Life in the countryside is peaceful. It is not as bustling and noisy as the city. It is peaceful and comfortable. Below are three essays on rural life that I have compiled and collected. Welcome to read! Countryside and Soil
Shortly after the Spring Festival, the leaves of the kumquats, white chrysanthemums, and yellow chrysanthemums I bought before the festival became wilted and yellowed, losing their previous shiny color. I went to the flower shop and bought a lot of flower fertilizer, but it didn't turn green again, but I couldn't bear to throw it away. One day, I met a cleaner pulling a cart of flower pots in the underground garage. Coincidentally, the flowers and trees on his car were also in the same decay as the three pots on my balcony. When I asked what was going on, the old man said that these were all thrown by the residents upstairs in the community by the trash can. I asked if these flowers can be saved? He said yes. Replace the flowerpot with good soil. Oh, when I opened the three pots of flowers in my house and took a look, there was a layer of sand on the top and all the coal below. The roots hang diagonally on the coal ballast, like thin white worms, withered and yellow. I understand, it is not soil, it cannot hold fertilizer and water.
So I took a plastic bag and looked for soil around the community, but there were cement floors everywhere. I thought there would be soil under the big trees. However, the roots of many large trees are partially surrounded by cement, leaving only a little gap for the roots to entangle. In the end I found no soil. Suddenly my heart felt as hard as sand and soot - I thought it was so difficult to find a bag of soil to save flowers and plants?
Later, I drove far outside the city to a vegetable field contracted by farmers in other places. I explained my purpose, and he smiled: "This is a countryside, and there is plenty of soil. I'll dig it for you." He stopped cutting vegetables and put a lot of soil into my bag. The moist and shiny soil, the wrinkled face, and the blue-veined hands reminded me of my father and brothers in the village, and that when I was a child, I dug soil handful by handful along with the seasons.
When I replaced the three flower pots on the balcony with new soil, I felt an inexplicable sadness in my heart. I was so far away from the soil. I left the crops and lived in the gray net of the city, and I was alienated from the countryside. Now the pot of kumquats is filled with pink and white flowers among the branches and leaves, and the fragrance is lingering. Dotted between the leaves is a small kumquat that has fallen in late winter, shining with bright golden light. The pot of chrysanthemums only produced a few very beautiful pink and purple chrysanthemums. This unexpected harvest is all because of the fresh soil. It also attracted a gray sparrow, which came to look for food among the branches and leaves in the early morning. I'm always afraid that it will hurt the fruit or the flower by jumping up and down and pecking at it. It never hurt. I just finished eating the small pile of rice grains I put beside the basin, and then flew away quietly. I can only watch it from a distance through the glass window. If there is the slightest noise, it will fly away. This is the first time in many years that I have looked so closely at a bird. Perhaps it came because it saw the fruits and flowers grown on the soil here. But soon it stopped coming. The rice grains I put there every day were still there. I always hoped that it would come, but it never came again. Yes, this must be just a city, a balcony several feet long on the ninth floor, not a field! The bird's home is the sky, trees, and fields, not tall buildings.
I unconsciously thought of the birds in my childhood village again. The village was a nest calling for birds, and the seasons changed with different melodies in the songs of the birds. Whenever the trees are full of elm money in April, every family picks elm money and steams it to eat. At that time, the birds are blooming like flowers on the tree. I wonder why they don’t eat the sweet elm money. My mother said that these birds are not Earn food from others. Every time in May, when the locust trees are full of fragrant flowers and the whole village is enveloped in a layer of sweet mist, the locust trees are also filled with the bright sounds of birds. I wonder why the birds don’t eat them. What about the bunches of pink and tender locust flowers? Mother said that birds love flowers, but they don’t eat them. This may just be some unintentional words from the mother to coax the child. But I still believed her later. There is a bird's nest on the eaves of my hometown. In spring, summer, autumn and winter, swallows live as busy lives as farmers. It flies around every day, making nests in mud, catching insects and feeding its young, and shuttles through the wilderness of the sky and sky. Living like this year after year, the swallows know that the eaves of the village are their home, because the village is peaceful, and the soil on which it builds its home is in the village. The swallow knows that only in the village can there be blossoming trees and its nest.
