The wind is blowing, and the wind is like a soldier who returns home triumphantly from a distant battlefield, holding a flag and stopping in the field. The wind blows trees, the grass moves wheat yellow, cicadas sing and birds sing. The wind let go of his throat, as if he could not hold back the secret words hidden in his heart for a long time. The sound goes through the wheat waves, through Shao Lin, through his hometown and through the distant mountains.
As if the wheat was ripe overnight, they understood the metaphor of the wind. Once this metaphor is solved, it is like a hearty dream, and the dark green wheat field is dyed into a golden stage by the wind.
Mother walked into the center of the stage with a sickle in her hand. For decades, she has been bowing to the earth and standing in the agricultural center in the posture of plowing. The wheat waves fluctuate in the wind, and the golden curve fluctuates, extending to the distance with the mother's rhythmic sickle. A string of sweat, big drops from the mother's head, smashed into the wheat field. Dry wheat field, open chapped lips, greedily suck the sweat from mother's head. I believe there are many salty and light salt particles in it. I also believe that day after day, year after year, my mother, who lives a lively life with the attitude of labor, will definitely shine with diamonds, food and labor with the salt oozing from her back. The blue sky is speechless and the white clouds are affectionate. They stared at the sky intently, and a rural woman helmsman was driving a sickle to the depths of the wheat field.
Golden wheat, bronze texture, thick, vigorous and strong. Mother is holding bundles of wheat in her arms. Now, this child who was once nursed in infancy has matured. Maybe it's the heaviness of the ears of wheat, longing for the tenderness of the mother's shoulders. They fell on their mother's shoulders, and the wheat awn was like a harp, fiddling with her cocoon-forming fingers, making a crisp sound, dry but powerful. Mother doesn't know music, but her soft heart only knows frogs, birds, dogs, cows, Ma Si, pigs and sheep. This common sound does not have the beautiful melody played by expensive instrumental music in the golden hall, nor does it command and lead players familiar with the rules of music to express their feelings collectively. It is these sweet voices that surround my mother and have been singing for most of my life in the cycle of years. As the mother grows older, these voices are getting louder. Only the sound of crops jointing, peas bursting, wheat breaking out of its shell under the scorching sun, and livestock producing young creatures are young and fresh. It is these voices that, like handfuls of candy, are sprinkled into her aging heart and into her figure gradually dwarfed by agriculture, which makes her mother's heart stable, warm and gratified without too many distractions.
Mother's back is like a bow, sweat is like an arrow, and an arrow shoots down the sunset. In agricultural Fiona Fang, from morning till dusk, she never resented or cared. She carried the morning light and bid farewell to the sunset, always carrying a granary in her heart. These sweat, or these salt grains, are marinated in the spring and autumn of the family in the agricultural tribe bit by bit. When spring goes, the ears of wheat blossom; Qiu Lai, smelling of wheat, drifted across the fields and entered her mother's pure heart.
The evening breeze is blowing, and my mother is tired. Sitting on the ridge, I saw the sweat stains on her back draw clouds on her undershirt. White sweat stains, black dead leaves of wheat straw and yellow soil dyed her undershirt into an ink painting. The afterglow of the sunset sprinkled on my mother who was sitting quietly, and the time was very quiet. I think my mother is like a Buddha, calm and detached. An unspeakable aura makes me afraid to speak. I sat behind my mother and watched the evening breeze blow her sparse hair. The sunset glow is as gorgeous as brocade, and mother's hair is as golden as a layer of frost. I suddenly have an impulse to cry.
Mother said, go home, let's pinch a handful of wheat and take it home. After several dry ears of wheat were broken off by their mother, they gently rubbed in their palms, then spread their palms out and breathed a sigh of relief. The golden shell spins like a gold foil and a bird. Suddenly, under the setting sun, golden birds are flying in the wheat field.
Agriculture is the coordinate of mother's life. Children, crops, vegetables and livestock are punctuation marks distributed in different positions in this coordinate. Along this coordinate, she set out from Zhuangkuo in the morning and took us to the wheat field to learn about the joys and sorrows of agriculture, an ancient book and the coordinates of life. It took me more than 30 years to understand what posture can reach the depths of happiness. These are the proverbs of life that my mother taught me when she stood in the middle of the wheat field and bent down to pull out the seedlings in the afternoon.
Now, I am like a husked wheat, riding the distant wind, far away from home, far away from my mother, far away from the field, falling into a strange land, looking for a place where my soul can live freely. Now, I am also farming in the city, but my field is on the square paper with Tang poetry and Song poetry flowing, and my sweat drips on the keyboard produced by the city assembly line. Spread out a blank sheet of paper, and there will be a large area of snow in my hometown; Drop a drop of blue ink, and my hometown will have a blue sky; At the click of a button, I can find a clear sand spring by the river in my hometown. Blue ink dripped on the white paper, and I saw my mother's blue headscarf gradually disappearing into the depths of the wheat wave. Words flashed on the computer screen, and I felt the power of my mother waving a sickle at the straw.
Many nights, when I drew a full stop on the paper and keyboard, I silently recited the scene of my mother standing in the middle of the wheat field, wearing a straw hat and waving her arms to wipe the sweat.
