Inch by inch

 　　In summer, in a small fishing village by the Xingkai Lake, under the shade of a big willow tree that is said to be over a hundred years old, a gray-haired old woman sits on the wooden bench that has witnessed many winds and rains. Slowly mending a fishing net.

　　Not far away, a large clay pot filled with well water, with a few green cucumbers floating on it. On the low wooden yard wall, some morning glory lowered their heads shyly, two reed chickens patiently searched for the insects hidden in the soil, and a small cat chased the pair of dancing butterflies and ran into it. A small vegetable garden full of life.

　　A little further away, it is a dense cornfield like a green gauze tent, and those corn with red tassels around their waists are enjoying the hot caress of the scorching sun in full energy. In the Fangtang nearby, a few simple lotus flowers bloom unfettered, and a few silent cloud shadows look like an old photo from the Republic of China.

　　This was an ordinary encounter on the road. It was like seeing a plant I was familiar with from childhood. My eyes were immediately attracted by a touch of gentleness, as if a simple ballad was ringing from the head of a wild flower that bloomed at random. I couldn't help stopping, standing still, listening to the clear footsteps of time slowly passing by.

　　I still remember that on that bright spring day many years ago, I lay down on the balcony religiously, with a little excitement and a little bit of anxiety, unable to hide anxiously looking at the intersection of a plane tree stretched out, waiting for the postman Appeared, but I don't know if he will bring me a beautiful answer, or a suspense that makes me toss and turn.

　　Also, on that autumn day with red leaves, a large and calm river was flowing without any surprises. On the other side of the river, two slender Russian girls, holding a drawing board, walked towards the thick white birch forest, like a photograph. Astral moving oil painting.

　　Also, at midnight on a snowy winter day, I was in a small wooden house in the Arctic Village of Mohe, with a photographer from Jiangnan Water Village, holding a charcoal fire, two bowls of authentic Northeast stew, and a bottle Locally produced strong sorghum wine, two big men who have known each other for a short time, immediately expelled all the strangeness, and aroused the feelings of the sky.

　　I was surprised to find that what I often miss and remember very clearly is often some ordinary days in the past, as well as some ordinary scenes, objects, people, and things in those days. The weeds are as trivial, simple and simple as weeds, and they are shining and moving. luster. Most of the time, they just lie silently in the depths of memory, but at a certain moment inadvertently, they will suddenly visit, just like a silent friend standing in front of me in surprise.

　　Perhaps it is because of the continuous growth of annual rings, the bit by bit in the world, because of a gaze, or a moment of listening, suddenly there is a little beautiful taste, really true, like the wind on the water, like the branches of flowers. The writer Xiao Hong sighed joyfully in "March in a Small Town": "The weather is warm every day, and every inch of the day is interesting." It turns out that the goodness of the soul is so within reach, every inch of it.