The village is also an old house for children and the elderly, a place where stories and songs are told. I remember when we, a group of wild children, were running wildly and playing in the green wheat field, the old woman who was the best at chanting Buddha in the village would coax us out of the wheat field one by one. Tell us some stories about the village, the civet, the wolf, and the fairy. When we were fascinated, she sang her song in the most gentle voice: Baby, baby, please stop, your good legs will not touch the fields. You should walk lightly, as it will hurt when you step on the fields. "In the next few days, we wild monkeys forgot her teachings and jumped three feet high. When my father didn't like me and ran around and slapped our buttocks, it was the old woman who came to try to persuade me, with words popping up in our mouths. One sentence: If the baby doesn't stop, he will get sick. So the adults stopped, and we disappeared all of a sudden.
The village is like a pile of old soil, growing in the hearts of the elderly. The old people were born here, grew up here, and will be as old as here. They hold cattail fans in their hands, wave away the clouds and smoke of the floating world, and caress the gentle breaths of cats, dogs, cattle and sheep, with a kind of indifference that the world cannot disturb. Watching life, reminiscing about the mottled life. They watched countless young people grow up and become a wisp of wind and a plant wandering in a foreign city.
When I left the village to pursue my dream, I, like those people, forgot that I was a bird in the village. Half of my wings fell on the branches of the village, and I only used the other half to fly. Only the villagers and the elderly, in the tranquil dusk, listened attentively to the wind and smoke, the gentle sounds of the crops and the land. Watching the wild geese flying through the autumn, slowly getting thinner and older.
The village is the warmest sunshine. Many times, when we are in the city, we are as single-minded as a bean and as lonely as the rain. My heart will be moist and gently light up with a wisp of nostalgia, silently wiping the name of my village - making me think back to the village and the sunshine. I think of my father's eyes caressing the growing crops in the sunshine, of my mother trimming leaves with scissors and forking out the beautiful cotton of various colors, of my mother's spinning wheel spinning out the first base. I put on the tampons and thought about my mother’s sweet smile after putting on the New Year’s new clothes. So that spring, what seemed to fill the village was not the fragrance of flowers, but the smell of maternal love. And my father and mother, regardless of the year, always work in the corner, drying vegetable seeds and cotton seeds according to the seasons. As soon as summer comes, bags of grain are moved from high places to the ground, and then carried to the drying ground. At this time, the open spaces of every household were filled with pieces of grain to be dried. Women and children bent over with their bare feet and focused on picking out the bugs in the grain, and then threw them to the chickens and birds waiting patiently aside. This is when the sky is the brightest and the village is the most fragrant, because the village is collecting the light of early summer. The men were repairing various farm tools under the shade of the trees, or smoking a bag of cigarettes and thinking about firewood, rice, oil and salt. At this time, you will feel that the men and women in these villages are the soybeans, sorghum and corn that can walk in the fields, and they are the hoe and plow palladium taking a rest after working hard on the soil. People leaned next to the food, letting the sun caress away the wind and frost that had fallen on their hearts over time, and stir up the enthusiasm and laughter in their hearts.
One day, facing the loneliness of wandering, I wrote in a poem: I am not suitable for wandering, but I chose the distance with a wandering posture. At that moment, looking at the sadness written on the paper, I realized that I was a bird flying away from the village, but my heart could never fly out of the village.
Yes, I was originally a child picking wheat ears in a gentle village, but now I am running in a hard city. The city has too many feet and has trampled too many footprints. I am a bird that has landed in the city. Far away from the mountains, misty clouds, and morning frost, far away from the setting sun; far away from the foggy grass and field trees; far away from my village. I am like the flowers and plants on my balcony, living on a high balcony far away from the soil, very close to the noisy and scorching sunshine of the city, and far away from the gentle and peaceful soil. They are on high buildings and can never hear the warm voices of the wind, the land and crops, or feel the happiness of bees and butterflies flying over their shoulders.
