Prose Tribe 丨 Zhang Yuquan: A Man's Garden

A garden for one person

Wen 丨 Zhang Yuquan

At night, the flowers bloom alone. It was as if they had left the city and blossomed into loneliness on a hot summer night. I came to the garden in search of the souls of the flowers, their scents have long been less intense than before, and the colors have not been as gorgeous as before, but they still maintain the enthusiasm of middle age. Like the fear, loneliness, and shame that accompanied my life, I have now become open and calm when a rain comes.

Night is the home of night. I rediscovered the pure land of my own soul. Wandering in the garden, the night is surprisingly pure. In a rain, all the impetuousness was encircled and suppressed, leaving only the shining raindrops under the street lamps, hanging among the blades of grass. What is the true meaning of a night? Where can I find the destination of love? It's like a garden in the rain, when you are deep in it, looking for the shining homeland in your heart, he has never hated you, never driven you away, never cursed you, as if you were inseparable friends, never said much.

What a beautiful picture. The raindrops between the bamboo leaves are squirming peacefully, and the low branches have almost stepped on your chest, and you can feel their weak breathing. They are listening carefully to your footsteps, staring at you emotionally behind them. I am such a lonely person, but I have already swept away the memories in my heart. Like a deep well, the saltiness of memory has long condensed into dark clouds in the sky, and it lands on the plain in an instant.

There is no one and nothing to remember, no homeland, no relatives. It was the darkness before dawn, but he had long forgotten a normal night, and had become a mindless prey in his hunt. We once wandered anxiously here with love and hatred, shattering our own footsteps, and with anxious figures, asking for help from the sky overhead. But time crushes everything, and he makes you understand everything completely, understand an illusory garden.

I am also an illusory me. A small hedgehog hovers on the grass, is it another hedgehog in its eyes? Born and raised in a thorny defense, and eventually stabbed by your own thorns? Once again I saw the splendor of the flowers, and they were plotting a small conflict. It's like a drama with a sweet taste, and it comes to an end in bitter memories.

A year later, the garden is still continuing the rose offensive. They breathe in the love of the north and dissolve the cold of the night. I understand this garden, she and my life quietly merge, and quietly separate. Behind a few oil pines, a newly planted birch died, and there was not a single green leaf hanging from the bare branches. He paused in the middle of time, sketching the outline of memory in the air.

Last year, at this time, I often wandered here and experienced one of the most painful days, because I learned that my third brother had left. At that time, the roses in the garden were in full bloom, and it was raining a little. The third brother left this world at the time of the blossoming of flowers, which made my heart dark. I can't change the world, I can't change the life of another person, I can only bow down on the earth and beg for more justice and goodness in the world.

Today's garden is still so dark. The rainy days washed away the dry heat of summer and washed away the pain in my heart, allowing me to observe life and observe the night from a plain perspective. The silence of the night, like the sound of rain that had just left, took away the memories of the first half of my life. Where am I from? I come from this planet, but I can't find a free heart. Wandering the path, looking at the red, purple, and white flowers, some of them have withered, some have just bloomed, and some have been distorted by the rain, struggling on the branches. Some have just sprouted their bones and are eager for a better future.

The rainwaves reflect the shadow of the street lamp, white and flawless. It was like a quiet mirror, turning its heart over the land, breathing in the distance, waiting to be dried by the sun after the rain, waiting to become nothing again, as if it had never existed in this world, as if it were just to see this small piece of bright night sky.

If there is no rain, the words are not over. From time to time, raindrops hit your face from unpredictable places, making you aware that the world is still going on. The flowers in front of him are full of desolation in the flourishing. The colorful world we see comes from the refraction of light, a beautiful illusion? They read the smell of drizzle under the street lamp, is it the grandeur of ordinary life? Is it that you can't reverse the brevity of time, but only bloom out of the unwillingness of fate?

The dried leaves of several lilacs sucked up enough moisture and lifted the vicissitudes of the face. She looked at me and at the stillness of the rain. I remember in the early spring, they held up a cluster of lilac flower buds and seriously brewed a burst of fragrant aroma. This characteristic floral fragrance allows me to perceive the joy in her heart and experience the value of the afterlife with the possession of the sense of taste. They may come from the countryside or from flower beds, but they will eventually walk here for the rest of their lives because of the changes in time and space. Maybe next year I will move out of this neighborhood and never see them again, but her fluffy body and green stand tall may become my eternal memory.

