Wu Tong
In fact, I have never seen a really tall and ancient buttonwood tree.
Maybe it's because I haven't seen it before, and its figure is getting bigger and bigger in my heart. Sometimes, when I open the window and face the lush trees, my eyes begin to look for a completely different phoenix tree in the green, but it is not there.
In my imagination, it should grow in the cold mountain shade, look at the blue sky alone and try to rub the past white clouds with its branches. Not far away, there came the thin sound of mountain springs, like the sound of a piano. Gradually, those piano sounds are embedded in its annual rings, making the buttonwood the most perfect music wood.
I've never heard of the guqin made of phoenix tree. In fact, it is impossible to have a pair of hands playing the piano in our time. But in my imagination, the ethereal rhyme still comes from an unknown direction, low in the valley of my dreams.
I always think of the Phoenix bird (swan bird) (straw bird) quoted by Zhuangzi, which originated in the South China Sea and flew in the North Sea. Non-buttonwood, non-practice, non-diet, non-drinking. "
I can't help but get excited at the thought of the golden-haired phoenix perched on the tall buttonwood tree. Of course, I have never seen (Ten Thousand Birds) or (Chu Birds), but I love it deeply. I love its noble nature and meticulous style in troubled times.
However, where is the phoenix tree that I can stop?
It must exist, I think-although I haven't found it yet, every time my eyes search in the overlapping mountains outside the window, I believe it must be hidden in some wet and cold mountain shade. In the lonely years, in the eager waiting, listening to the strings of spring water.
maple
In autumn, Cathy wrote from Japan and said, "Can you imagine? Red leaves are everywhere, all fresh and beautiful.
Red leaves. "
Put down the letter, I thought, what mountain is this? It looks like a transparent bloodstone from a distance. Or like a drunken sunset?
I have never been partial to red, but in the cold defoliation season, I can't help but yearn for that red with hot air. Shan Ye is covered with red leaves poetically. How beautiful and sad it is!
The crisp, thin and serrated leaves may not be the most beautiful, but the red veins in the withered leaves always remind me of the blood of martyrs, which is the only red in the desolate century. One day, when I had to leave,
I once loved the world, and I would like to have a pair of hands to plant two maple trees for me. When spring comes, there are still poems in the green leaves that fascinate me. In autumn, on a frosty night, dry red is piled up very thick, like a cordial greeting from an old friend, sent from outside the mountain. At that time, I must be very pleased.
I would like to be like that maple leaf, blooming my pure and shallow blue in the morning breeze and burning my fiery red in the sunset.
first snow
Poetry, my child:
If the fragrance of flowers in May has its origin, and the starlight in December has its starting point, I know where you came from.
These days, pain and happiness are so sharp that I am surprised that the difference between them is so small. Whenever I suffer for you, I always feel that the cross is so light, so I suddenly understand my love for you. You brought fragrance to the garden in early spring.
In all mankind, I have the right to be the first person to love you. They must see you, get to know you, and then decide to love you, but I don't need it. Your smile soars in my dream, concrete and real. I love you and have nothing to boast about. In fact, no one can bear the love for children.
You're here, and I'm beginning to become a thinking person. I have never thought deeply about the meaning of life and respected the value of life. For the first time, I was moved by the sacredness and solemnity of life.
Because of you, I love all mankind, even those golden chickens, even those small trees that walk unsteadily, make me feel distressed.
I inevitably think of war and one of the most irresistible tragedies of mankind. Like fungi, our generation lives in the shadow of war, and our childhood was spent on crowded trains and bumpy ships. And you, what kind of times can I give you? We can't go back to the poetic19th century, and we can't hide in the mythical Alps. We are destined to live in this tragic era, tragic China.
Son, every time I think about it, I'm sorry. The stupidity and meanness of human beings have plunged them into a tragic fate. So, on this earth full of nuclear terror, what have we prepared for the newborn baby? Not a gold lock, not champagne, but a million tons of TNT nuclear energy per person. Son, when you look at the world with complete trust, can you see those cruel weapons hanging in your little cradle? And your parents' big bed?
I was born in such a world, and I may be wrong. God knows what kind of trip we have arranged for you.
But, son, we still hope you can come. We hope you learn to love human beings with us and suffer with them. Soon, you will learn to cry for all these tragedies-and how much our generation needs such tears and prayers.
