FreeDn

 　　I remember when I was little, every year before the Spring Festival, my family would go to the store to buy newspapers to wallpaper the walls. I was always overjoyed. I would carefully select each sheet, keeping the interesting and favorite parts separately, and saving the rest for wallpapering. Even so, when applying the paste, I would try to leave the favorite parts exposed, which often slowed down the work, and the colors of the more colorful pictures were often darker, inevitably earning me a scolding from my parents! 　　When I had some free time, I would flip through the saved newspapers, a faint fragrance wafting from them. Reading them brought me immense peace and joy. In those days, this was enough for me. I often stood by the wall, browsing the newspapers, or was drawn to the newspapers hanging on the ceiling, gazing up at them for a long time until my neck ached. 　　When I was in junior high, "New Year's cards" were very popular for a while, with all sorts of e...

 　　I love mornings. 　　When I wake up, I walk downstairs alone, the gentle breeze seeming to lift even my skirt. Sometimes I stand by a tree, watching the sky through the quiet shade, watching that pure, moonlit white slowly be tinged with the orange-red of the rising sun. Watching this fills me with a sense of accomplishment, a feeling that time holds the promise of vibrant and beautiful moments. 　　And so, another day begins. 　　I love beginnings, I love setting off. Therefore, I love the morning, I love being someone who travels in the morning light. 　　The morning dew, as if freed from the embrace of the Virgin Mary, playfully hangs on the tips of leaves, yet remains untouched by the world. The mimosa, camphor, magnolia, plum, and osmanthus trees—all the trees are so maternal, cradling their full foliage of dew, silently bathed in the morning air. 　　I remember as a child, being urged by my parents to get up early, carrying my schoolbag to school. On the winding country paths, my ha...

 　　The moonlight shines into human life, inspiring enduring acts of moon worship and sacrifice! "When I was young, I didn't know the moon, calling it a white jade plate." Lying in my mother's arms, gazing at the bright, round moon, I asked what the shadows in the moon were, and the answer was: "Grandma Moon is spinning thread." Thus, the moonlight in Dihua Miaogou felt especially familiar, because my mother's methods of spinning thread and weaving clothes were similar to those of "Grandma Moon." 　　On the Mid-Autumn Festival, a long table was placed in front of the door, laden with homegrown walnuts, chestnuts, apples, grapes, and the flatbreads my mother had baked. First, incense was burned, and we kowtowed to the moon, then sat around the long table to enjoy the fruit and flatbread dinner. Back then, there was no electricity in the mountains; with the soft moonlight, there was no need for kerosene lamps, and my parents and siblings were moved ...

 　　No need to wait deliberately, you come naturally, blooming like a sea of ​​flowers on days when life doesn't dance. 　　If it weren't for your delicate petals, which I gently brushed into fine droplets, I would almost forget that you are a fleeting firework. You bloom passionately, like powder, like catkins, like butterflies. 　　On a blank sheet of paper, with simple strokes, you show me the splendor of spring flowers and the serene beauty of autumn leaves. A flower is a world, a leaf is a Bodhi tree; as insightful as you are, you must have transcended three lifetimes to willingly dwell your soul in nothingness. 　　Nothingness for you is self-emptiness; isn't the vast snow country a collection of tiny petals, fragrant and jade-like? Perhaps I forgot that when worldly desires turn into willow catkins stained with mud, you are no longer the fleeting flowers of time, touching too many colors and emotions. 　　Choosing lightness allows you to dance out the fragrance of your soul. ...

 　　Who laid the bait in the waters, making my longing a fish swimming back and forth? I chew on the distant stories told through my grandmother's palm-leaf fan, and unwittingly, you gently lifted me up. 　　So, I'm stranded on the riverbank of my hometown, feeling that only a rainy season can interpret the brilliance of my life, only an unexpected tide can allow me to struggle in joy. 　　A destiny's ebb and flow is destined, surging in the sky of remembrance; it is your silent verses, stirring my shadow in the darkness, making me unable to judge how long the road home is. 　　A life's prayer is destined, swaying in the verdant spring; it is the call of loved ones, stirring the tremor of my soul, making me unable to recall how many wanderers' dreams the ever-growing wheat fields have fed. 　　Sitting on the ridge of my hometown's fields, I see my sense of smell stirred, my breath stagnates, I can never leave the village, yet in the drowsy soil, a burning note stirs. 　　M...

