Me and Ditan

Shi Tiesheng

Me and Ditan

one

I have mentioned an abandoned ancient garden in several novels, which is actually an altar. Many years ago, before the development of tourism, the garden was as barren as a wild field, and few people remembered it.

Ditan is close to my home. Or my home is close to the Ditan. In a word, I have to think that this is fate. Ditan was located there more than 400 years before I was born, and since my grandmother came to Beijing with my father when she was young, she has been living near Ditan-she has moved several times in more than 50 years, but she has been around Ditan and is getting closer and closer. I often feel that there is a taste of fate in it: it seems that this ancient garden has been waiting for me for more than 400 years after many vicissitudes.

It waited for me to be born, and then when I lived to the most arrogant age, I suddenly crippled my leg. For more than 400 years, it has eroded the grandiose stained glass at the eaves of the ancient temple, faded the scarlet displayed on the door wall, collapsed sections of high walls and scattered jade carving fences, and the ancient cypress around the altar has become more and more secluded, and weeds and vines can be seen everywhere to flourish freely and openly. I think I should come. One afternoon fifteen years ago, I pushed the wheelchair into the garden. It prepared everything for an irrational person. At that time, the sun grew bigger and redder along the eternal road. In the quiet light of the garden, it is easier for a person to see the time and his own figure clearly.

I haven't left for a long time since I accidentally entered the garden that afternoon. I immediately understood its intention. As I said in a novel: "In a densely populated city, it is like God's painstaking arrangement to have such a quiet place."

In the first few years after my leg was disabled, I couldn't find a job, couldn't find a way, and suddenly I couldn't find anything. I rocked my wheelchair and walked all the way to it, just because there is another world, I can escape from another world. I wrote in that novel: "I have nowhere to go, so I spend all day in this garden." Just like commuting, I always come to work in a wheelchair. The garden is unattended, and some people who cut corners pass by it during commuting hours. The garden was active for a while, and then it was silent. ""The wall of the garden was slanted in the golden air-under the shade of the tree, I put the wheelchair in, put the chair down, or sit or lie down, read or think about things, beat the branches left and right, and drive away the little insects who don't understand why they came into this world like me. " "Bees are like a small fog, firmly stopping in mid-air; The ant shook his head, stroked his tentacles, suddenly figured something out, turned around and ran away; The ladybug crawled impatiently. After a tired prayer, it spread its wings and took off in a flash. There is a cicada on the trunk, lonely as an empty house; Dewdrops rolled and gathered on the grass leaves, bending the grass leaves and crashing to the ground, breaking thousands of golden lights. " "The garden is full of the noise of plants and trees competing to grow, and it will continue for some time. "These are real records. The garden is barren but not in decline.

I can't get in except a few temples. I can't go up there except the altar. I can only look at it from all angles. I have been under every tree in the altar, and almost every meter of grass has my wheel marks. No matter what season, weather and time, I am in this garden. Sometimes I go home after a while, and sometimes I stay until the moonlight shines all over the earth. I don't remember where it is. I spent hours thinking about death, and I used the same patience and way to think about why I was born. After thinking for several years, I finally figured it out: when a person is born, it is no longer a debatable question, but just a fact given to him by God; When God gave us this fact, he has guaranteed its result by the way, so death is not a hurry, and death is a festival that is bound to come. I feel much more at ease after thinking like this, 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, it suddenly occurs to you that there is a long holiday waiting for you. Will you feel relaxed? And be grateful for this arrangement?

The rest is the question of how to live, but at a certain moment, I can't fully figure it out and can't solve it at the moment. I'm afraid you have to think about it all your life, just like the devil or lover who will accompany you all your life. So, fifteen years later, I still want to go to that ancient garden, to its old trees or weeds or decaying walls, sit quietly, stay and think, push away the noisy thoughts in my ears and get a glimpse of my soul. In fifteen years, the shape of this ancient garden has been carved by people who can't understand it. Fortunately, there are some things that no one can change. For example, the setting sun in the stone gate of the altar, with silent brilliance, reflects every bump on the ground brightly; For example, in the most lonely time in the garden, a group of swift will come out and sing loudly, shouting the desolation of the world; For example, the footprints of children in the snow in winter always make people wonder who they are, what they did there, and where they went; For example, those dark Cooper, when you are depressed, they stand there calmly, when you are happy, they still stand there calmly, from when you are not born to when you are not in this world, they stand there day and night; For example, a sudden rainstorm in the garden aroused a burning, pure smell of vegetation and soil, which reminded people of countless summer events; For example, when the autumn wind suddenly rises, there will be the first frost, falling leaves, swaying songs and dancing or lying down calmly, and the garden will smell of intimacy and bitterness. The taste is the least clear. You can't write the taste, you can only smell it, and you have to be there to smell it. The taste is even harder to remember. Only when you smell it again can you remember all its emotions and meanings. So I often go to that garden.

Author: asahorse 2009-3-7 2 1:22 Reply to this speech.

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2 reply: Ditan and I.

two

Now I realize that I always go to the altar alone, and what a problem I have given my mother.