Shishi, my child, with you, I began to be strong and brave. I can face the cold death without being afraid of its poison hook. I still feel that I am doing it in the face of the suffering of childbirth. For you, son, I will beat them. I have never loved life as much as I do now. You have taught me so many mature thoughts and noble sentiments, and I am grateful to you.
A few days ago, I suddenly remembered the sentence in the New Testament: "Although you didn't post him, you love him." I immediately understood how independent love is. When the tip of eucalyptus sweeps more north wind, when the peak begins to drop the first white of the first thunder, you come. Before your coral limbs start waving in this world, before your shining pupils shine in this city, you already have our complete love, and we will teach you how to be loved before you are a child. Shishi, we promise to give you a happy childhood.
Writing here, I vaguely recall those beautiful spring days in Jiangnan. We always crouched in the small window of the train, and the train walked around the mountains and rivers, and the days seemed to pass like that. I still remember the wild azaleas all over the mountains! The mountains and plains are full of sad sadness!
We are a generation that knows sadness too early.
However, poetry may not be without sadness in your time, but we will always give you a full childhood. There is no house on the roof where you live, but there are many loves, many books, many ideals and dreams. We will build you a rose bed in the story, and you will play and rest on the soft petals.
When you get to know your father Shishi, you will be surprised at your luck. He is upright and noble, and he is kind and kind. Slowly, you will also find out how much your parents love each other. After so many years, their love is still as fresh as the breeze in the forest.
Poetry, my child, don't think this is inevitable. Not every child has such luck. Not every parent in this world loves each other. How many children cry alone in the dark, and the meaning of life is denied before they are formally involved in life. Poetry, poetry, you won't understand the pain of disillusionment. This is the first tragedy of all tragedies. In fact, all human beings are killing each other, and history has not taught human beings to love each other. Poetry, you teach them to love each other, just like the poet said:
They are cruel, greedy and jealous, and their words are like hidden blades eager for blood.
Go, my child, stand in their unhappy hearts and let your gentle eyes fall on them, just like the gentle mist at dusk drowned the struggle during the day.
Let them see your face, my child, let them know the meaning of everything, let them love you, let them love each other.
Poetry, one day you will understand that God will not allow you to cling to the love you inherited. Poetry, love is a bud, and it must bloom. It must provide fragrance in painful demolition.
Poetry also teaches us to learn more and higher love. I remember a few days ago, an advertisement of a drug dealer shocked me. The advertisement said: "Children should not be weaker than others. The health of the next generation is related to our faces. If children grow healthier, more beautiful and happier than others, it will be much more glorious. " Poetry, the meanness of human nature makes me feel cold. Shishi, I love you. I promise you, my love for you will never be mixed with impure ingredients. You are you, and you will never be compared with others. You don't need to suffer to satisfy your parents' vanity. In our eyes, you are always outstanding. You can be poor, you can fail, you can even be poor. Poetry, if we are proud, we are proud of yourself, not for your health, beauty or intelligence. You are a human being, not a shrub we cultivated. We will never trim you into a certain shape to make others praise our gardening genius. You can grow up according to your inclination, and no matter what style you choose, we will like it-or learn to like it.
We will try our best to get to know you, we will bend down seriously to listen to your secret wishes of a child, and we will help you through your depressed adolescence with sympathy and understanding. When you are an adult, we are still willing to share your sorrow. There are always some sad and helpless things in life. If you feel lonely in the future, please remember your mother. Our lives were once linked, and I will try my best to make this link last forever. I repeat, Shishi, we will try our best to understand you and your time. We will believe you-God never gives bad children.
We'll pray for you, son. We don't know when those old and peaceful years will reappear. That kind of good day may never be seen again.
If this calm will never reappear, then poetry is irresistible and irreversible. I can only bless your heart and have inner peace in difficult times.
I often think, Shishi, you are not only our child, but also belong to the mountains and seas in May and the cloudless sky in Wan Li-and all this will always be the theme of human happiness.
You're going to grow up, son. Every time you tremble, love surges in my heart. You are a bud, hidden in the deepest part of my heart, just like music in a long flute.
