The aroma of tea wafted by

 　　Part 1: The Fragrance of Tea

　　My first experience of drinking tea was both bittersweet and novel.

　　I was probably ten years old that year. One day, my father invited us to drink tea. He brought out very ordinary jasmine tea, a 1.2 yuan packet, 100 grams in a paper bag. My brother, sister, and I each took a cup. My father told us to add tea leaves as much as we wanted. I think I was too excited and poured more than the combined amount for both of us. Then my brother said, "You can't waste it, you have to drink it properly."

　　I think I was just trying to prove him wrong. We started drinking, cup after cup. At first it was a little bitter, but it was a bitterness I didn't dislike. Then came a strong fragrance, then a light fragrance, a subtle fragrance, and finally, no taste at all. In the end, I was disappointed that the tea fragrance had completely disappeared. But the whole process was so wonderful!

　　From that moment on, I think I fell in love with the taste of tea. That day, I drank more than a dozen cups in a row. Afterwards, for about two hours, I felt a warm, trembling sensation, a passionate feeling surging through my whole body. This was a feeling I'd never experienced before, and I knew it was the reaction of tea in my body.

　　I fell irrevocably in love with tea. From junior high, high school, university, through my working years, I've now been drinking tea for thirty years. Tea has silently accompanied me through every mistake and hurdle, joyfully celebrating every victory and success. Tea has lingered and watched over me during every night of sadness and despair, and stood welcoming me in every bright, hopeful morning.

　　Now, every morning when I arrive at the office, the first thing I do is brew a pot of tea, then sip it while I work—a truly enjoyable start to the day. With tea, I'm free from the relentless pain, the tedious and depressing work, and the listless fatigue. Tea brings me joy, vitality, health, and strength.

　　I particularly enjoy strong tea, a habit I think stems from my first experience drinking it. If it's weak, I feel it has no flavor. Strong tea has a rich aroma within its bitterness, and a deep emotion within its fragrance. Each time, my thoughts drift away with the aroma of the tea. In an instant, I became richer, more insightful, and more perceptive. In this excellent state, I read, wrote, prepared lessons, and graded assignments. Even when surrounded by setbacks, even when overwhelmed by difficulties, my life and work were never dull and somber, but rather filled with radiant light and beautiful poetic charm.

　　Time often flew by amidst the aroma of tea; it felt as if nothing had happened before the eleven o'clock bell rang. That was the end of the workday, and I knew that half a day of my life had slipped away. I longed to tirelessly accomplish so much in this precious half-day, but time wouldn't wait for me, and slipped away on its own.

　　In truth, life remained the same, only a cup of tea added to its beauty, its charm, and its elegance. The aroma of tea permeated the monotony of life. In this sense, tea should be the beautician of life, the nourisher of existence.

　　However, I knew absolutely nothing about the art of tea. I had never tasted tea in a teahouse amidst the sounds of music; I simply brewed and drank tea freely in my daily life. I've seen beautiful tea ceremony performances on television, each step performed with earnestness and reverence, each sip with elegance and grace. However, I still don't like the tea ceremony. Tea should be a free and easy part of life; any affectation or deliberate performance goes against its natural nature. The true tea ceremony is about drinking freely. Being spontaneous and casual, even gulping it down like a cow, is perfectly acceptable. What's wrong with simplicity and enjoyment? What's wrong with sipping and savoring? Beauty has no fixed format; enjoyment has no fancy arrangements. What we need is simply a natural way of life, a leisurely and rational way of thinking.

　　The great way is formless.

　　The aroma of tea wafts, and life is naturally infinitely beautiful. May each of us have our own tea ceremony, wholeheartedly enjoying a life true to our own nature, and writing our own unregretful and fulfilling life story.