 　　When I was a child, every autumn when my family was busy winnowing grain in the threshing ground, there would happen to be a windless day. My father would then whistle softly to summon the wind. Strangely enough, it wouldn't take long before a gentle breeze would sweep across the threshing ground. From that time on, I believed that the wind had a spirit, that it had life. 　　I have walked on the grasslands listening to the wind. The spring breeze is light and graceful, gently caressing the grasslands; the summer breeze is warm and hot, kissing your cheeks; the autumn breeze is clean and refreshing, making the blue sky seem higher and the clouds lighter; the winter wind is direct and crisp, like the strong and unrestrained liquor of the grasslands. No matter the season, there is always a moment when you are walking or sitting quietly, and suddenly you hear the wind quietly creeping up your ears, knocking on your heart. You are immersed in the wind, your eyes glazed over, enjoying ...

 　　Books, within their pages, can traverse time and space, encompassing the past and present. Regular reading can bring new knowledge, dispel ignorance, cultivate virtue, and nourish the soul. 　　I've always loved reading, cherishing the feeling of the fragrance of a book. One quote that deeply impressed me was: "Reading is the closest distance to God; it makes our hearts clear and beautiful." The purity and peace of the soul are cleansed between the lines of a book, bringing a sense of clarity. 　　A friend who loves reading says that immersed in the fragrance of books, one becomes a fish in water, a butterfly in a sea of ​​flowers; the whole world is yours, nothing can stop you from traversing thousands of miles, conquering the world of words. Wandering in the fragrance of books, you'll find every word so lively and charming, every sentence shining with a unique brilliance, allowing you to freely gather and obtain the most beautiful fragrance. 　　The breadth of your vis...

 　　Summer, once it has a firm foothold, marches straight in. It heats layer by layer—tender heat, deep heat, scorching heat—its heat is firm and fierce; it is single-mindedly hot—dry heat, sweltering heat, humid heat—its heat is resolute and stubborn. 　　You watch it penetrate deeper and deeper, from the tip of your nose, to your skin, muscles, and even your fist-sized heart, until it finally truly takes over your body and mind. 　　39 degrees Celsius—that state of complete honesty between man and nature has arrived. 　　In which other season do we so eagerly strip, strip, strip? Stepping inside the door, we strip down to the bare minimum. The moment we undress, a cool breeze rises from the fan blades, gently entering our embrace—is there a more beautiful, more secret joy than this? 　　Stripping is liberation, release, stretching, letting go; it's a soul, wrapped up, secretly and directly yearning in a suitable time and space. 　　If time permits, then quickly shed all burdens and stand un...

 　　The fast pace of life makes it impossible for us to slow down in anything we do, and reading seems to be no exception. "Fast food" culture permeates our lives. Many people have developed the habit of reading quickly, skimming through pages, swallowing the words whole, often failing to appreciate their meaning. They don't understand what the book is about after reading it, and quickly forget it. Often, fast reading is equivalent to not reading at all, let alone appreciating the subtleties of the book. 　　I am a picky reader and have always been slow. Even in my student days, I was the slowest to return books borrowed from my roommates. Without ample time, I absolutely would not read; I would rather not read at all than quickly flip through a book. Reading is about "digestion," about providing nourishment, and this requires slow reading. "Slow reading" is gentle, thoughtful, and only then can we enjoy the pleasure and ultimate satisfaction of reading. ...

 　　I read Shu Feilian's *Feilian's Village* a few years ago, and I had a copy, but it's now lost. I saw *A Village of Grass and Trees* that day in Qingdao at a bookstore (the name was intriguing; my daughter told me about it for the first time, and I kept asking questions, puzzled). Because it was tightly sealed, I couldn't see the real book, so I assumed it was another village Shu Feilian had created and, not wanting to miss it, quickly bought it. Only after opening it did I realize I'd been tricked by Shu Feilian or the publisher; *A Village of Grass and Trees* was actually a revised reprint of *Feilian's Village*, just with a different title—the village was the same. Like a shepherd boy pointing in the wrong direction, unexpectedly passing through an old friend's village, how could I not be happy? Moreover, many of the illustrations were drawn by Chang Xiufeng, the "Grandma Van Gogh," like vibrant New Year's paintings, giving that simple Jia...