At this point last year, I was restless. When I learned of the disappearance of my third brother, it was already the end of May. I wandered around the garden, using my phone to ask for help. No one knew where the third brother had gone, nor did they find any valuable information. I searched the map of my hometown over and over again, looking at every road and every bridge, trying to guess the path of the third brother's travel. The world is so big that it seems as if a person has never existed, but it is so clear in my memory.

In the middle of June, I got information from my third brother. It was I who found a traffic accident 40 kilometers away from my hometown from the Internet, and finally confirmed that it was the third brother. With infinite grief, hurriedly returned to his hometown to deal with the affairs of the third brother, and a spring has passed! Another spring, another year of rainy season, standing in the garden again, and looking at these seasons of flowers, as if those things that have never met have already passed by my side.

The rain will continue and has flooded my homeland. Looking at the heart-wrenching scenes, there are still some people who have unfortunately died in the rain, I can't help but pray with tears, praying for the world in front of me, not to let the relatives in the homeland bear too many disasters, so that they can walk through the best time of life safely.

Flowering Chronicle

The moon season once again emerged from the branches, and this time the prosperity seemed to have some snubs. My gaze wandered through the night and finally landed in the darkness of the bushes. It was as if the gaze could only extend to the corners and corners of the garden, and could no longer see into the depths of the night.

The sky overhead was covered in dense clouds, and you could only feel the endless cool breeze passing silently behind you. The red lights were strangely hazy, indulging in the memories of yesterday. Who will be the first to touch the weeping of joy in the heart? I am not the owner of this place, but I have lived here for a short time. Year after year, the dust of history has been swept away, leaving behind painful and bitter memories.

I will just feel a silent fragrance in the garden. Maybe tomorrow, many flowers in the garden will turn into butterflies and fly away. The shape of these petals is only the light that bursts out of our hearts for the moment we have met on the road. The raindrops that hang on each bud and leaf tip illuminate the lonely footsteps of the forerunners.

I was looking for my breath, low, silent. Like a dark cloud sweeping through the treetops, there is no intention of staying. We are still waiting for the footsteps of the rain, stepping on the dust on the earth, picking up the heavy footsteps of pedestrians, walking through the low-lying and toe-toe of life again and again. A piece of green bamboo is more luxuriant, and they get the moisture of the land, breeding new bamboo shoots, spreading the thickness of the leaf ferns. I loved this piece of bamboo, adapted to this newly cultivated land, and began to build my own territory and home. Everyone will grow into a landscape, just like this piece of bamboo, from the dry yellow winter, to find their own vitality.

The bamboo forest is full of damp and dark, and the endless sound of the wind sets off the bamboo and makes a terrible movement. I like the vicissitudes of the bamboo forest, and there is a piece of bamboo in the Grand View Garden, mixed with a dry and haggard face, which deeply attracts my heart. If there is snow, it is even more into the wood. When people reach middle age, they can no longer appreciate the deep emerald green, only mixed with mottled dry lines, waving their stories in the wind to show people, but more close to the heart. I stood in the sunlight and looked at a wisp of gold that was about to go away, enveloping the bamboo garden on this slope, as if I had found a piece of inner quiet, found a warm comfort.

The garden is now more vivid in the reflection of the bamboo forest. The rose bushes behind the bamboo forest, but also with their heads held high, seemed to lift the flowers to the top of the wall. The flowers fluttered slightly in the wind with different colors, swaying in a light dance.

What do flowers show us? Is it an ideal or a reality? I looked at a hazy splendor, but suddenly felt nothingness. As they strive to blossom their youth, are they still asking about the future of a flower? The flowers are flying, they don't care about fruitlessness, they only care about the charm of this moment, the amazing afterlife, just for an unexpected amorous. The amorous have never stopped here, they have long since left the city, away from the loneliness in the noise, they are the sharp thorns hidden under the flowers, piercing the blood of the heart.

At first, it was a big red rose, which emerged from among the branches and leaves, occupying the stage of the night. It was the first love of life, fully devoted, the passion of love condensed on every piece of flowers, all the colors have been reviewed by the gods, all the flower buds are from the aesthetic design, all the smells are forged by the wind and rain, they are innocent, pure, delicate, with the most beautiful figure to attract the eyes of passers-by.

When the weather turns cooler, those light-colored flowers begin to relay. White, pale yellow, dark purple, once again charging from the new branches. The flower season scrambles to bloom in one rain after another, replaying the notes of fate from the withered footsteps. My vision began to blur, as a passer-by in the garden, as if I had no qualifications to taste, no obligation to speak for them. But I know that all the opening is magnificent, and the place is also filled with smoke, full of tears and pain of resistance. Because of the impermanence of the wind and rain, because the distance between you and me has already transcended time and space, shuttled through dreams, shuttled through the often dark night, how many times can we hug her and cry.

