short step to a quieter mistake. If what I can see feels natural, then what I cannot see must be beyond me. Some people have the eye and some do not, and I have already done all the noticing I am going to do.

It does not work that way. His eye was built one detail at a time, and the same is true for anyone who learns to read a customer's hesitation, a price that is slightly wrong, a shelf that is not working. There is always another layer under the one you already know.

The only thing that stops you seeing it is deciding you have finished looking.