 　　I enjoy reading, especially reading at night. Indeed, nighttime is the best time for reading. The day's work and chores are finished, the children are asleep, and the surrounding noise gradually subsides. At this time, brewing a cup of tea, turning on the desk lamp, picking up a beloved book, and immersing oneself in this tranquil space—isn't that one of life's greatest pleasures? 　　The late Han Dynasty scholar Dong Yu said, "Night is the respite of the day; winter is the respite of the year; rainy days are the respite of the season; all are times of leisure and idleness." It is precisely the best time for reading and self-cultivation. Su Dongpo's saying, "The true joy of reading lies in these three respite periods," refers to this very idea. The famous Jin Dynasty pastoral poet Tao Yuanming said in the preface to his "Ode to Unrecognized Scholars," "I have always used my three respite periods to read; during breaks from lectures, I...

 　　When the grain is stored away and the hay is stacked, winter quietly arrives in the farmhouse courtyard. 　　At this time, weapons are shelved, horses graze freely, and people seem to relax as well. The only thing still steadfastly holding its post is the broom, which washes the courtyard's face every day. 　　A gentle winter wind blows, and the few remaining leaves on the tall ginkgo tree in the courtyard flutter down like golden saucers, looking back reluctantly before helplessly returning to the earth's embrace. The daughters then have a new toy: the two sisters gather the fan-shaped yellow leaves, as if they were treasures. They make miniature fans, rubbing them in their little hands; or they tie several leaves into flower shapes and toss them into the air like shuttlecocks; or they pluck the leaf stems and hold them in their palms to play riddles. If they guess correctly, they giggle happily; if they guess incorrectly, they do the same. It's incredible that they find su...

 　　Phoenix Town boasts a natural Phoenix Heavenly Lake, attracting countless visitors eager to witness its sunrise and perhaps even spot the giant salamanders. In winter, snow sometimes falls on the lake. Phoenix's local specialty is Phoenix tea; wherever there are trendy people, there is Phoenix tea. 　　Around four in the morning, people are still sound asleep. The dark sky is dotted with only a few twinkling stars, and all is quiet except for the sound of wind rustling through fallen leaves and the chirping of insects. 　　The tea trees on the mountain smile in the darkness, silently attracting the dawn. The unpolluted natural oxygen bar provides energy to the tea trees, allowing them to live a more vibrant life and brew a richer, more fragrant tea for humanity. 　　Suddenly, a series of knocks on the door wakes me from my sweet dream. "Watch the sunrise! Get up quickly!" I hurriedly get dressed, wash my face, brush my teeth, drink a cup of water, and run outside to wait for...

 　　Time always slips away quietly, and before we know it, a winter vacation has passed. The new semester has begun, bringing us new things, new courses, and new times… 　　From the very beginning, the coursework was packed. In class, we always stared intently at the blackboard, listening carefully to the teacher's explanations. After class, we raced against time to finish our homework for each subject. After evening self-study, we dragged ourselves home, exhausted. 　　We threw ourselves into the tide of learning every day, overwhelmed by homework, often saying discouraging things. But I know clearly that this is just the beginning. Now is merely a busy time; what awaits us in the future will be more challenging and will further temper our will. Our road ahead is long, and we will encounter many more difficulties. 　　The first thing we must do now is to cultivate a positive and proactive learning attitude. In 2005, Steve Jobs said in his Stanford University speech, "Stay Foolish, S...

 　　"My clothes grow looser, yet I have no regrets, for I am wasting away for her." The song of Farewell My Concubine, a tale of heroism, has left behind an enduring sorrow. 　　Red-tasseled spears, golden armor, meteor hammers, swift steeds—the land of Yan and Huang, teeming with heroes, fearless against a hundred men. Countless trials of life and death forged their heroic nature. In those days, he lifted a cauldron with one hand, his might boundless, but heaven was jealous of his talent, leaving him only with tears streaming down his face by the Wujiang River. 　　That beautiful figure, it carried away my thoughts. In that vast sea of ​​people, I chose you, a promise made on the Stone of Three Lifetimes, five hundred glances in a past life. I roamed the world with my sword, just to win your smile; my iron cavalry trampled through mountains and passes, just to reach the willow-lined streets east of Luoyang. 　　The swing, long since without its butterfly rope, the ivy, no longer as...