One day, when my wife was scolding my son for not knowing how to do laundry in front of the buzzing washing machine, I pulled him aside and told him: When I was his age, I was Kneeling next to my mother, in the quiet river, my mother taught me to wash and beat my clothes. In order to repay my mother, I would go up to a taller honey locust tree and pick off a lot of laundry for her. Honey locust. I know the reed pond by the river. But my son is a child of this city. His heart is too far away from the village and too close to the city. He rarely listened attentively to my talk about the village's smoke and the slanting evening light, just as I told him about chickens, pawns, and roller coasters. There was an innate alienation from him. One day I told him that the village and the soil are my true nature, my home. Your dreams can always be in the city, but my life will always be in the village. But the roots of our lives are all in the village—because all corn, wheat, and sorghum will always grow in the village.
I often walk outside the city alone to see the villages in the south. Although it is not the village of my childhood, the paddy fields, fishing ponds and river branches are so vivid and friendly. I always think like this: What can really make my dreams bright is my village, and what can really make our lives peaceful is my village.
When I am tired of flying in the city like a bird, I can never find a stable big tree in the eyes of the city that is too crowded, noisy and restless, just like in this scorching city. In this hot city, I can't find a piece of snow or a beautiful buckwheat tree. When I was a child, I was carrying my schoolbag and flying home like a happy bird from the deep alley between the high earth walls in the village. My hands slid all the way along the wall, letting the dirt cover my palms until own door. Oh, how safe and gentle it was. Because I can find my home by touching the soil.
Oh, my village, and the dirt in my heart, it is the deepest attachment in my heart. Countryside smoke
In the morning, the roosters put on their pants early and flapped their wings to welcome the arrival of the sun. With a cry of ooh, it rolled like a gong in the countryside. In fact, the first thing that greeted it was not the rays of the sun, but the smoke flying over the countryside. In the countryside, the first to rise are the hard-working and simple villagers. Their hands tug at the thread of life, the hands of family affection, the arms of hospitality, the sleeves of happiness, and what they pull out is the most spectacular, complex, and warm scenery. And that smoke is the signal of life they send out.
Cooking smoke is a group of boneless animals, good at expressing happiness, warmth, enthusiasm, joy and other emotions.
They are like clear water, gurgling out from the cracks of tiles, doors, windows, and chimneys, unstoppable and full of passion. Once entering the sky, it is like cattle and sheep entering the open grassland and galloping freely. It is also like running water rushing into a wide ocean, rushing freely. Flying, running, and dancing in the sky. Tear happiness into pieces of flags, twist warmth into ropes, fly enthusiasm into kites, twist joy into dances, vivid, beautiful and bold. My hometown, Niangyuan, in western Hubei, once experienced the most severe famine. That famine is a ruthless sword that cuts through the smoke from the countryside. The countryside without cooking smoke is reduced to a silent mountain rock, and desolation fills the entire valley, creating a state of depression. And as long as the smoke is alive, the countryside is a vivid picture.
The smokers are also a bunch of kids. Initially they were raised in various households. But once they were in the air, they became entangled together, and it was hard to tell which one was yours and which one was mine. Then, they are like the mountain babies raised in the mountains of western Hubei, raised by corn, potato, and red potato. They have the enthusiasm of a lamb and the wildness of a calf, playing hide-and-seek and playing house, chasing, shouting, and playing. . The shoes were gone, the braids were scattered, and the buttons were torn off, but they still laughed, shouted, chased, and made trouble. Paint the future of the countryside into a blue sky.
The smoke is also a group of dancing girls. I am infatuated with the tenderness of the wind, yearn for the open stage, and have the glue-like power of unity. In that sky as pure as a filter, the most beautiful body dances the most beautiful dance, dancing with thousands of styles and dancing with an unyielding soul. But those bright eyes and tenacious heart will always soar upward toward the blue sky and white clouds, forever.