Some of the petals are facing withering before they bloom, and the wind and rain are coming mercilessly, completely ignoring these delicate bodies. They fell to the altar with the storm and turned away with weeping tears. Life becomes so fragile in nature that it is as if our ideals and reality are always at odds with each other. Sometimes, we plant the seeds of hope, cultivate diligently, take care of them carefully, and in the end we have no harvest. Just like the love you once spent day and night, you can only want it, and you can only watch from a distance as the person you love the most disappears from the field of vision and becomes a scar in the depths of memory.

The flowering period in my heart has long passed. In the past season, whenever the flower season came, all the gardens must rush to see it. From spring to begonias, from begonias to peonies, from peonies to roses, from roses to green lotuses. I saw that I was reluctant to leave, until I missed lunch, until night fell, and then I reluctantly left.

Under the begonia trees that sprout in spring, watch the flowers fly snow. On a windless afternoon, settle down outside a lotus pond and take a nap. What am I looking at, just flowers? It must not be, it must be looking at their own irrepressible heart, watching the flowers flutter and free when they bud, and seeing how they break the shackles of their hearts and let the ideal shine brightly in the world.

Nowadays, it is often missed to miss the flower season, and what you see is the past that has long been floated away, deposited deep in the land. Even in this garden that was close to me, I don't remember their noise, their struggles when they were lonely, just facing inextricable thoughts, and when they came here to look for the figure of the flowers, they were already far away from me.

What do I want to find? Is it the gardener's loneliness, or the thrilling past? When the flowers bloom, they may be earth-shattering, but when they see the distant figure of the flower appreciators, they have to regret it. Flowers have long been blooming out of your field of vision, when the feast of life is over, what distinguished guests can you wait for to listen to the sound of the wind in the night with you?

Sitting in the middle of the garden

Sitting in the middle of the garden, the night is very dark. The light shines from the depths of the flowers, and the late night approaches the quiet essence. A wave of flowers has receded, and green has temporarily become the main theme of the garden. Scattered flowers are still trying to patch up the background at the end of spring, so that we can find the surprise of the night from time to time.

All the silence belongs to the heart, assuming that there is no worldly sorrow, what would life look like? It should be a blossoming and prosperous place. But the flowers eventually fall, sinking the petals that have already opened into the branches. They were once the messengers of spring, and now their souls have gone far.

There was no need to say goodbye with a rain, and the disappointment reflected in the corners of our eyes was enough to silence the path of the garden. We are also obsessed with finding, still with the passion of youth, waiting for the admirers in the branches. They face the tragedy of time safely, showing their pursuit of beauty in the bloom.

I used to be a perfectionist and saw the coming of flowers as a gift from God. And the flowering period has been as short as a meteor, almost a few days of work, full of scenery like a wave flowing through the riverbed of the years. It's just that I have already admired it, and their sounds and smiles have been deeply engraved in my heart, and the warmth that has been brought by the wind and rain has left an indelible mark on the monotonous life.

The broken branches cut by the florist were picked up by me and taken home and placed in the pots. I hope she survives and continues to continue the beauty of life. Whose youth am I saving, no, I am holding back the best memories of life, they were able to leave seeds in a difficult life, to find their own love in the barren land.

When I was a child, my family rarely planted flowers, and for rural people, every day they went up and down the mountain, and there were flowers and grasses everywhere, and they were used to their existence. Every day in the face of solving the practical problem of food and clothing, the natural mind is on tomorrow's grain, who will pursue the illusory romance. The vegetables in the vegetable garden and the crops on the land also blossom in the seasons that belong to them, and they do not only stay in the appearance of flowers, their task is to blossom and bear full fruit, feed the hungry children, and leave new seeds for the coming year.

At that time, the most beautiful flowers in the vegetable garden were rapeseed and radish flowers. In the spring of March, the earth recovers, and waist-deep rapeseed and radish trees bloom yellow flowers, waiting for the butterflies to pollinate. After April, the rapeseed and radish flowers turned into thick green clips, dotted among the leaves, full of heavy verdant eyes, and bent the slender waist.

Sesame blossoms bloom luxuriantly, and light blue trumpets dot the underside of each leaf, giving off a bitter taste. In the autumn, the roots of the sesame leaves bear a ridged clip, the oil turns black, the seeds are full, and you can harvest and beat the oil. I've also seen sweet potatoes blossom, in the shape of morning glory, with a plain blue, hidden in the middle of the huge diamond-shaped leaves, as if very shy. Father did not want sweet potatoes to blossom, and the sweet potato vines grew strong, the roots had to be deeply rooted in the soil, and they had to constantly turn their vines up, so that they could focus on the main rhizome and grow huge tubers.

