Last night, I slept beneath the stars in the mountains and wondered. As darkness dissolved the contours of the trees into shadow, the night sky revealed itself in astonishing detail. In that vastness, my thoughts wandered between the known and the unknown.
For as long as humans have existed, we have looked toward the stars and the horizon, asking enduring questions: Where did we come from? Who are we becoming? And how do we shape what comes next?
Across cultures, answers to these questions often emerged through food and our relationships with the living world. In the origin stories of communities across Southwest China, the Himalayan foothills, and Southeast Asia, humans emerged from a gourd. In the Maya creation story, humans are formed from maize. In other traditions, people emerged from rice, yams, coconuts, animals, fertile landscapes, and the earth itself. In Abrahamic traditions, humans are created from the earth and placed within a garden, where nourishment shapes humanity’s earliest story.
Food was origin. Across cultures, humanity understood itself emerging from the living world. These origin stories explained our beginnings and expanded humanity’s sense of what was possible. Wonder has always done this. It expands the boundaries of what we believe is possible, allowing us to imagine futures that do not yet exist.
For more than 95 percent of our existence as a species, we lived within the living world by hunting, gathering, fishing, foraging, and moving with the rhythms of landscapes, seasons, and the migrations of other living beings. Then, over thousands of years, communities in different parts of the world began one of humanity’s most consequential expansions of possibility: saving seeds, domesticating plants and animals, and cultivating the landscapes that would eventually give rise to villages, civilizations, and the food systems we know today.
Agriculture emerged as people responded to changing conditions with necessity, curiosity, and imagination. The first cultivators learned by observing the living world: the relationships between seed and soil, rain and harvest, seasons and scarcity. Perhaps they noticed seeds sprouting in the disturbed soils around campsites and wondered what might happen if those seeds were planted with intention. Through generations of experimentation, gathering gradually gave rise to cultivation, one of humanity’s defining transformations.
Agriculture reshaped humanity’s relationship with food, living systems, and one another. People remained rooted in place as trade routes connected distant landscapes through the exchange of foods, seeds, knowledge, culture, and conquest. Villages and new forms of governance emerged. Communities formed around shared labor and stewardship. Farmers, seed keepers, tool makers, healers, artisans, traders, and storytellers all became part of the living web that allowed communities to flourish. Like every food systems transformation, agriculture expanded possibility while creating new responsibilities and unintended consequences.
These relationships shape food systems around the world. I have witnessed them with remarkable clarity in one of the most biodiverse and resilient food systems I have ever encountered: Akha communities in Yunnan Province in the Upper Mekong River Basin.
For the Akha, a food system is community. The food system does not create the community. Communities co-create the food system with the living world.
Over time, I asked Akha elders what makes a community. They taught me that a community is created through the relationships and elements that sustain life across generations: seeds, fire, the shaman, the knowledge of cultivation, the silversmith who forges the agricultural tools, and the tools themselves. No single element creates a community. It is the relationships among them that allow a community to emerge and flourish.
People plant trees for their grandchildren that they themselves may never harvest. In that simple act lies a profound understanding of what sustains life.
Food systems are often defined by their structures and functions: the people, places, institutions, and activities that produce, process, distribute, consume, and dispose of food. Those structures and functions matter, yet they emerge from something deeper. A food system is the living web of relationships that sustains life across generations.
The relationships we cultivate shape what becomes possible. When those relationships flourish, food systems flourish. We flourish.
Food systems transformation begins by reimagining our relationships and what we believe is possible and who are we becoming.
For millennia, stars guided humanity toward horizons it could not yet fully see, from the way finders of Polynesia to cultures around the world guided by the night sky.
Food systems transformation is much the same. We know the world we are leaving behind. There is gratitude for what has sustained us, relief for what we are ready to release, and loss for what may not come with us. While we cannot fully see what lies beyond the horizon, wonder invites us forward.
Years ago, while preparing a seminar on what I had learned throughout my career, I realized that the familiar arc of scientific discovery never captured the whole story. When I shared this with my husband, he responded, “Talk about the liminal space.” That idea stayed with me.
Derived from the Latin limen, meaning threshold, anthropologists use liminality to describe the space between one way of being and another, where familiar assumptions begin to dissolve before new ones have fully emerged.
Liminality is often mistaken for uncertainty. From the perspective of history, the liminal space is where innovations are born. Innovation is not always invention; sometimes it is the rediscovery of enduring relationships in new contexts.
As the health of people and the planet comes under increasing strain, our capacity to understand and shape the future is expanding in extraordinary ways. Just as we have long looked to the stars, we are discovering new universes closer to home, in our soils, our food, and our gut. Artificial intelligence is synthesizing relationships across ecosystems, molecules, microbes, and human biology at a scale and precision previously beyond our reach, opening new frontiers of discovery. Regenerative agriculture is restoring relationships with soil and biodiversity while drawing upon knowledge cultivated across generations.
Wonder has always expanded what we believe is possible. Now it invites us to decide what possibilities we pursue, what relationships we carry forward, what values guide us, and ultimately, who we are becoming and how we shape what comes next.
In my early years of teaching food systems, I noticed something unexpected that now seems obvious. As students moved deeper into their degree program, many began to lose hope. Complexity does not necessarily expand our sense of possibility; without hope, imagination, and resilience, it can narrow it. It made me question how we teach food systems and the stories we tell about them. In preparing food systems leaders, we need to cultivate knowledge, hope, resilience, and the capacity to imagine and co-create what comes next.
Resilient people create resilient communities, and resilient communities co-create resilient food systems with the living world. Every day, we make decisions that shape the food system that future generations will inherit, from the crops farmers plant and how they steward their land to the meals families prepare, the investments funders support, and the policies that govern our food environments.
We often search for a single innovation or policy that will transform everything. History suggests otherwise. Innovation may expand our capability, but it cannot tell us what future is worth creating. That remains profoundly human.
The most enduring transformations emerge from cultivating the relationships and values that shape what becomes possible.
Systems thinker Fritjof Capra reminds us that the horizon is not a destination but a guide. As we move toward it, it moves with us. We never fully arrive because every horizon reveals another beyond it. The same is true of food systems transformation. Every discovery reshapes our understanding. Every challenge reveals new possibilities. Every possibility reveals another horizon.
As I look back to the stars, I wonder what stories my daughter and the generations that follow will tell about who we chose to become and the relationships we chose to cultivate with the living world.
We are becoming the ancestors of future food systems.
This essay is part of Food Tank’s Flourish Series: Food and Health from Molecules to Systems, authored by Selena Ahmed, exploring how food connects us to the living world while asking what it means to flourish. For more in the series, click here.
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