Happiness in Autumn

 　　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 day? Things that are too beautiful can instill a subtle unease, a constant fear that they will vanish in an instant. Ultimately, this stems from human limitations and a desire to hold onto beauty. So, I moved my small desk to the balcony, where I spend my days drinking tea, reading, and writing, where I can see the osmanthus blossoms every time I look up.

　　I went downstairs to buy groceries. It rained all night, washing all the trees clean. Under the crape myrtle, fallen petals covered the ground. The sycamore leaves were beginning to fall; I picked up a fresh, intact leaf at random. On the shady path, a middle-aged woman was sweeping fallen leaves; clumps of yellow, piled on the ground, danced in the wind like flickering flames—a strange, breathtaking beauty—the saying goes, spring for flowers, autumn for leaves; what color could compare to the beauty of autumn leaves? Ochre, bright yellow, deep purple, crimson… each leaf is painted with meticulous strokes, rich and vibrant, staining the earth's canvas with bold, bold colors, surpassing even the splendor of spring and summer in its visual appeal.

　　A few pomegranate fruits still hang on the tree, small, withered, and thin, possessing a tranquil, understated beauty from afar. A few chrysanthemums bloom in the community flowerbed, dewdrops rolling on their petals, swaying precariously, like lingering dreams from last night. However, these are merely small beauties of the courtyard; they cannot constitute the grandeur of autumn. Trees are the true representatives of autumn—like the sycamore and the ginkgo, their cascading yellow, under the slanting autumn sun, is magnificent and awe-inspiring. Now, I increasingly feel that true beauty should reside in autumn: peaceful, serene, and powerful, like a stroll at dusk. How much this resembles life, experiencing the bitterness and angst of youth, and then embracing a more measured and serene middle age. It seems that Liu Yuxi's words, "Since ancient times, autumn has been associated with sorrow and desolation, but I say that autumn days surpass spring mornings," were not a pretentious expression, but rather a sentiment born from the vicissitudes of life, likely stemming from the nourishment of years and the richness of the heart.

　　Autumn is perfect for sitting idly, drinking tea, reading, and daydreaming. The birds have flown far away from the trees, their noisy sounds fading into the distance, leaving only the silent beauty of heaven

　　and earth. The autumn sky is bluer, higher, farther, and more expansive than in other seasons; the occasional drifting clouds resemble wind on water or sails on the ocean—a grand beauty of the unity of heaven and earth, of self and nature. The various fruits on the three meals a day and the tea table are the essence of autumn. Kiwis are on sale at the supermarket; they're my favorite fruit, so I bought a lot at once. Half of them will soften in a few days, tasting sweet and juicy with a honey-like flavor. The other half will be washed, dried, and used to make wine. Winter is coming; what could be more delightful than gathering around a stove to eat mutton and drink fruit wine? The sweet kiwi wine, a pale greenish-jade color, evokes memories of summer days. Southern winters are snowless, often gloomy and rainy. I would stay indoors, drinking wine and eating meat, followed by a pot of strong black tea. The color of the black tea is like the dreamlike traces of maple leaves. The taste of the black tea, to me, is the taste of the past, just as Eileen Chang said: "Like clearly remembered happiness, forgotten sorrow."

　　Returning to the countryside for the weekend, my mother was drying peanuts. She happily exclaimed, "This year's harvest is bountiful!" Those seeds were leftovers from the Spring Festival; not all of them were eaten, and my mother, seeing it a waste, sowed them at the spring equinox. Planted just for fun, not expecting much, but unexpectedly, the harvest was plentiful. Spread out on the drying mat was a heavy joy; the kernels were all plump, peeled open, revealing their red skins, with a rich aroma, and a distinct taste of earth and sunshine.

　　In the blink of an eye, chestnuts should be on the market too. In my essay "Dear Chestnuts," I described in detail the street vendors' roasted chestnuts, their aroma even more enticing and pervasive than their taste. In the chilly autumn wind, those warm, comforting wisps of fragrance are especially soothing. Chestnut stewed chicken is my signature dish. Actually, it's a lazy method: after blanching the chicken pieces, bring it to a boil over high heat, then add ginger, scallions, mushrooms, chestnuts, and other ingredients in that order, and simmer over low heat. You can even read while it simmers, just by holding a chopstick over the pot. The pot bubbled and boiled, the aroma wafting from the kitchen, filling every corner of the house. Because of this aroma, my home, like a good friend, begins to smile, its expression lively and cheerful. As dusk falls, those returning home from a long day at get off work are comforted by a pot of fragrant, hot chicken soup.

　　Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote in her poem "Autumn": "

　　Whoever has no house now, need not build one

　　; whoever is alone now, will remain alone forever;

　　he will wake, read, write long letters, 　　wander restlessly

　　along the avenues , as the leaves fall 　　." If, in the grandeur of autumn, someone is still filled with sorrow, I think the best way is to stop thinking, stop longing, clear the mind of distractions, let "everything" return to zero, dwell in the present moment, and close one's eyes. Can you smell it? The fragrance of flowers, tea, and food intertwine, like a symphony repeating itself, a melody that penetrates deep into the heart, enough to resist all the desolation and emptiness of the world. 　　Does this sound pathetic? Suddenly, I recall something: someone asked St. Francis, who was watering flowers, "If you were to die tomorrow, what would you do today?" He replied, "Water the flowers." Thinking about it this way, I feel at peace.