For a long time, no one has sat in the corner and settled down to study. I held a book full of ink on my chest, thanked my friends for the cultural feast, made a cup of tea, sat in front of the computer, refused the noisy footsteps outside the window, and paced this rare spiritual space. Like a teacher marking papers, I circle the wonderful parts with a red pen and comment on important chapters in order to live up to the books sent by friends thousands of miles away. Harvest a sincere, moved by his persistence and tenacity.
Young and frivolous, we all had magnificent dreams, like colored pebbles along the clear river, with a faint fragrance of wild flowers. Whenever we talk about it, we are intoxicated by ourselves.
As time goes on, we grow up gradually. There are countless childhood dreams, and beautiful words can always inspire my enthusiasm. My dream is no longer a pebble in front of me, but the source of the unreachable river, where there are tall and straight mountains. This is my literary dream.
I was born in a small village by the river. My ancestors were busy farming, and I have been farming for generations. In addition to the comic books of that era, there is only one book, the fairy tales of Hong Xiuquan and Andersen, which I have read countless times. The custom in my hometown is still that men are superior to women. As the eldest daughter of my family, I have no reason to study, so I dropped out of school several times.
I have a dream to touch the clouds in the sky, the life in the water, and the sunset on the horizon by the river, dam, ridge and stove. My mother couldn't stand my pestering and let me finish high school on and off.
After the college entrance examination, the country's reform and opening up entered a normal track and economic construction was in full swing. Wandering in my beloved Chinese language and literature and economics major, I finally gave up the road of literature and was admitted to an economic college in the province to study financial accounting. There was a newspaper "Germination" in the school at that time. Apart from my major, I spent almost all my time writing and editing, and my literary dream began to sprout in the provincial capital. Spring gets rid of the entanglement of winter/walks happily in the fields/branches/valleys.
A famous writer at that time directed our newspaper. He made contributions to the front line of Laoshan Mountain, left his leg broken and devoted himself to the creation of prose and poetry. He read my work and suggested that I stay in the provincial capital to continue my development. We often discuss the topic of literature together and attend some literary salons. I am also eager to get the author's original works and go further on the literary road.
On the eve of graduation, I suddenly received a thick stack of letters from writer A. I couldn't help but beat my heart and opened the stationery on the empty roof. Reading this writer's handwriting, I was dumbfounded with excitement. That's a 16 page love letter. "With a broken pen/with you/along a winding path of life" At that time, my husband and I were madly in love for several years and were in a dilemma. A love letter wetted my wings, disrupting the rhythm of my rotation. I still gave up the superior development environment of the provincial capital, tied up the documents I had set out and put them at the bottom of the box to attend my husband's long-awaited wedding.
Twenty years later, we have a real estate, a car and traveled all over the country. Life has generously given me a rich life. And that once literary dream, always ups and downs in the dull days.
Standing on the wave of time and looking back at the endless years behind us, money and material have hollowed out people's spirit, so many people will cry emptiness with money. And those dreams have been jingling around us, popping up from time to time to disturb the comfort of reality. Nowadays, many people go hiking in Lhasa, live in isolated islands and stop at the frontier. Are they escaping from the irritability of life and looking for peace? I think they may have heard the voice of dreams, looking for the color of life.
I put aside my past impatience and suppressed my anxiety. I read my friends' books with a calm heart during the busy interval, and then talk to my friends about literature, writing and dreams that have lingered in my life. He encouraged me to write it down and let me send it to Jiangshan.
I said, "I missed the sowing season of my life."
The friend said humorously, "It's never too late, all the year round is the season of love".
I said, "My knowledge has fallen behind in these years."
He said; "You can pick it up."
I said, "Maybe I've been writing for several years and got nothing!"
He said, "Never mind so much, just write. Write one article in three days and write more than 20 articles a year/kloc-0. "
He went on to say, "I'll give you eight words: Mo Wen has a good harvest, but strives for hard work."
Yes! "Mo Wen gains, but strives to cultivate". I remember when I was a child, I harvested ears of grain like a wolf's tail. My mother can always sift out many chaff. She said, you can't plant one, but reap one.
Thanks to the encouragement of my friends, I can shuttle between work and life in this materialistic and colorful world, open up a quiet space and write my literature with flying pens.
This time, I didn't put my dream of literature on wings and soar in the blue sky, but planted it in the soft soil of life. Sowing dreams, life will have the direction of Beidou, and I am moved to harvest the shock she brought me when she broke out of the ground; Happily harvest her little leaves and the hope that the sun will synthesize green; Enjoy her thin roots to convey the nutrients of life and the wisdom of writing; Maybe one stormy morning, when I open the window, I can see the budding buds on the branches of my dreams and kiss her fragrance.
Perhaps after hard work and literary dreams, I finally didn't see her full of fruits, even a small towel gourd and a pod, but from that day on, I have been harvesting the hope of sowing, the touch of growth and the fragrance of blooming. At least I didn't let this fertile soil of life be barren and overgrown with weeds.
Tagore once wrote in Firefly Collection:
The fragrance of roses will gradually disappear, but I once bloomed. ...
There are no traces of birds in the sky, but I have flown.