Cooking smoke is the music of life. It composes the sumptuous meal on the plate and sings the praise of the harvest. As long as there is smoke from the kitchen, the housewives' hands are busy like a pair of fluttering butterflies, picking vegetables from the field, scooping rice from the jar, cutting, washing and scouring the meat from the kang. Either steam, boil, stir-fry, stew, fry or bake. Cabbage, radish, pepper, eggplant, pumpkin, tofu, bacon, etc. opened their colorful mouths and started singing together. The basins, bowls, shovels, ladles, and spoons all lit up their throats and began to perform non-stop. I was busy until a table of food was served, and what was on it was shining family affection, love, enthusiasm and happiness. What is chewed and drank in the mouth is the shining hard work, delicious food, hospitality and sweetness. And the hand of life is the never-ending water wheel, which keeps turning, caressing the four seasons of the countryside, moving the sun, moon and stars, the pigs roaming freely in the pen, the chickens raised in the pen, the animals swimming in the river. The moving ducks, the cheerful fish in the pond, the sheep grazing on the slopes, and the grain in the barn have become the staff of life, and the eternal songs of the countryside ensure the continuous smoke from the kitchen. As long as the fireworks in the world continue, life will continue to flourish, and life will continue to flow. Listening to the rain in the countryside
In the land of Jianghuai, if things go on like this, whenever summer comes, the rain always comes so quickly and so steeply. Suddenly there are a few lightning strikes, then a gust of wind, and suddenly a light drizzle. Before you have time to prepare, the pouring rain has already drenched you into a drowned rat.
In the early morning, the weeping willows on the bank of Gaoyou Lake were motionless, the lake was as calm as a mirror, and even the smoke from farmhouses seemed to have stopped rising. The Lover's Bridge on the Baita River is like a black-and-white silent film thrown outside of time, making people feel Zen-like and quiet. The rain will definitely use her destructive anger to break this scene, this Zen, this atmosphere, and cleanse the worldly customs of the whole village. I was hiding in my parents' old tile house, and the only scenery I could see was bead-like water curtains and the vast rain and mist all over the countryside. Drop, drop, ding, ding, ding, dong, the raindrops are beating, jumping and singing on the clear tiles of the roof and in the gutters under the eaves, one after another, with highs and lows. When we finally stopped, the fields were fresh, with trickling creeks, rushing water, jumping fish, and singing roosters. At this moment, the clear Chuanqiao River and the countryside regained its unique vitality and vitality. vitality. What is unforgettable is the rainbow after the rain. At this moment, it will give you a fresh world.
Scenes like this are rare after all. You will rush out of the hut, admire the pomegranate flowers in the old yard, step on the mud, under the Rouge Mountain where the jasmine flowers bloom, in the Yicao Lake Park where the azaleas bloom, and affectionately embrace the weeping willows by the Baita River. Maybe some poetic words will surge in your chest, and you will chant them loudly to the sunshine. Listen to the rain, hear the tiled houses from thatched huts, hear the small towns from the countryside, hear the middle-aged from the teenagers, in the yacht, the lake is wide and the clouds are low. Those thin and dense raindrops flowed through the backbone of the thatch and through the heart of the green tiles, moistening the countryside bit by bit along the way.
Listen to the rain, on the field ridge where the rain is falling continuously. The song of the cuckoo wakes up the sleeping land; the father's shouting invigorates the spirit of the buffalo; frogs chirp everywhere in the green rice fields; the rain plays the chorus of the Jianghuai land. Listening to the rain, under the eaves of the torrential rain, the scent of jasmine lingers in the countryside, and the active creek carries the cheerful fish on their journey.
Listening to the rain, gently opening the door of the season in the dense rain forest, even if you can reach out to brush away the white rain falling on your shoulders, you can't brush away the white frost on your temples...