Loofah vine aesthetic experiment
was five early summer day, my great aunt's house to play. My aunt was making a fire and cooking, I lay on the bamboo lounger and looked at the loofah vines in front of me. The loofah vines leaned down and looked at me curiously. The leaves and flower bones on the vines shook gently in the wind. Several vines were very close to me. They were fascinated by me. When I wanted to touch my face, the vine leaves trembled next to my face as soon as I breathed. I looked at them for a while, then turned my head and went into the dream, and they stood outside the dream and looked at me steadily.
After sleeping for hundreds of years, my ears were slightly torn, and the loofah vines trembled. When I touched my ears, it was cold and crispy, a little itchy, but when I stretched out my hand, I took off a tender and curved section. Qingsi, looking at the loofah vine again, the tentacles hanging near the recliner have been torn off and are still trembling.
It turned out that when I was asleep, the loofah vine hanging in the air that was carefully exploring the way approached me quietly. It pulled out its delicate tentacles and gently twisted it around my helix, preparing to make my ears a loofah. The foothold of the vine has become a summer stop, a plank road, and a part of the plant dream. If the test is successful, I am sure that my ears are reliable, and these loofah vines that have come all the way from the Song Dynasty or even more distant years will be connected. In my body, I have a few loofah flowers near my ears, and hang at least one or two emerald-like loofahs. In this way, this desolate ear, which has nothing to grow or grow in a single inch of grass, will not have to feed on lies or nonsense in the future. Make ornaments with gold and gems.
However, I was too reckless. I tore off the delicate screws of the loofah vine, which was more delicate than my dream, and interrupted this most beautiful experiment in early summer.
The loofah vine's experiment failed. It stood trembling uncomfortably, and the warm and sincere hand that finally reached out was rejected, it was blindfolded, silly, and it was at a loss.
Under the childhood sky, the disappointment and sadness of the loofah tremble.
However, the fragrant tentacles of the aunt’s loofah vines took root in my heart when I slept on the recliner in the small farmyard.
Yes, I have been thinking: Our body, including our ears, eyes, nose, arms, and various parts of our body, all added together, weighs only one hundred kilograms, and God will take this one hundred kilograms. Entrusted to us for temporary storage, and eventually recovered all, without leaving an inch, what is the deep meaning in the meantime?
Thinking carefully, the tentacles of the loofah vines in the little yard of the aunt’s house that summer seemed to suggest to me:
we are only the connecting points of the gaze as large as the stars in the universe, the smallest gaze like love, and the delicate tentacles of the loofah vine. , Sensation points, stop points and small inns, the value of our existence is simply to connect those who are waiting to be connected, those who are sensible and those who are waiting to be sensible, and those who are waiting to be transmitted, making it as large as the stars in the universe and as small as love. The gaze and the delicate tentacles of the loofah vines come here, dock, connect, and pass, letting the vines of time exude a sweet fragrance.
Gourd vine romantic getaway
it from my father's hand and footprints in the warm, easy to read from his father's a farmer's proverb says, the journey.
There is no need to search for dry intestines, the abdomen draft is already written. It thinks as it walks, and it must put some of its thoughts at a higher level.
It's not how important I am. There are so many seedlings, grass, branches, leaves, vines, vines and vines on the ground. As for me, my little one is not important at all. However, very unimportant people also have very important things on their minds. What's more, it's not all pretending to be its own business in its heart. It's spring, summer, autumn. To be more serious is a matter of thousands of years.
Thinking about it this way, it walked slowly along a row of fences. The morning glory vine leaves playing on the fence kept it to stop and rest, and asked if it could swap the cups tonight and taste the nectar cooked by the other party. Of course this is fine. It stopped, shook hands with the morning glory vine leaves, clinked glasses, and drank the nectar poured by the other party. It did not stay overnight and continued on its way. It muttered: We must put some thoughts on a higher level.
On the other side of the fence, where Du Fu and neighboring Weng once had a drink, some broom seedlings that hadn't grown tall and didn't have the strength to hold the broom, fell affectionately on their arms, persuading them to stay and have fun, and wait for autumn to come. , Clean up the autumn together lively. Haha, I have to hurry, if I curl up here to play, and the autumn is empty, what shall I clean with a broom? It was muttering, we must put some thoughts on a higher place.
Walking, walking, it is almost next to my mother's clothesline in the courtyard-hemp rope, off-white; brown rope, dark brown. The ropes were stretched four or five side by side. The stretches were all about mom's thoughts, and the clothes were all missed. There were quilts, patched clothes, and children's diapers. It smells of the world. It smells so good. The faint breath of the diaper, but it smelled real. It took two deep breaths. It was excited and tried hard, and the tentacles were next to the rope. It quickly wrapped a few times, tightened the screw, tied a knot on the rope, stood firm, and then continued to walk, walk, and walk. It saw a wooden lattice window on the wall near the locust tree on which the clothesline was stretched.