A few days ago, someone told me a beautiful Japanese story. Speaking of every winter, when it snows, people sit in the yard, and Mu Ran silently stares at the soft white patches.
What a pious and touching sight it is! I thought of you then, Shishi. You are the first snow in our life, pure and noble, which deeply shocked me. Those awe and love for life often make me cry silently.
Poetry, give our land some beautiful white. Poetry, our first snow.
Just because you are young.
Love-hate relationship
In the novel class, I stopped and asked, "What is the opposite of love?"
"Hate?" I looked around the classroom and sighed, just because I was young, just because I was too young. I put down my book and said, let's just say, for example, you are in love now, and then what? We broke up. 50 years later, you are 70 years old. One day, when you were walking at dusk, the road to the enemy was very narrow, and you met again. At this time, the other person looks at you and says, "xxx, I hate you!" " "If the plot is like this, then you should be glad that you have been hated by others for half a century. Hate is also an easy-to-tire emotion. It's not easy for someone to hate you for 50 years. I'm afraid you will go over and say, "xxx, do you still recognize me?" The other person waited for a while and stared at you blankly and said, "Ah, it looks familiar. What's your name? " The whole class laughed. Maybe the imaginary scene is too funny and embarrassing. "So, the opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. "
Can the laughing students hear the conclusion? -just because you are too young, love and hate are such easy words to say clearly? The students who came for the interview sat in a row on the sofa. One of them asked, "After reading your works, I found that your emotions are very delicate and you have been caring, but caring is easy to get hurt, right?" What should I do? "I caught a glimpse of her, her forehead and cheeks are so young. If you want to ask some questions, you should ask the year. Ask me, what can I answer? But her bright eyes stared at me, and I suddenly smiled, almost in a frivolous tone: "There are such things as injuries-but what's the use of keeping myself intact?" "Do you have to defend yourself?" She looked at me in surprise and couldn't answer for a moment.
Life is alive, a heart grows from scratch, burns, frostbite, bumps, crushes, sprains and even internal injuries. How can there be no injuries at all? If love and care must include injury, then it is not complete, just tears. What distinguishes Christ from the world is not the wounded palm code with nail marks? Little girl, just because you are young, just because your skin is too complete, you can't bear to collide. Are you afraid of getting hurt?
Nostalgia in spring
Spring must be like this: from the green hills, a handful of snow can no longer be held, and with a splash, a cold face becomes a painted face. A song is sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low and desolate villages, to the hedgerows, to the yellow webbed of a duckling, and to the soft and soluble spring mud.
So charming, so sensitive, but so muddy and endless. A thunder can make clouds cry all over the sky for no reason, and a cuckoo cry can make a city full of azaleas. When a gust of wind comes, every willow sings a white, vain, inexplicable and uninvited fly. Every fly is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still make people calm.
Spring must be like this: the withered stems full of dark leaves and flowers cling to an old root, and the roof beams of thousands of families in the north are crushed by the wind and snow, gently supporting a small empty nest. Then, suddenly, one day, peach blossoms captured the water profiles of all the mountain villages. Willow has taken control of the royal ditch and the folk river head-spring is like a clear-cut Julian Waghann, and the group has been looking forward to prayer and beauty for a long time.
As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the Book of Songs, before the Historical Records and before the characterization of Cang Xie, a lamb suddenly felt sweaty when eating grass, a child suddenly felt soaring when flying a kite, and his legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable. Qian Qian's hands were placed on the banks and banks of the stream.
Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blue of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. Not all birds are excellent mathematicians. They chattered and counted, looked around, and finally dared not publish statistics.
As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterfly to count. Give all the pistils to the bees for cataloging. All the trees were ruined by the wind. Leave the wind to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one.
Spring must be like this, or, somewhere, is it still like this? Through the smoky black forest, I want to visit the spring wandering in the distant years.
Clothes and shoes.
-born in the world, how many people know? Moreover, clothes and shoes are blind, which is also one of the worlds in cool thin.
Wool scarf
All towels are gentle, such as sweat towels, silk scarves and wool scarves.
Towels don't need to be cut, towels have no image, and towels don't even have a size. Towel is a gentle thing, and it won't stick to its own image. It is held in your hand, wrapped around your head, or wrapped around your neck. The towel is soft and warm, which makes people feel distressed.