The only thing that blooms in my yard is the date tree. Jujube trees bloom in April, and the flowers are small and dense, similar in color to the jujube leaves, so they are rarely noticed. Just a burst of compelling aroma overflowing the yard, attracting a swarm of bees to collect honey. When I was in the fourth grade of elementary school, the first pot of flowers was welcomed in the yard. One summer, my sister, who was in college, came home and went to the mountains to dig up an orchid and plant it in an abandoned iron pot. The orchid survived strongly under the jujube tree, and no one watered her or fertilized her. Only when it rains do they absorb enough water, constantly expanding the roots under their feet. Sometimes the chickens in the yard are hungry and panicking, and occasionally they come over to peck a few times, and the leaves of the orchid are repeatedly broken, repeatedly grown, and have survived for seven or eight years. But in the end, it did not see it blossom, presumably it was not easy to struggle to survive, and the elegant ideal of flowering could only be temporarily shelved.

The second time I planted flowers was probably the year I went to college, when my grandmother and grandfather were alive, and my mother came back from my sister's house and brought a cannabis planted in the pool under the platform. The cannabis multiplied quickly, sprouting huge leaves and red flowers the following year. That year, my sister brought back a camera and took a precious family portrait in front of the cannabis. Unfortunately, I was studying in the provincial capital at the time and did not catch the group photo. Today, the four relatives in the group photo have all passed away, and the cannabis in the courtyard has disappeared at some point.

Today's city is full of gardens, planted with precious flowers such as moonflower, begonia, and cloves. Living in the city, seeing flowers has become an important ritual in my life. The flowers are speechless, and they continue to bloom and wither over the years, repeating the best of life. And every year, my state of mind is constantly changing, and the nostalgia that is difficult to extinguish in my heart and the thought of my relatives, the vision of the future and the anxiety of reality are mixed and intertwined. The mood of looking at flowers is different from time to time, and the illusion of seeing flowers is more realistic, similar to those who have loved and left, flashing in front of their eyes, blooming and withering, and falling in the dirt.

Mist of the Mountains

In the rain, the mountains appear mysterious and hoarse, and the thick wet fog covers the ridges and jungles, and only vague clouds and waves that seem to be unable to recede can be seen, hugging each other tightly with the rolling mountains. They are so entangled that you can't see the world farther away. There may be hidden the truth of the years, the glory of the seasons, and the hardships of life.

As far as my eye can see, there is a continuous north mountain. They are like a dark barrier that surrounds the village in the middle. No matter how long the time is, no matter how fast the days are, I believe that the North Mountain will give me the sweetness of the fruit, the flowers of the lost color, and the tenderness of the beautiful mountain wind blowing through the forest tops.

I remember those days when the cooking smoke from the village filled the damp rain fog, blending with the rain fog of the mountains and spreading and winding around the mountainside. I waited for the scorching night to fade and usher in a new dawn. However, the rainy season becomes more intense in the summer, and plum rains flood every corner of the village, making it impossible for people to leave the village for half a step.

I braved the rain to head to the North Mountain, crossing through the rain-filled mountain forest. It was a challenge to itself, wetting my clothes and shoes, cold, and even my body trembling. The mountain road was washed out of the gully by the rain, and the dripping rain rushed through the sand and gravel. I walked toward the distant mountain and walked into a wet and selfless climb. All the oak leaves are hanging low, and the green shiny tip is dripping with fresh rain, dripping into an hourglass of time. I was marching in the rain, my hair wet with rain mist, clinging to my forehead. On the first hill closest to the foot of the mountain, a few gentle wisps of mist drifted gently, and they passed at a high speed from under my feet and crossed towards another mountain beam. Wet and cold raindrops blow across the face in the clouds, and the coolness instantly enters the senses, giving a lonely heart a new life. The flying in front of the eyes is rough, there is no sense of direction, shuttle, wandering, like a fluctuating emotion, do not know which piece of land, which mountain rock, which river will be attached to the hometown.

As the altitude increased, I moved closer to the curtain of the North Mountain. It was a dark void, haunted by clouds. I believe that the strong oak forest is still well, the road between the trees is still good, and the birds and grasshoppers are still well. They are not deterred by the obstruction of rain and fog, they hide in the nests of the mountain forest, waiting for the sad rainy day to pass as soon as possible, the sun comes out, illuminate the mountain fog, dry their wings, and re-feed. From time to time, the soles of my feet were tripped by the low bushes on both sides of the road, and the rain poured into the soles of my shoes, adding to the weight of my pants and the wetness under my feet.