 　　Yanghu, a place name with a touch of poetry! But it's not entirely a lake; it's an urban wetland park in Changsha. 　　Yanghu has many beauties, but its most enchanting is undoubtedly its moonlit lake. 　　Every night, hikers flock to Yanghu, immersing themselves in tranquility and serenity, especially on moonlit nights. It feels like being immersed in milk, soothing and refreshing. 　　Entering from Yanghu Avenue and stepping onto Crescent Bridge, the first thing that greets you is the moon reflected in the lake! In the darkness, the lake's surface obscures the distance, only the mirror-like moon winks at you. Occasionally, a gentle breeze ripples the water, making you feel as if you're standing before Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa—a scene of ethereal elegance. 　　Hiking under the moon, only the fresh lake breeze and your own breath remain; there are no external disturbances, and the moon accompanies you in silence. On the tree-lined path, she follows you, hiding in th...

 　　When the weather turns cold, we tend to shrink back and feel timid. As we age and outdoor activities decrease, the warmth of books becomes the best choice to comfort us during the winter. Winter leisure is perfect for reading, allowing our inner world to unfold freely within the pages, enriching our otherwise mundane retirement life. 　　Winter brings a clear mind, making it ideal for books with humanistic depth. On a cold night, leaning against the headboard, one can savor the understated elegance of Zhou Zuoren, the concise satire of Lu Xun, the refined grace of Zhang Ailing, the casual yet ingenious style of Jia Pingwa, the erudition and naturalness of Yu Qiuyu, and even experience the austerity of Hemingway and the lamentations of Voltaire… The warmth brought by the words is enough to ward off the chill of the air. Reading these books is like sipping a strong, hot coffee—bitter, yet warming the heart. 　　Reading in winter is a beautiful state of mind, and a rare and precious ex...

 　　I enjoy walking alone, especially in April, silently savoring the warmth far removed from the hustle and bustle, quietly experiencing the romance that wells up from the bottom of my heart. 　　Walking alone in warm April is not lonely. Some verdant thoughts, slowly, slowly follow and accompany me. The cuckoo, calling all day long, shows no sign of weariness, repeatedly summoning the farmers' diligence. Even the vines hidden in the ditches and slopes begin to stretch their lives, quietly, quietly climbing along the pale yellow dreams. 　　The east wind is gentle, and youth fades quickly. In warm April, all thoughts vie to sprout—although some miracles are destined not to bloom. In fact, many miracles do not need to bloom, such as the humble yet resilient perseverance of those nameless grasses. Let those that will not bloom scatter as footprints on the path—as long as they remain, they are a memory, a lingering attachment. 　　Walking alone in the warm month of April, if an unexpected A...

 2017 rushed by, and 2018 arrived silently. It seems like a dream, and I wasn't ready to wake up. But when you wake up, a new year has already begun. Yes, I'm another year older, and my social media feed is flooded with photos of myself at eighteen. I realize we're getting further and further away from our eighteen- year-old selves. What we cared about back then seems less important now. At eighteen, I was full of anticipation for everything. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve, Lunar New Year's Eve... At eighteen, I was on the sentimental side. I would write a bunch of emotional words in my New Year's Eve or birthday posts. I would be overwhelmed with emotion and sad for a long time because of someone's departure. I would feel down because someone ignored me. I would feel down because of friends... I cried after an argument with a friend. Back then, I would always spend a lot of time recording my life in writing. I'm getting further and further...

 　　It was last spring, when I went to Tuonan to admire the peach blossoms. 　　The car traveled slowly along the mountain road. Outside the window, green mountains flashed by, each exuding a refreshing spring atmosphere, but I was still a little impatient, hoping to see the enchanting thousand-acre peach orchard in Tuonan as soon as possible. The car finally slowed down and climbed the gentle slope to the viewing platform. I hurriedly opened the car door, stepped onto the ground, and looked around. Wow! A thousand acres of peach orchard, without any other trees, surrounded by verdant mountains, like a large celadon plate embracing a blazing flame, like a piece of rosy dawn fallen from the sky—it was truly breathtaking. 　　Our family followed the mountain path into the peach orchard, wandering in a sea of ​​flowers. Look at the peach blossoms in the orchard, a riot of colors—white, pink, and deep red—each blossom shyly budding. Some blossoms gently unfurled two or three petals, while o...