　　Part Two: The Fragrance of Tea

　　Around the Qingming Festival, a clap of thunder broke the tranquility of Xinyang, and the sparsely populated bus station suddenly became bustling. The station was packed with people, a scene even more crowded than the Spring Festival travel rush. These strangers mostly came from Zhumadian, a suburb of Xinyang, and were all women. At this time of year, while the northern countryside was still in the midst of the busy farming season, the tea trees in southern Henan, nourished by the spring rains, had already quietly sprouted, like young ladies awaiting their bridal sedan chairs. They were so delicate, so eager, so passionate, allowing no delay. Missing the season was like missing the prime of youth, a faded flower, rarely sought after. Nowadays, the countryside is mostly populated by the elderly and children, making it difficult to find tea-picking girls. However, from Qingming to Guyu (Grain Rain), there are only half a month. Tea leaves harvested during these two weeks are like the most precious stage of a young woman's life; once the season is over, their value plummets. This has spurred the large-scale cross-border tea-picking army.

　　Amidst the bustling crowds, there are naturally many merchants and tea lovers traveling from place to place. Tea lovers are inseparable from tea; they would rather go without meat than without tea. These discerning tea connoisseurs especially favor spring tea, with pre-Qingming tea being the most prized, and among pre-Qingming tea, Xinyang Shihe tea being the most renowned. Of Shihe tea, Shihegang tea is considered the finest, and among Shihegang tea, Wuyun and Liangtan teas are the ultimate prizes. Thus, tea lovers travel great distances, day and night, drawn by its reputation. I have a brother who is also a tea lover. He is usually very busy and suffers from motion sickness, so he rarely goes out. However, every spring when tea comes to market, he arrives punctually like a messenger bird. For many years, they have arrived in Xinyang around 8 or 9 pm, rested briefly at my house, and then headed to Shihegang around 3 or 4 am to catch the early tea market and buy their beloved cup of fragrant tea. They arrived as scheduled this year, just in time for the weekend. Since their driver wasn't familiar with the roads, they earnestly invited me to come along, and I had no choice but to accept.

　　When we set off, the drowsy streetlights had already fallen asleep, plunging the city into silence. Only the spring breeze still lingered, occasionally caressing the windshield. Leaving the city, from Shisanliqiao Township to Tanjiahe, the lights of the tea farmers' homes along the roadside were tirelessly bright, their doors wide open, eagerly awaiting the arrival of tea drinkers. The tea masters were still working tirelessly through the night, stirring the tea leaves.

　　Before five o'clock, after crossing the Tanjiahe Bridge, we could see groups of two or three elderly women picking tea along the road. They carried tea baskets, wore straw hats to shield their eyes from the sun, and had plastic sheets wrapped around their legs. These elderly women, working tirelessly from dawn till dusk, were mostly from other places. At home, they were left-behind elderly, supporting their families with their aging bodies so their children wouldn't have to worry about them; when working away from home, they were just as industrious and hardworking. Without their hard work, the tiny Maojian tea would only grow wildly and endlessly, and even the most precious things would rot in the mountains.

　　The car wound its way along the mountain road, and the number of pedestrians gradually increased. Approaching the old street of Shihegang, traffic became somewhat difficult, with tea sellers and buyers already thronging the area. The driver finally found a spot to park, and we abandoned the car and walked through the bustling crowd, inevitably bumping into things. As the reputation of Shihegang tea grew, merchants from surrounding towns would buy tea from other regions, even Hubei, and bring it to Shihegang to pass off as Xinyang Maojian, making it difficult to distinguish the real from the fake. Fortunately, the tea seller was a long-time friend; we had already contacted him by phone, and the tea was ready. Although it was considerably more expensive per pound than from individual vendors on Shihegang street, I felt safe drinking it.

　　The tea farmer brewed each of us a cup of Yuanchun fragrant tea. The tender buds tumbled and rolled in the cup, then stood upright, their smooth, round white down filling the cup. A sip released a fragrant aroma, instantly awakening the taste buds with a lingering, sweet aftertaste, relieving the fatigue of the journey. Yuanchun tea endures the harsh cold of wind and snow; with the slightest caress of the spring breeze and the nurturing of spring rain, it benefits all living beings. Though precious and aloof, it is never pretentious; so too should people be like tea.