It wasn't a heavy dream, it was a real experience of going up the mountain in the rain. The realities in the rain and fog are closer to the essence of life, and they make me feel the heaviness of my heart. Everything will bear the weight, facing the dense rain in the sky, facing the mountains that have lost the truth, and a trace of indescribable anxiety flashes in the heart. If reality can also be described as a dream, this rain and fog in the north mountain is a real dream.

I traveled through the dream and became one with the mountains. It is better to be the soul of the grass, clinging to the thick mountain, rooted in the land under its feet, than wandering in other places. Turning around the mountainside, the fog greets you. I have become a lone boat in the mountain fog, paddling deep into the mountains. The mist and rain became heavier, wetting my eyelashes like tears condensed deep in my eyes, running deep into my cheeks. Because I am familiar with this land, because I love this land deeply, I want to look for the expression of the mountains in the depths of the clouds, listen to his gentle heartbeat, and feel his cooling body temperature. I heard the sound of the wind blowing down the treetops raindrops, falling on the veins of the leaves low, on the green moss. They were rebelling against the repression of the rainy season, trying to re-stand in my field of vision in a straight posture.

I heard the singing of the waterfalls in the valley, with a whirlwind of afterglow. How much mountain rain is re-filtered by leaves and dirt, converging into a deep blue spring, washing the bare stones in the valley, crossing countless ravines and thorns, reaching a leap off the cliff, and achieving the bravest plot of the valley. I used to draw water here, cook on fires, and spend countless silent nights in the mountains, perched in the valley with the mountain birds of the oak forest. As the grandson of a mountain watcher, I have the best reason to stay in the mountains for the night. I smelled the moonlight, passing through the petals of wild lilies into my nostrils, and I heard the sound of hedgehogs rolling down the valley, rubbing against the fallen leaves. I enjoyed the tranquility of the mountains, sitting on the top of the mountain and watching the silhouette of the north mountain, becoming more and more simple and kind.

Even in the rain and fog, I didn't feel any discomfort or anxiety. I have reached some kind of tacit understanding with Kitayama, and their posture looks more healthy and fresh in the rain. The rain thread is like a needle sewn in the mother's hand, shuttling back and forth on its skin, sewing them to mend the naked destitute. I sat under the tree and read the mountain, read the love in my heart, read the gratitude for my hometown, read the poetic hazy childhood past.

When will we be able to usher in the sunshine after the rain? When will you be able to brush away the dampness of your heart? Too many unknowns, too many questions, become the longing of the heart. I wandered aimlessly through the mountains and forests in the rain, as if the memories of the rain would always stay in the dream, as if the darkness in the mountains and forests was my inner landscape. I was illuminated by green droplets of water and saw my own hazy shadow, flickering in the grass and trees of the mountains. It is not an inherent pain in life, but a sense of ease and comfort in nature. Warmth filled the grass in front of you from the mountain forest, and a hazy campfire was rekindled in the heart. I will be the richest child in the mountains, touching the mist of the sky with one hand, the rain sweeping from the treetops with the other, and listening to the loneliness of the rain pouring on the fallen leaves.

This is the most beautiful musical festival. Flowers dot the jungle, and with a dewy smile, I bent down and gently stroked their beautiful petals. They have long adapted to the land here, and they are content with the corners of the years. Some carry granular pollen and wait for moths from the countryside to come and collect honey. How many people have lived here for generations with the same feelings as I have? How many people leave this land, but in their dreams they love the mountains and forests? Like Tao Yuanming, resigning from the official and returning to seclusion, picking chrysanthemums under the eastern fence, leisurely seeing the South Mountain. Or lotus hoe farming, planting beans and cultivating. How can this be a powerful inner world, seeing the truth of the world, in order to make such a plan?

I never stopped in the footsteps of the North Mountain, as long as I still belong to this land. The sound of my footsteps seemed to be heard only in this mountain forest, and my quiet heart could be heard. From adolescence to middle age, all the way to the distant future.

(Excerpted from the second half of Yanhe Magazine, Issue 10, 2021)

Zhang Yuquan was born in November 1978 in Lushan, Henan Province, and his works have appeared in Poetry Journal, Stars, Works, Chinese Railway Literature and Art, and Yanhe. He won the 8th Xinyang Literature and Poetry Award, the 4th National Electric Power Literature Book Award, and the first prize of the StarLight Poetry Competition. He is the author of "Another Narrative", "The Dance of lotus", "Rainy Night Garden" and so on.