 　　Waking up in the early morning, the chirping of birds in the branches is a delightful surprise. A rare and blessed day, in this fresh and bright spring morning, the sunlight and birdsong simultaneously delight the senses and the heart. 　　These spirits, coexisting with this lonely city, are few and far between. We may not meet them every day, but seeing them always brings extra joy. In distant times, the green vegetable garden of my childhood, with its sprawling branches and blooming flowers, dotted the colorful years. The path leading to school was untouched, a naturally formed path, a small map etched by people themselves. The winding path was damp with soil; walking along it, I would follow the trail of fluttering butterflies, running all the way. The memories, clearer day by day, indicate that I am growing old, beginning to forget things close at hand, while those childhood scenes remain exceptionally vivid, as if they happened yesterday, never far away. 　　If the birds met Go...

 　　There was once a person, and once a feeling. It was Tao Yuanming's "Picking chrysanthemums by the eastern fence, I leisurely gaze at the Southern Mountains." He found tranquility in rural life, a feeling that was subtle yet profound, simple yet elegant, seemingly lean yet rich. He wouldn't bow down for five pecks of rice; he would find peace and security by the willows. Planting beans on the Southern Mountain, working from dawn till dusk, he built a Peach Blossom Spring in his writing, and sighed in his heart, "Let us return." 　　There are countless ways to live in this world, too many to count. No matter where we are, when our hearts are at peace, we can say, "What more could we ask for?" The most important thing is the world within our hearts, rich and serene, uniquely our own. 　　There is always a life—peaceful, beautiful, tranquil, and warm—awaiting our choice among countless options, waiting to be reached after countless days. "A tranqui...

 　　As the years go by, the pace of life becomes increasingly hurried. However, in the midst of this busyness, the heart loses its direction. At times like these, I read Tang poetry. 　　More than a thousand years ago, on a rainy autumn night, in a quiet temple, the poet Wei Yingwu, weary from his travels, tossed and turned, unable to sleep. The surroundings were so quiet! So quiet that he could hear the leaves falling from the trees. These falling leaves struck the poet's heart, making him feel even more lonely and desolate. At such a moment, he thought of his friend, Cui Zhubu. A thousand words welled up in his heart, urging him to express them. He simply got out of bed, put on his robe, and lit a lamp. 　　What should he write to his friend? How could he express his feelings? The poet sat under the lamp, pondering. The night grew deeper, the pattering rain outside the window never ceasing, and in the darkness, fireflies, flashing their faint light, flew towards the high pavilion. Thi...

 　　I often take casual photos with my phone. These range from scenic spots like white clouds in the sky and mountains resembling a sleeping Buddha to elderly people leisurely playing chess in a square. Sometimes when I go on outings, I ask my son to take photos for me as keepsakes. Although I can be quite narcissistic at times, I never take selfies. Among all my casual snapshots, there's one that makes me both "apprehensive" and "proud" so far. My pride doesn't stem from my photography skills, but entirely from the breathtaking subject. 　　Look, among several lush, green trees, one is the luckiest. When I saw it, its boundless greenness stirred my heart. And then, as if I'd suddenly discovered a new continent, several plump green caterpillars (also known as "pig worms") clung tightly to the branches, forming their own little world. But upon closer inspection, one, two, three—good heavens! This wasn't just a pristine white tree; it was a para...

 　　Peach blossoms are meant to awaken in the warm spring; if the weather is bad, they shyly reveal their beauty in February or March. But I encountered peach blossoms in November. Are there peach blossoms this season? My father said it was a return to spring. 　　Looking up from the foot of the mountain, I only felt the greenery climbing upwards, but unexpectedly, halfway up, peach blossoms reached out to stop me. A startled feeling turned to joy. Looking closely, it was as if I had witnessed their awakening. Their slightly open eyelashes faintly held pale yellow pollen, like the pink blood flowing from a pear-white heart, or perhaps a vibrant rose-red. Two or three blossoms adorned the graceful green branches, making the peach trees appear much younger. 　　In the past, few people came here; only a few people made this mountain forest a true mountain forest. Some would climb barefoot like Taoist priests; some would sing in the wind, lost in their own world; some would fish by the wate...