Towels are always beautiful, that kind of maternal beauty, or embroidery, or clay gold or silver painting, or cotton weaving, or crochet, towels are always so delicate and elegant.
And the world is becoming more and more unbearable for gentleness and beauty. Robert taylor is dead, Stuart Granger is old, Vivien Leigh disappears, and Charles Bronson is replaced by 007, ruthless jane fonda and Fei Donnaway.
Only the scarf still maintains the classic gentleness and beauty.
I have a light brown mohair scarf, which is the color of shelled wheat grains in the Spring Festival. I can almost smell the dry smell of drum skin in my illusion.
I like to wear it even on days that are not too cold. It is a humble scarf, but its touch is light and warm, like the strings in the south wind, leaving the world cold and cold, and my neck has its own warmth.
Suddenly one day, I used to walk up the mountain path, and the reeds all over the mountain opened gently. Reed color every year! Only then did I find that reed and my wool scarf have the same tone and touch. Shan Ye in autumn is quiet and empty. In autumn, a reed scarf is put on, from the top of the mountain to the foot of the mountain, from the foot of the mountain to Shuimai, an ancient and gentle scarf!
Embrace me with your arms, my scarf. In colder days, you will protect my ears and stroke my hair. You overlap yourself according to my image, protecting me left and pestering me right. You are a flexible and loyal moat. You indulge me in my strong stubble, making me feel a little weak, helpless and even coquetry. There you are. Like a mountain, stay in the vast reeds.
Towels are really gentle. All the towels in the world, take mine.
knapsack
I have a backpack, which is made of square broken cowhide. I carry it almost every day for more than five years.
Whenever I use worn leather, I go to the shoemaker and ask him to mend it. At first, he refused, and gradually kindly advised me not to save too much.
I took it for dry cleaning, and the proprietress smiled at me implicitly and said, "You probably like this bag?"
I said, "Yes!"
She said, "No wonder she is so old!"
I was walking down the street with that bag on my back when I suddenly saw a unique furniture store. As soon as I entered the door, the idle and boring lady suddenly came up and said:
"Hey, you learn to draw, right?"
I shook my head firmly.
I hate to lose it anyway.
This is the only bag I have ever used that can hold a dictionary and lunch box. It is so big, so light, so strong, so credible.
In the east, bags are often mysterious, and there are always things in backpacks. Every time I go out, I carry my bulging old backpack on my shoulder, and my heart will be mixed for a while.
How much money, how many books, how many times I put the bread for lunch in it, how many letters, how many newspapers, how many students' homework, how many business cards, how many news of weddings, funerals and celebrations stopped and disappeared.
A backpack is simply a little life.
Once, the baby lost its deciduous teeth, so you were anxious to let it go. Once, a pine cone fell head-on on a mountain road. You picked it up and stuffed it into your bag. Sometimes it's a Julia, sometimes it's a shell, sometimes it's an ID card, passport, bus ticket, sometimes it's socks, smoked chicken, duck gizzard or aspirin for that person.
I love that backpack because I love real life.
Carrying a bag, empty hands. Empty-handed makes you feel comfortable, and you feel that there are countless good things to master. You can swim with a stick like a hermit in Chinese painting, or you can fight with a flag like a hero. The backpack is not too heavy to carry on your shoulders. It is a sweet tie.
Late at night, I put my whole backpack in front of my bed, fondling the worn-out fragments lovingly, like a Jianghu artist playing with old clothes, waiting for the country to collide with the government tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow morning, I will still carry my backpack to drive away tomorrow's sandstorm.
Days of wearing windbreakers
It seems that Hong Kong people call that kind of clothes "wet and dry rags", which is really a good name, but I prefer what we call it in Taiwan Province Province-windbreaker.
Every time I put on a windbreaker, I feel very strange. I don't know why, especially when I just fastened my belt, I always wonder if I am going to wander.
When I put on my windbreaker, I only felt that the road ahead was stormy, and there was an unknown road in Wan Li waiting outside the alley. I have a feeling of endless misty rain about my life.
The day you wear a windbreaker should be windy, whether you are new here and not used to the gentle spring breeze or the autumn wind with a steep chill after the green ebb tide. The wind calls you in the clouds, and the wind calls you through thousands of leaves with a bleak vibrato. The days of wearing trench coats are always bleak for no reason-but they are also magnificent for no reason:
Wearing a trench coat, it seems that there should be a story to start.
