Chapter 42 encounter

Those who meet, meet unexpectedly —— "On Semantic Sparse" ⒈ Life is one big encounter. A folk singer met Guan Guan and the singing Sui Jiu in the Fengcao of Zhouzhu, so he wrote poems. The Yellow Emperor met the magnet, and Meng Tian first met the wool, and immediately had awe and deep affection for the thing. When the Cowherd meets the Weaver Girl, what is left behind is a compassionate love, and a never-fading myth that is reprinted and reprinted in the starry sky every summer. The master met Mount Tai, Li Bai met the Yellow River, Chen Ziang met Youzhou Terrace, Michelangelo met the young David in advance in the stewed and uncut marble, and the situation of life was different from then on.

It's different, I long for all kinds of encounters in life, there is a sentence in a certain book, waiting for me to read and make a case.The wild flowers in the field are waiting for me to understand and be amazed.Mountain wind and hair, cold spring and tongue, flowing cloud and eyes, pine waves and ears, they are waiting, waiting at the two ends of the mysterious time, waiting for the moment of meeting—once meeting, it will be different, forever same. Therefore, I am eager to meet, no matter what the plot is, I have been waiting for all kinds of things to happen. On the plank road of life, I am a passerby, but I can't help but look at the mountains.Since there are so many things worth waiting for in life, in comparison, whether or not you miss your destination is not that important.

⒉ Saying goodbye to the master in a hurry, we took an overnight flight to Virginia, the snow was still there, and I still held in my hands a bag of apples and a bag of cakes that the master insisted I take on the plane. It was one year in the 1980s, and it snowed heavily in Washington, which was said to be the heaviest in fifty years.We rushed to a TV show, and we were as tired as mud, but we clearly knew that there was a frame in our hearts, and we braced ourselves upright. I was walking quickly, and suddenly, I heard someone shouting a strange Chinese voice behind me. "How are you?"

My husband and I turned our heads in a hurry, only to see three young boys with oriental faces looking at us with smiles. "Hello, where are you from?" "We don't speak Chinese." The one with a particularly rosy face replied in English. "Didn't you just say that?" We also asked him in English. "I can only say that sentence, others taught me." "Are you ABC (Chinese Americans)?" "no." "Japanese?" "No, guess again." The airport at night was very spacious with few people, and the wind and snow were shut out. Looking at the three innocent faces, I felt a sense of warmth.

"Thai?" "no." no. "Filipino?" "no." no. The less they can guess, the more proud their childlike faces will be.It was not long before the plane took off, and I didn't understand why I would stand there and play a guessing game with them. "Why can't you guess?" They were also anxious by my random guessing, and couldn't help reminding me loudly, "We are your best and best friends!" "Korean!" My husband and I yelled at the same time. "That's right! That's right!" The three of them cried out at the same time.

Time is really running out, but why, we are still standing there, talking to each other in broken English... "Are you naturalized? Are you going to live here?" "No, no," we said. "go sightseeing?" "Instead of sightseeing, we're going to Virginia to go on TV and tell them that China is a good place, and we want to let them know that Chinese people are worthy of respect." "One day, we will go and see." "What's your name?" They wrote their crooked Chinese names on the paper bags that held the apples. Two of the three were brothers, and they were all surnamed Li.I also tell them my name.There was a burst of urging from the announcer, and we shook hands and ran for the exit desperately.

So strange, so hasty, so speechless, but so heart-breaking and heart-breaking. It is not a Chinese couple talking to three Korean boys, but a soul-to-soul encounter of thousands of oriental suffering.What connects us is not what we said, but what we did not say. It is the grievances that have been bullied by foreign enemies for a long time in the history of the nation. All the suffering nations They are brothers connected by blood, because they once fed the milk of the motherland that is salty, bitter and sore. I have forgotten their names, and they must have forgotten us, but I will always remember that small group of orientals met unexpectedly in a small corner in the tall and empty airport at night.

⒊ The airports in the Philippines are surprisingly hot, though, and July is said to not be their hottest month.The roof was so low that it seemed to be pressing on someone's head, and the customs formalities were clueless, and an hour had passed. My little daughter was clamoring for water, and I was extremely anxious. There were not many passengers, so I couldn’t finish it. I led her around, and when I reached a checkpoint, I didn’t know if I could pass rashly. standing. Suddenly, there was a dark-skinned man in a white shirt with cutouts, carrying a 007 leather bag and passing through the checkpoint, with a jasmine garland around his neck.He doesn't look like a Chinese.

Jasmine is the national flower of the Philippines. It is strung together in arm-thick garlands and is so white that it is difficult to tell whether it is because the flowers are too white to give off a fragrance, or if the fragrance is too strong and condenses into white. And as a Chinese, no matter what, I always think that jasmine is Chinese. It grows in all the front yards and backyards. It is inserted on the mother's sideburns, pinned to the grandmother's skirt, and sang in nursery rhymes: "what a beautiful Jasmine Flower……" I held my little daughter's hand and stared at the string of flowers, forgetting what I was doing when I slipped out.The airport is gone, the people are gone, and there is only a bunch of flowers left in the world, the cool jasmine.

