this feeling is like a dream, mostly from childhood memories. When I was a child, I often felt inexplicable loneliness. When I came home after school, I always felt idle. At that time, I liked to sit by the window alone and listen to the sound of raindrops falling. The raindrops are bright and smooth, round and full, like pearls, falling from the blue-gray eaves, plopping, plopping, thumping, patiently and rhythmically knocking on the green slate in the alley. The bluestone tablet is like a guqin, uneven and many-hued, full of traces of years, full of vicissitudes of life and ancient texture. When it rains, I like to walk barefoot on the green flag, looking for the trail of raindrops-the tail.
According to the old man, the cloud is the home of rain, and rain is a group of naughty children. They accidentally lost their tails while playing in the sky, so they had no choice but to fall to the ground to look for their tails. I listened to an eye-opener, and I was obsessed with finding the tail of raindrops. Raindrops hit the slate, and the slate whined. If this is a piece of music, it is a bit boring and monotonous, but I can always hear happiness and excitement from it. Perhaps I have regarded her as a fairy tale.
from the fairy tale of rain, I vaguely heard the joys and sorrows of the green slate, the ups and downs of the alley, and the shallow singing of the old ancestral hall.
There is an old ancestral temple at the end of the alley, and I often play in it. In the dilapidated courtyard of the old ancestral temple, there is a small bamboo forest. The breeze is a flute that whimpers through the bamboo forest. On a cool summer night, the moonlight is like water, and the bamboo shadows in one place are like ghosts, ghosts and many-hued, with myriad shapes. Under the bamboo shadow, there is a clear spring, and the gurgling spring is the tears of the earth, which gushes day and night, silently and endlessly. Around the spring, people built a low dam with bricks and built a shallow weir pool. The water in the weir pond is sweet and delicious, clear and transparent, and the moon can be seen walking on the weir pond at night when the wind is clear and the clouds are light. In the dead of night, you can hear the moonlight falling to the bottom of the pool.
when it rains, I like to go to the weir and listen to the sound of rain dripping on the weir.
The water surface of the weir pond is like a mirror. It was originally bright and clean, and raindrops fell. In an instant, the mirror was fragmented, which made me sad. Coils of water ripples from the center of the pool to the shore-that is a silent struggle after the mirror is broken. The rain drops on the weir pool, and the sound is particularly soft and delicate. Just like Delighting in Rain on a Spring Night, there is a poetic feeling that "it is good to know the season when it rains, and it moistens things silently". After a short period of calm, the weir pond continued to fight. The splashing water was like small pearls, which fell on the water in an instant and disappeared in an instant. People couldn't help but think of the splendor and brevity of fireworks decorating the night sky.
when I was a child, I always thought that I could see the tail of the rain by the pool. Even if I couldn't see it, I could go barefoot and grope for it. When the rain stopped and the wind calmed down, I saw only a few withered bamboo leaves floating under the clear water. The gurgling spring still flows, but the tail of the rain is gone. I once speculated that the tail of the rain might have gone to the underground palace along the spring. There is a dragon king under the underground palace. The dragon king can call the wind and call the rain. It should be his prank when it rains, not the rain drops falling off their tails. This unprovoked reverie once filled my brain sky and accompanied me through the moonlight meadow under the childhood forest.
Later, I went to school, grew up, and left home, and I no longer had the leisure to listen to the rain. Sometimes when I go home, I come and go in a hurry, and I stop for a short time and go on the road in a hurry. Now I think that I don't want to listen to the rain, but I can't find the feeling of listening to the rain that year. Last year, when I came home, I listened to the window for more than ten minutes. The rain was pouring down, and the columns of rain on the eaves poured down like a waterfall, rumbling like Ma Benteng. It suddenly occurred to me that it had been raining these days when I went home, and I immediately had an ominous premonition, as if a child would frown when he saw a doctor with a mask. At that time, my mother was beside me, silently looking out of the window. I don't know when, she began to talk to herself, lamenting that there was too much rain in that year, and she was going to hardrain again. In another hour or two, maybe she could punt through the alley. I echoed a few words, and suddenly I felt that the rain was redundant, and the sound of raindrops was noisy and uninteresting.