　　Part Three: The Fragrance of Tea Fills the City in April

　　April, spring is in full bloom! The mountains in the tea-growing region are green, the waters are moist, like a young woman in her prime, with fair skin, bright eyes and white teeth, her every glance possessing an indescribable beauty. Everywhere in the tea-growing region are tea gardens; the green on the hillsides spreads layer upon layer, like a long, flowing skirt carefully tailored by spring, adorning the tea-growing region with exceptional brightness and grace.

　　As a result, the streets of the tea-producing region became more and more lively, with tourists coming and going in waves. Of course, the bustling streets were not only filled with tourists, but also with tea farmers and tea merchants.

　　For tea merchants, this is a busy, bountiful season, much like the autumn harvest for farmers. Tea leaves are piled high in the shops, so crowded that movement is difficult, and some manual work has to be done outdoors. Large tarpaulins are spread out on the ground, tea leaves are poured on them, some are roasted, some are sorted, and some are packed. Fine tea dust floats in the air, and a crisp, clear tea aroma permeates the thin, pale green air…

　　In this season, tea farmers are constantly busy. A spring rain the night before, followed by sunshine the next day, and the tender green buds sprout upwards. Especially before Qingming Festival, the price of tea changes daily; if not harvested in time, the losses are significant. Like a young woman, the best time is always fleeting, the most beautiful bloom is only a moment. In the blink of an eye, the beautiful maiden becomes an out-of-season flower, withered on the branch, ignored by all. While it's still the right time, the tea is picked, and the tea is sold.

　　In April, the tea-producing region is most bustling with its night market. Tea farmers, busy all day, finally have time to load their fragrant tea leaves and head to the city. On the winding mountain roads, motorcycles come one after another, like a once-thriving caravan, traveling under the stars and moon along the ancient Tea Horse Road.

　　Outsiders would never imagine that the deeper the night, the more prosperous and lively the tea market becomes. The entire street is packed with people; tea farmers and merchants, under the streetlights, their own emergency lights, and flashlights, compare prices and haggle. Those who sell quickly go home to rest early, while those who don't manage to make a sale linger in the night market, searching for a home for their tea. Thus, the noisy chatter of the night market, mingled with the sounds of motorcycle engines and the shouts of night market vendors, flowed together with the surging crowds and the fragrant aroma of tea filling the air, forming a rushing, bustling river—a fragrant river flowing through the city.

　　In April, the tea-producing region always has a day chosen as an auspicious day for a special ceremony for the tea leaves. On this day, the small town is teeming with people, flowers bloom like a sea, the whole city is filled with joy, and the streets are deserted, as if the entire city is hosting a grand wedding for its "daughter" awaiting marriage. Distinguished guests fill the halls, singing and dancing; this dazzling scene and the pervasive fragrance of tea, like intoxicating wine, unconsciously make the guests stagger and subtly intoxicate the people of the surrounding villages.

　　Part Four: Days Where the Fragrance of Tea Drifts

　　In the quiet of the night, nothing is more pleasant and desirable than brewing a pot of Gongfu tea, slowly washing, steeping, and tasting the tea. With Jay Chou's "Preface to the Orchid Pavilion" playing in a soft, almost Beijing dialect style, I gradually entered a state of blissful intoxication, my mind completely focused. My

　　first experience with Kung Fu tea was over twenty years ago. What attracted me wasn't the tea itself or the atmosphere, but rather the elaborate tea tray and utensils, reminiscent of a children's game. I worked with an engineering student from Shantou University, and we'd chat during our breaks. He'd invite me for tea and demonstrate his Kung Fu tea ceremony, though not expertly, it was enough to impress this northern girl. He'd been familiar with tea since childhood, and he had a particular fondness for Tieguanyin, a tradition influenced by his family.