Oh, dear mother, you gave us a wheat field. Did you say that? Sow a seed in spring and harvest 10 thousand millet in autumn? . In spring, we always have to plant something, otherwise, when the autumn wind blows to test the years we have passed, we will stand in the corner of the wheat field and cannot draw a satisfactory full stop. Looking around at the empty space, I felt rather disappointed and ashamed of the seeds that my mother had given us when she left.
Prose praising maternal love: My mother two years ago, I took my parents from a distant hometown to live in the city where I worked for several months. Considering that it is not easy for 60-year-old parents to go out for a long trip, my sister and I, who work in Shenzhen, each bought a gold ring for our parents. Three months later, my father heard that my grandmother was ill and was anxious to go home.
A few days before I went home, I took my mother to the mall to buy clothes for her. I chose a brand-name silk dress suitable for her age and asked her to try it on. My mother didn't try it on. She said it was too expensive, and it would definitely not look good on her. I said that money is secondary, and the key is to make you dress in style, young and comfortable. Mom doesn't try. The employees in the shopping mall saw through the mother's contradictory ideas and strongly recommended this dress, saying that it suits her age and skin and must be worn younger. Several old people the same age as her mother bought it the other day. I stood aside and tried to impress my mother by agreeing with the salesman.
Mother had to obey. In that dress, my mother looks decent and energetic, much better than before. I said yes, I'll take it. Just as I was about to pay, my mother said, wait, this is good. Let me try it on. Soon, she picked up a gray old-fashioned dress next to the hanger and went to the fitting room. She looked happy when she came out. Touch here and pull there, like a child, and the inner joy is beyond words. When I looked at the price, it was a bargain at a discount, less than 100 yuan. I stopped my mother from wearing the clothes she chose. She stubbornly said, I want this. I like it. I don't feel comfortable wearing that one just now.
I refused and said angrily: People want to dress themselves as young as possible, but you dress yourself as old as possible. After listening to my words, my mother was disappointed and didn't speak. Finally, I bought her that brand-name silk T-shirt with more than 300 yuan.
On the way home, my mother complained that I was too wasteful. I kept muttering: I am old, and I only have one old bones left. What should I wear? She kept saying this, and I said impatiently: I have worked hard for most of my life, so enjoy it if you should. What is money? Mother was speechless.
The next day, I went to work. After work, I found that the skirt I bought for my mother was gone and replaced with the cheap one she picked out yesterday. I asked, mom, did you buy clothes again? Mom said, I returned that dress. I didn't sleep well last night. 300 yuan can be worth hundreds of kilograms of grain and can buy dozens of barrels of oil. I used the rest of the money to buy a pair of pants for your brother in your hometown. It is difficult for him to farm. I said angrily, you always do. I will buy clothes for my brother.
Maybe I have a strong tone. My mother gave a long sigh, hesitated, and then turned around at once. The night before my parents left, I went to the mall alone and bought the original dress. At night, I quietly put it in their suitcase while my mother was resting.
Shortly after my parents returned to China, I received a money order from my father in 400 yuan, which puzzled me. I called my father to ask what happened. Father said: This is the pocket money your mother usually saves. Your mother said that although you don't have much money, you can buy more bricks when you buy a house together, so it won't be too hard economically. I asked, is mom wearing that dress now? Father said: she can't bear to wear it when she goes back. Your mother is still crying, if you don't listen to her. She still wears the clothes of her choice. This child, in fact, you don't understand your mother's heart. What she likes is the best.
Loss, guilt, self-blame and anxiety haunt me like vines, and I suddenly understand that we really don't understand our mother's heart. It turns out that our self-righteous love is a burden and a torment for our mother. Maternal love is stubborn and ordinary, but this ordinary feeling will have all kinds of crystals, like a grain of salt, but because of love, it may be more precious than diamonds. Because the gestation process of a grain of salt is actually longer than making a diamond. Although it only melted on the tip of the tongue for a second.
Conceited friends in the world of mortals, if you love your mother, please respect her choice. Love is not how much you pay, but how much you respect. Giving is only the carrier of love, and respect is the soul of love!
Prose praising maternal love: My mother 3 There is a silent thing around you, which may be as plain as boiling water, without the enthusiasm of roses and the joy of birds chasing in the forest. You may not realize it, just like air. When you discover its mystery, you will be glad that you have been reborn; But when you ignore it and finally lose it, you will feel the pain of insect bite and the regret of suffocation. It is love, or rather, it is the love of parents.
In life, we all take our mother's love for granted, and our mother's busyness is also regarded as a habitual action.
I believe many people have never seen my mother sleeping, even if it is only a short time. Xiao Qiulin in the article read the selflessness and greatness of maternal love from her mother's sleeping position. Mother was lying naked in the bathtub, her head drooping on her chest and a wet towel in her arms? She fell asleep unconsciously in the shower? She's so tired.
Just as beauty is everywhere in life, so is maternal love. The key is whether you can understand it or not. Mother is a great woman. She can work hard for her daughter. She loves you very much, but she won't say it. No matter where you go, her eyes will always be on you. She will never abandon you, no matter how depressed or sad you are. She will do everything for you, even if such efforts may not get any return.
Some people say: maternal love is a lamp that illuminates the road ahead in the dark; Motherly love is a poem that warms the longing heart in the cold; Motherly love is the wind in summer, the sun in winter, the rain in spring and the fruit in autumn. No one can measure how long the road is under maternal love.
Perhaps it can be said that how deep a mother's love is, how long the road under her feet is, and it has been laid in the warmest place in our children's hearts from the beginning.