It was muttering, we must put some of our thoughts on a higher level.
I walked about as far away as thousands of Tang poems. At noon that day, my mother who came out to dry the clothes saw it, and my dad who was digging green onions in the vegetable garden saw it. The swallows in the bird’s nest under the eaves saw it. My black cat saw it. I saw it when I came back from school. The sister combing her hair in the wooden lattice window opened the window and saw it: two gourds, one on the left and one on the right, have been hung up. It happened to be outside the window, near the dream, and hung side by side on the window with the white moon in the first half of the night.
It finally put some of its thoughts on a higher place.
People have asked for thousands of years: What medicine is in the gourd? In fact, there is nothing else in the gourd, the gourd is still the gourd, the gourd of the last thousand years and the gourd of the next thousand years. Calabash is unintentional, and unintentional is exactly the intention, which is the original heart, poetic heart, original heart, and innocent heart. Thousands of thoughts are packed inside. From ancient times, from the depths of the lunar calendar, a vine has been winding around and walking around, walking through the history of threading, after thousands of generations of fathers’ fences, morning glory, broom seedlings, mother’s drying The clothes line, my sister’s window, after countless folk songs, agricultural proverbs, and flat poems, finally, the thousand-year-old thoughts that gourd has been carrying, have finally settled, and it finally hung up the important thoughts-with the previous midnight The white moon hung side by side in my window.
It finally put some of its thoughts on a higher place.
In front of my house ferns spread
a evening of 60 million years ago, dinosaurs collective missing. The ferns and grasses nourished this behemoth and witnessed their extinction. Disasters fell from the sky, the mountains fell and the ground cracked, and the creatures were crying. Before the heroes could turn around, they fell one after another without leaving their backs. The planet became a big grave.
On the big tomb, on the boundless ruins, in the crevices of the rocks, in the inconspicuous damp and humble place, there was a weak, humble plant that was always creeping, but miraculously came back to life. Fern, this ordinary grass citizen, crawling on the mother's chest, silently writes the verdant epic of the earth.
In this way, since more than 200 million years ago, they walked all the way, walked, and witnessed countless geological changes and the comedies and tragedies staged by species in turn. Their zigzag bookmarks have been caught in the most obscure history of geology and life. The incomprehensible passages, pull around, saw around and saw, until the time is sawn into powder. Their footsteps cover the bones and graves of countless heroes, and cover the endless past and the boundless wasteland that we cannot understand and imagine. They walked and walked in verdant steps until they reached the door of my hometown.
That morning, in my hometown of Lijiaying, I gently opened the wooden door of the old house. On the small road outside the door, I lowered my head and saw my father’s vegetable garden, in the cracks on the side of the road, from the Han Dynasty and beyond. The stream that flows from the source of the river is full of Bupleurum, Rush, Ophiopogon, Houttuynia, and the dark blue, jagged fern. Among the many grasses, it looks excited and happy. It seems to be intoxicated by the smell of herbs, or it is always so happy. At this time, it was beckoning to me, a sincere and humble gesture.
It suddenly occurred to me that hundreds of millions of years ago, dinosaurs had seen such gestures.
At noon, I was eating fern noodles made by my mother, thinking about a problem that I didn't think too well.
Undoubtedly, human beings are the overlord of the earth today, that is, modern dinosaurs. So, fern, this ancient plant, the witness of this time, the witness of the vicissitudes of life, how long can you stay with us? Or how long can we stay with you? Who wrote the most vital chapter in the epic of the earth? In the long river of time, who are the floating objects in the rapids, and who are the distant scenery on the shore?
At this time, the noon sun shone on the vegetable garden in front of the old house, shining with the dazzling light that was hundreds of millions of years ago. My father is weeding, plowing, and watering the vegetable garden. The cabbage, celery, green onions, spinach, and lettuce are growing well. Mother looked at the vegetable garden with a cane on the fern-grass trail next to the vegetable garden, pacing back and forth. Her old and kind figure was cast on the fern bushes, and the figure slowly moved, and the ferns turned on and off, as if changing clothes.
I don't think about the longer time. At this time, looking at the shadows of my parents and the bright and dark ferns, I felt a kind of temporary stability in my heart. I am content with the days when there is a mother and a father. I am content with this bowl of fern noodles, a plate of vegetarian food, and a day of commoner clothes.
Outside the door, the fern, from the small road in front of my house, the vegetable garden, and the stream, has been lush, turbulent, spreading, to the wild, to the distant mountains, to the sky, to the time The end.