　　Since then, I've always paid attention to the tea and utensils when strolling through tea shops.

　　I often enjoy drinking tea, but when brewing it in a metal thermos at work, I can never truly appreciate its aroma, nor can I experience the state of mind it evokes.

　　For a time, I shared a dormitory with two girls from Hunan, cousins. One was lively and talkative, the other quiet and reserved, always smiling. They loved tea, using tin cans as teacups. The tea was their own, the finest Mao Feng. Their work was hard; every day after work, the younger sister would brew two cups of tea as soon as she entered the house. Even on the hottest days, she would drink a few sips before taking a bucket to the water room to cool off.

　　More than twenty years have passed. Strangely, sometimes when I'm pouring tea into a cup, I suddenly think of these two girls, whom the locals called "Sweet Potato Girls." The memories they left me with are always of the green tea in the small tin cans, the lively, lovely green tea leaves standing upright at the bottom, the clarity and aroma slowly overflowing from the mouth of the can, permeating my entire memory…

　　Once, at a tea factory at the foot of Huangshan Mountain, I watched a tea master perform a tea ceremony. The tea ceremony hostess earnestly recommended the tea to us, the passersby who, whether we wanted to or not, lingered for two hours. The diverse array of famous Huangshan teas was presented in various brews for us to sample. Most of us, consciously or unconsciously, actively tasted the different colors and flavors. Some even savored just a small cup and found the aroma lingering on their lips and teeth. However, fearing being overcharged due to a lack of knowledge about the market, they hastily gulped down their teas…

　　Because I frequently buy tea, I became acquainted with a tea merchant from southern Shaanxi. This seemingly simple and honest but knowledgeable tea merchant was always very welcoming whenever I visited, always offering me samples of his newly acquired specialty teas. This merchant possessed a certain cultural refinement; he had photographed his trips to tea plantations in Sichuan, Fujian, and Anhui, documenting his visits to tea-producing regions. His photos with tea trees, tea mountains, tea-picking girls, tea-processing workers, and the tea shop owners proved his familiarity with the heart of tea. He brought tea from afar to his tea cabinet like a friend, introducing his teas as if they were old acquaintances.

　　He introduced me to the characteristics of tea produced in different regions, explaining how to judge the quality of tea by its external color and the hue of the tea leaves after brewing. The owner and his wife were originally farmers. Their son was serving in the military in Sichuan, and during a visit, they were inadvertently drawn to the numerous tea shops lining the streets. Encouraged by their son, the owner, with his business acumen, conducted some research and decided to start a tea business. Thus began his wholesale and retail tea business, which flourished

　　and became incredibly popular. Thanks to the owner's familiarity and enthusiasm, I learned more about tea and tea tasting. Encouraged by him, I also bought some teaware that I liked. Gradually, I grew to enjoy the quiet and leisurely feeling of sitting alone in my study, brewing a pot of Gongfu tea. In the process of preparing, taking, washing, brewing, pouring, and tasting the tea, I felt as if I were transported to distant tea trees and tea mountains, experiencing a serene happiness amidst the fragrant aroma of the tea.

　　Brewing a pot of fresh tea, wisps of aroma rise from the teacup. The delicate fragrance of the tea leaves washes away many memories, dilutes stories both deep and shallow, washes away the day's time, and washes away the day's fatigue. A small pot of tea is like a sage, transforming weariness and worries into the wisdom of enlightenment. At night, the fragrant aroma of tea permeates the warm lamplight. I love this light, slightly astringent, lingering fragrance, and even more so, I love the Zen-like quality of tea in its subtle green hue.

　　Drinking tea is more about savoring a state of mind. Carefree and peaceful, accompanied by the aroma of tea, and with a copy of Thoreau's *A Walk in the Mind*, that would be the most pleasant thing…