Garden

Several stories have mentioned an abandoned ancient garden, which is actually the earth altar. Many years ago, the tourism industry had not been carried out, and the garden was deserted and deserted like a wilderness, which was seldom remembered.

Ditan is very close to my home. Or my house is very close to the altar of the earth. In short, I have to think that this is fate. The altar of the earth was there more than 400 years before I was born, and since my grandmother brought my father to Beijing when she was young, she has lived in a place not far from it for more than 150 years and moved several times.

But moving around is always around it, and the closer you move away from it. I often feel that there is a sense of fate in the middle: as if the ancient garden was waiting for me, and experienced the vicissitudes of life there for more than 400 years.

It waited for me to be born, and then waited for me to live to the most arrogant age when I suddenly crippled my legs. Over the past four hundred years, it has stripped the flamboyant glaze from the eaves of the ancient palace, faded the bright red on the door wall, collapsed a section of high walls and scattered the jade carved railings. The old cypress trees around the altar have become more and more grey, and the wild grass and vines everywhere are also flourishing freely.

It must be time for me to come. One afternoon fifteen years ago, I rocked my wheelchair into the garden and it prepared everything for a lost man. At that time, the sun was growing larger and redder along the unchanged path of the ancient times. In the quiet light of the garden, it is easier for a man to see time and his own figure.

I have not left the garden for a long time since I accidentally entered it that afternoon. I understood its intentions at once. As I said in a novel, "In a densely populated city, there is such a peaceful place as God's painstaking arrangement."

In the first few years of my disabled legs, I couldn't find a job or a way out. Suddenly I couldn't find anything. I rocked my wheelchair and went to it all the time, just because there was another world where I could escape from one world. In that novel, I wrote, "When I have nowhere to go, I spend all day in this garden.

Just like going to work and leaving work, I rocked my wheelchair to come here when others went to work. The garden was left unattended, and people who took shortcuts to and from work passed through it. The garden was active for a while, and then it was quiet.

"The garden wall slants a shade in the golden air. I pull the wheelchair in, put the back of the chair down, sit or lie down, read or think, beat around with a twig, and drive away insects like me who don't understand why they came to this world."

"Bees stop steadily in the air like a mist; ants shake their heads and flick their tentacles, suddenly think of something, turn around and walk away; ladybugs are impatient to climb, tired to pray, then spread their wings, flicker up; a cicada sloughs on the trunk, lonely as an empty house; dew rolls on the grass leaves, rolling, rolling. Gathering together, bending the grass leaves and falling to the ground with a thunderous dash of golden light.

"The garden is full of trees and grass competing to grow out of the noise, the steadiness of the steadily steadily for a moment." These are true records. The garden is barren but not decadent.

I can't go in except for a few halls, and I can't go up except for the altar. I can only look at it from all angles. I've been under every tree in the altar, and almost every metre of grass has my wheel marks. No matter what season, weather or time, I have stayed in this garden.

Sometimes I go home after a while, sometimes I stay until the moonlight shines all over the ground. I can't remember which corners it's all in. I spent hours thinking about death, and in the same patience and way I thought about why I was born.

After years of thinking about it, it finally became clear that a person, born, is no longer a debatable issue, but only a fact that God gave him; when God gave us this fact, he had already guaranteed its result by the way, so death is a matter needn't be rushed to succeed. It's a festival that's bound to come.

After thinking about it, I feel more at ease, and everything in front of me is no longer so terrible. For example, when you get up early and stay up late to prepare for the exam, you suddenly realize that there is a long vacation waiting for you in front of you. Would you feel more relaxed? And thank you for the arrangement?

What's left is the question of how to live. It's not something that can be fully thought of in a moment or solved at one time. It's just like a devil or a lover who accompanies you all your life. So, for fifteen years, I still have to go to the old garden, to its old trees or weeds or decadent walls, to sit in silence, to meditate, to push aside the noise in my ears, to sort out the confused thoughts, to peep at my own soul.

For fifteen years, the shape of the ancient garden was carelessly carved by those who could not understand it. Fortunately, some things could not be changed by anyone. For example, the sunset in the stone gate of the altar, the quiet glorious flat moment, every ups and downs on the ground are reflected brilliantly; for example, in the most lonely time in the garden, a group of swallows come out to sing, shouting desolate heaven and earth;

For example, the footprints of children on the snow in winter always make people wonder who they are, what they have done and where they have gone; for example, the dark old cypress, which stands calmly when you are sad, while they still stand calmly when you are happy, and they stand there day and night from there. You weren't born until you were lost in the world; for example, when the rainstorm came upon the garden, it aroused the smell of burning 4 and pure vegetation and soil, reminiscent of countless summer events;

For example, when the autumn wind suddenly arrives, there is another morning frost, falling leaves or waving songs and dances or sleeping peacefully, and the garden is full of ironing and bitter taste. The taste is the most indescribable. Taste can't be written but smelled. It's only when you smell it that you understand it. Taste is even hard to remember. Only when you smell it again can you remember all its emotions and implications. So I often go to the garden.