There will be wind in the south of the Yangtze River, blowing green willow curtains on both sides. ...
There is bound to be a strong wind blowing in Saibei to drive away weeds and make you surprised to see cattle and sheep in the desert. ...
There is bound to be a wind like the streamer in the old play, gently surrounding11100,000 square kilometers of begonia leaves.
The wind will blow like a song and a flute in Los Angeles overnight.
I have read the white clouds of Emperor Gaozu, the peonies of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang Dynasty, and the people of Lu Fangweng's third year. The wind has also read your beautiful hair today. You are wearing a windbreaker and walking in the wind through the ages.
Is the wind the length of heaven and earth? Does the wind disturb people when large pieces of blood are surging?
The wind swelled the lapel of the windbreaker, and the wind messed up the hem of the windbreaker and brushed my leg. I look around, life is so vast, and I feel that there is an infinite horizon waiting.
sneakers
Those shoes are suede and brass. They look beautiful. Below is a soft and flat rubber sole, which is two centimeters thick.
The shoes look stupid and bald, with straps on them. They look strong, as if they can be used for a lifetime.
I can't help but feel surprised at the thought of A Life, but I can't tell what is surprising. What does a lifetime mean? What does a half-life mean? What is seventy years? What do you mean more than 70 or less than 70?
Every time I put on those shoes, I can't help asking myself, what is a lifetime? I think hard, but I still don't know what a lifetime is.
Four years later, the shoes are as thick as ever. I can't help being a little scared. Will one day, I am old and can't go to the call of the empty mountain and the old rain, and I can't go to the invitation of the five lakes and three rivers, but I am still intact?
In fact, I always wear those shoes when I am in the best mood. This is a pair of sneakers. Every time I wear them, it means I have a good time. Other soles are used to stepping on a dark asphalt road, but this pair is stepping on wet sand by the sea and purple rocks on the shore. It crossed the spring in the mountain and walked in the moonlight in the forest. But anyway, every time I see it, I always feel a little disappointed.
Maybe not, just because it was the only pair of shoes that I really walked after wearing, just because we walked through the dusty Wan Li together.
Whether to wear it or not, whether to do it or not, those shoes often surprise me.
Denim dress
Cowboys, of course, are used to make jeans.
Wearing jeans obviously belongs to another world, but surprisingly, denim is gradually different. It began to accept the old world, and the old world also accepted cowboys, so denim skirts and denim skirts appeared. It turns out that cowboys can also be soft and beautiful, and denim vests, denim jackets and denim jackets have also appeared. It turns out that cowboys can be elegant and solemn.
I bought a long denim skirt, dark blue, and dragged it to the ground. I like it very much. During the trip, I wore it for 70 days at a time. When it was dirty, I washed it in my friend's washing machine and put it on after baking.
A little crazy.
But I like to be crazy.
So I like that long denim skirt and myself in it.
Extra clothes are unnecessary for travelers. Nobody knows what you were wearing yesterday. So, today, in this new station, you have the right to put on yesterday's clothes again. Travelers don't have wardrobes and mirrors. In summer, travelers can wear two shirts and a skirt to travel around the world.
After the holiday, I went back to school and hung up my long denim skirt. I dressed myself properly.
However, every time, when I take out that skirt, my heart is still full of joy. Wearing that skirt, I will no longer be my mother's daughter or her mother, a teacher's student or a student's teacher, and I will no longer have any title or position. I'm not someone else's wife, regardless of the 42-square apartment. For me, that long denim skirt has gradually turned into a magical skirt. Once put on, I am just me, not belonging to anyone, not even Dahua, because when I walked all the way, into the mountains, into the water, into the wind, into the clouds, and walked, I actually turned myself into Dahua.
At that time, I became an indescribable me. I walked away, more comfortable than Baoyu wearing a scarlet cloak in the vast snow, because there was not even a monk around me. I'm just me. I have nothing, no belonging, and I'm crazy happy.
However, when the time comes, I will come back and play the role of being sympathized or envied, and I will become a famous me again.
Therefore, I always love my long denim skirt with a strange feeling-and myself when I put it on.