"beautiful flowers!" I blurted out unconsciously, in Chinese, since there are Filipinos all around anyway, no one will understand what I mutter. However, the man wearing the wreath suddenly stopped and looked back at me, obviously he understood.He came up to me, put down his purse, took off the wreath, and said: "Give it to you!" I was stunned, he spoke Chinese, but he was actually Chinese, and when I was surprised and at a loss, the wreath was already around my neck. I thanked him before it was too late, and in the midst of surprise, the man had already gone away, and my little daughter screamed excitedly:

"Mom, why is that person so nice? How could he send you flowers?" I was more excited, of course, because I was surrounded by a bunch of shining white flowers, and I suddenly felt dignified and gorgeous. I quickly ran back to my companion's place, but the formalities were still not completed. I was anxious to tell others, and the more anxious I became, the less clear I was. Everyone half-believed and thought I was joking. "Mom, why is that person so nice, why did he send you?" the little girl still asked unwillingly. I don't know, I only know that there is indeed a high-density flower bush on the neck and chest. Was that person moved by the long-lost local accent?Or simply want to "give the sword to the hero" and give the wreath to the flower viewers?Or do we see some familiar eyes when our mother and daughter join hands?I don't know, he has gone away in a hurry, I don't even remember his face, I only remember his gentle smile, and his very white very white shirt. This summer, when I was picking handfuls of jasmine in my mother’s flower garden in a small southern city, I would think of a person, a bunch of flowers, and the circle of never-fading fragrance that I met in the previous summer. ⒋ I don't know if that kind of tree is yellow pagoda tree or iron sword tree. The yellow flowers of the iron sword tree are usually clustered together, airtight and a little stagnant, but the flowers of that kind of tree are loose and loose, hanging down in clusters, like wind chimes of thin gold in the sun. The tree is enclosed in a mossy stone wall on Qingdao West Road.I have been paying attention to this matter for a long time.I really can't believe that there is such a classic tree on Qingdao West Road, which is full of traffic and dust, but it is clearly there. It is illogical, but you are helpless because it is a fact. Finally, one year, in July, I decided to commit a little crime. I wanted to walk into the chaimen that was not always fortified, and I wanted to go under the tree to see the beautiful flowers.There is no difficulty at all, and within a few steps, I have come under the tree. It's unbelievable, but within a few steps, the sound of the city can no longer disturb me. The grass under my feet is like a magic carpet. How many summers has this yellow flower been talking about here?As stubborn as I am, it was only at this moment when I stood under the tree and looked up to the sky, did I feel that Wan Dao Huaguang was like a slap in the face, and his brain was hit, and his heart was full of emptiness.The beauty of flowers can be so beautiful that today people recover from ignorance and ignorance, so beautiful that people have nothing to rely on and are naked like a child.I looked at the flower in awe, ha, what an opponent, finally let me meet, I convinced. That tree of yellow flowers, how many summers have there been saying there? I put my face close to the tree trunk.Suddenly, I was so startled that I almost jumped up, and I saw the cicada's shell; a crack on the earth-colored back, and the eyes protruded, such a religious cicada's shell. The cicada shell is not a rare thing, but it was my favorite treasure to pick up when I was a child thirty years ago. When I met it suddenly, I almost felt it was an unexpected favor from the gods.He pulled it out lightly, like pulling out a clock that went too fast, and time returned to the time of chaos. Thirty years of vicissitudes in the world disappeared suddenly, and I returned to a little girl who knew nothing. , along the morning dew, all the way to peel off the thin shells of the cicadas last night. The cicada shell was full soon, and I put it in the ground, and then went to a higher branch to peel it off. How can there be room for the endless summer chirping in a small cicada shell?Is that chirping longing?Is it desire?Is it a helpless monologue? Is it because I look at the cicada shell, see the wind and dew, is it too late?Or is it that the cicada shell looks at me, looking at me like a flower is falling and people are dying? I continued to peel higher cicada shells, preparing to give them as free toys for children.A pile has already accumulated on the ground. I put it on the crack and put it close to my ear, listening to the long sound one by one. And at some point, someone walked through the corridor with red eyes.Strange, what kind of place is this?Thick stone walls with moss, beaded trees with yellow flowers, and weeping eyes coming and going under the trees? I looked up to the high window, and the incense was lingering out, and a pair of plain candles jumped into flames in a room that looked particularly dark at noon.I suddenly realized that someone was dead!Then, it seemed to me suddenly that this was probably the mortuary of National Taiwan University Hospital. Crying people come and go, I stand beside a pile of cicada shells, under the cover of yellow flowers for a while, I suddenly feel unable to distinguish these three things, death, cicada shells and the dazzling translucence under the noon sun yellow flowers.I really can't tell, is the cicada a flower?Flower is dead?Death is a cicada?I stood in a daze, not knowing what I had met? I still pass Qingdao West Road every day, the stone wall is still there, and every time I look at that tree, I am always suspicious.Have I ever met?Did I come across nothing?When the tree blooms, are the flowers there?When the tree is not blooming, are the flowers not there?When the cicadas sing, are they there?When the chirping stops, is it not there?I ran my fingers along the rough stone wall, asking myself questions without asking for an answer. Then, I went beyond it and walked away. Then, I knew the name of that tree, called Abra, which was translated from Sanskrit, and English is golden shower, how to translate it?Turn into a golden rain formation!