 　　"The moon shines through the bamboo window on a quiet night; I close the door and read, forgetting sleep." This is a state of mind for reading under the lamp. 　　In the stillness of the night, the lamplight feels especially warm; with a book as my companion, the night becomes even more vibrant and evocative. I surrender the night entirely to books, my eyes lingering on the words on the pages, letting my thoughts wander freely. Night reading has made me accustomed to the quiet of the night, and 　　I've developed a dependence on the fragrance of books at night. As early as my student days, I cultivated the habit of reading under the lamp. During the day, I struggled with schoolwork, but the night was my own. By the light of the lamp, I immersed myself in the world of reading. Back then, I read Jin Yong's martial arts novels, Qiong Yao's love stories, and the complete Sherlock Holmes stories, completely absorbed. Reading under the lamp filled my school years with jo...

 From the moment we are born, the exchange between hearts begins. From unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar conversations to familiar faces and heartfelt talks, cherishing each other as the most precious thing , then to occasional contact, and finally just polite greetings, the cycle of these six simple words—unfamiliar, strange, and unfamiliar—is actually pieced together from bittersweet experiences. Many companionships are truly like short trips: beautiful scenery floats in your vision, and the people within it unknowingly enter your sight, making you linger, and unconsciously revealing your truest self to them . Unbeknownst to you , while you are still immersed in the beautiful scenery, you overlook the fact that even the most beautiful fireworks are fleeting, and you overlook the subtle changes that have occurred in some relationships, and the quiet preparations for some people to leave. You just haven't felt it, or you're unwilling to admit it. When you can feel the gradual est...

 　　Recently, continuous rainfall has turned many cities into vast, inundating reservoirs. All that people hear and see is talk and scenes related to water. This has disrupted the normal rhythm of life and production, leaving many feeling helpless, filled with complaints, and even anxious. 　　A city cannot function without water; however, an excessive and abundant flow of water inevitably affects normal life, which is naturally something no one wants to see. 　　Faced with a city flooded, with water that has soaked modern civilization and tarnished the beauty of life, there is no reason not to reflect deeply. In our daily lives, water can make a city vibrant, poetic, and full of life. Water inspires romantic imagination. Like Li Bai's "The lake is clear as a frosty mirror at dawn, the waves are white as snow-capped mountains"; like Wang Bo's "The sunset glows and the lone wild goose flies together, the autumn water blends with the vast sky"; like Lou Yue's ...

 　　No two leaves are exactly alike, just as no two autumns are exactly the same. 　　The season is already White Dew. I open the window this morning, and a cool breeze carrying the sweet fragrance of osmanthus blossoms fills the bedroom. I take a deep breath and silently gaze at the trees below, their countless golden grains of blossom, shimmering brightly amidst the lush foliage—warm, beautiful, vibrant, yet utterly serene. 　　The osmanthus blooms every year, but this year the feeling is quite different—I feel that the fragrance of osmanthus is warm, like the aroma of everyday life, like the scent of food wafting from the kitchen, instantly soothing any anxiety or frustration. As autumn deepens, in the bleak days, the trees are in full bloom, their fragrance permeating the air. One's sense of smell is constantly drawn in and enveloped by this fragrance, softening the heart and evoking a tender feeling for the world and for the seasons. 　　How can we hold onto such a beautiful autumn d...

 　　Plants used to grow slowly, naturally, naturally, without knowing what a morning market was or what a good price was. 　　Streams used to flow slowly, drifting through mountain forests, leisurely going wherever they wanted. 　　Light and shadow used to move slowly; from a tea bud to a cup of tea, it took many steps and many days. 　　Life used to be slow, peaceful and leisurely, with time to enjoy a game of chess on a cicada-singing afternoon, or to spend an evening with a sky full of stars while engrossed in a book. 　　Since when did speed become the resounding rhythm of life? 　　Internet speeds must be fast; mobile phone upgrades are measured in years; trains are accelerating, passenger planes are striving for supersonic speeds; ships and small boats have been phased out, speedboats have become the main mode of transport; fast food is the norm, express delivery is the norm, everything must be done quickly and efficiently. It seems only in this way can we find satisfaction. 　　Work effi...