now that I think about it, it was absurd to go home to listen to the rain last year. The rain was still the rain of that year, but people are now. Therefore, I can't hear the charm of the rain falling on the pond in those years, so I have to look for the feeling of listening to the rain in those years from my poetry and prose. In the dead of night, I like to sit alone in front of the desk lamp, make a cup of tea, and read some beautiful poems and essays in the dim light. In the world outside the window, there are many tall buildings, the traffic is woven, and the reinforced concrete skeleton makes the sky so low and humble; In the hut in the window, Yi Deng is like a bean, and the tea is fragrant, ticking, ticking, ticking, and the alarm clock is moving rhythmically. Under the dim light, the black and shiny type seems to be crystal clear raindrops, which fall on the slightly yellowed wood pulp paper in a neat and orderly way. Slightly disordered creases on the paper are just like the ripples after the rain fell on the weir pool; The rustling of the pages is vaguely the echo of the rain knocking on the green flag in the alley.
The feeling of listening to the rain in the text makes up for my loss of nostalgia in listening to the rain to some extent, and it also leaves me some new regrets invisibly. Taste slowly, the raindrops in Wenshan poetry sea, I always seem to be able to hear them with my heart, but I can never touch them with my hands, even if they are small drops. Xi Murong's "If it rains after rain", I just found "an impossible you after parting"-childhood memory; The raindrops in Ye Zhi's "Willow Garden" mostly fall in the love fairy tales of ignorant youth. My brother has long passed the age of first love and will not walk into the rain and daydream; In Yu Guangzhong's Listen to the Cold Rain, the words describing the sound are powerful enough to soak the back of the paper, but they are always just a misty Chinese painting, looking at the mountains from a distance and listening to the rain silently. Perhaps the most interesting thing is "Rain is the Landscape Tree of the Soul" written by an anonymous poet, which is a bit naive. It's interesting to read:
Listening to the rain
Even if there is only one drop in a scene
The Buddha said that a flower is a world
I said that a rain is a bodhi
Believe it or not
Anyway, I believe
The road is an impassable grave
Open your mouth to swallow the clouds
The rain falls and flowers bloom
A wind forms. "Rain is the landscape tree of the soul" is really a stroke of genius. "At that time, I can listen to the breeze and rain as drunk as a crisp", and chew this sentence repeatedly, sometimes happy and sometimes confused. In the dead of night, I was suddenly enlightened in front of the desk lamp, and suddenly I was enlightened.
Maybe one day, when I am old, gray-headed and sleepy, I often take a nap by the fire. At that time, if there was a quiet place and I had to spend a few days in my life, maybe I could really find the feeling of listening to the rain. Listening to the rain needs a little weakness, a little time, and more importantly, a half-hearted and carefree heart. Without that calmness and calmness, there should be no elegance in listening to the rain, and you should not recognize the melody and charm in the rain. Rhyme in the rain, rain in the heart, listen to the rain attentively, rain falls without trace, therefore, rain is the landscape tree of the soul.
life is like a blink of an eye, and it comes and goes in a hurry. Nowadays, in the drifting years, on the tired face, it is rare to have the elegance, calmness and calmness of listening to the rain. This is the case in the times, and so am I.
When I came home this summer vacation, when I was in the old ancestral hall, I was faced with a lot of broken bricks and tiles, and the good memories that had just surged in my heart suddenly disappeared. In a trance, I seem to see a bamboo forest. The breeze is blowing, and the bamboo forest is sobbing. I look up, and the rain is densely woven into silk, ethereal as smoke, dreamy and clear. Another gust of wind blew, the wind blew a thousand lines of rain, and the rain hit the bamboo leaves without trace. I walked in the quiet bamboo forest and couldn't tell whether it was rain or wind, whether it was real or unreal. With the breeze, a drop of rain drops fell in the bamboo forest, playing the deep flute, rippling the green charm and chanting the praise of the soul.
at that moment, a long-lost feeling came to my mind, and some lonely and boring words suddenly appeared in my heart. When I lifted my pen, it still rained in the bamboo forest and rustled in my ears.
"I've always hoped for a clean place. Deep in the bamboo forest, there is a small courtyard with several evergreen trees planted in it ..."