She is not the kind of mother who loves her son but doesn't understand him. She knows the anguish in my heart and should not stop me from going out for a walk. She knows that if I stay at home all the time, the result will be worse, but she is worried about what I think all day in that lonely garden. At that time, I was very bad-tempered. I often ran away from home like a madman and came back from the garden like a demon without saying anything. Mother knew that there were some things she shouldn't ask, so she hesitated to ask, and finally dared not ask because she didn't have an answer in her heart. She expected that I wouldn't ask her to go with me, so she never asked. She knows that I have to stay alone for a while, and there has to be such a process. She just doesn't know how long this process will take and what the outcome of this process is. Every time I want to leave, she silently helps me prepare, helps me get into a wheelchair and watches me swing out of the yard; What will happen to her after this? I never thought about it at that time.

Once I staggered out of the yard; I remembered something and then came back. I saw my mother still standing in the same place, or the way she sent me. I looked at the corner where I turned out of the yard and didn't respond to my return for a long time. When she sent me out again, she said, "Go out for activities and read in the Ditan. I said it was good. " Many years later, I gradually realized that my mother's words were actually self-consolation, a secret prayer, a reminder, a plea and an instruction. Only after her sudden death did I have time to imagine. When I was away from home for a long time, she was so fidgety, fidgety, in pain and panic, the minimum prayer of a mother. Now I can conclude that with her wisdom and perseverance, on the night after those empty days, the day after that sleepless night, she must have said to herself at last: "I can't stop him from going out anyway." The future is his own. If something really happens to him in that garden, I have to bear the pain. " During that time-it was a long time, I thought I must have prepared for the worst, but she never said "miss me." Actually, I really didn't think about her. At that time, her son was too young to miss his mother. He was stunned by fate and thought he was the most unfortunate person in the world. He doesn't know that his son's misfortune is always doubled with his mother. She had a son who was suddenly paraplegic at the age of twenty. This is her only son. She would rather have her son paraplegic, but this is irreplaceable; She thinks that as long as her son can live, even if he dies, she is convinced that a person can't just live, and his son must have a way to make himself happy. And this road, no one can guarantee that her son will finally find it. -such a mother is destined to be the mother who lives the hardest.

Once I was chatting with a writer friend, I asked him what was his initial motivation for learning to write. He thought for a moment and said, "It's for my mother. Make her proud. " I was shocked and silent for a long time. Looking back on my motivation for writing novels, although it is not as simple as this friend's, I have the same desire as him, and once I think about it carefully, I find that this desire also accounts for a large proportion of all motives. The friend said, "Is my motivation too vulgar?" I just shook my head, thinking that vulgarity is not necessarily vulgar. Maybe this wish is too naive. He added: "I really wanted to be famous at that time. I was famous to make others envy my mother." I think he is more frank than me. I think he is happier than me because his mother is still alive. I think his mother is luckier than mine. His mother doesn't have a lame son, otherwise it wouldn't be so simple.

When my first novel was published, in those days when my novel won the first prize, I really wish my mother was still alive. I can't stay at home anymore. I go to Ditan alone all day. My heart is full of depression and sadness. I have traveled all over the garden, but I don't understand why my mother can't live for another two years. Why can't she stand it all of a sudden when her son is on the road? Did she come to this world just to worry about her son, but shouldn't she share my little happiness? She was only forty-nine when she left me in a hurry! For a moment, I even hated and hated the world and God. Later, I wrote in an article entitled "Acacia Tree": "I sat in a quiet forest in a small park, closed my eyes and thought, why did God call my mother back early? For a long time, the answer I heard was:' Her heart was too bitter. God saw that she couldn't stand it, so he called her back.' I seemed to get a little comfort. I opened my eyes and saw the wind passing through the Woods. "Small park refers to the Ditan.

Author: asahorse 2009-3-7 2 1:23 Reply to this speech.

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3 Reply: Ditan and I.

Only at this time, all kinds of past events became clear before my eyes, and my mother's suffering and greatness deeply penetrated into my heart. God's consideration may be right.

Walking slowly in the garden in a wheelchair is a foggy morning and a sunny day. I only think about one thing: my mother is gone. I stopped by the old cypress tree and the decaying wall on the grass. It was the afternoon when insects were everywhere and the dusk when birds returned to their nests. I only said to myself: but my mother is gone. Put down the back of the chair, lie down, as if sleeping until the sun is gone, sit up, in a trance, and just sit there until the ancient altar is full of darkness, and then the moonlight gradually comes, and then I realize that my mother can never come to this garden again.

Many times, I stayed in this garden for too long, and my mother came to see me. She came to me and didn't want me to find out. As long as she sees me still in this garden, she will turn back quietly. I saw her come back several times. I saw her looking around several times. Her eyesight is poor, and wearing glasses looks like looking for a boat at sea. I saw her when she didn't see me. Seeing her and me, I won't go to see her. After a while, I will look up at her and see the back of her slowly leaving. I just don't know how many times she hasn't found me. Once I was sitting in the bushes, which were dense, and I saw that she didn't find me; She walked alone in the garden, walked past me, walked past some places where I often stayed, and walked blankly and eagerly. I don't know how long she has been looking for it and how long she will look for it. I don't know why I decided not to call her-but this is by no means hide-and-seek as a child. Maybe it's because an adult boy is stubborn or shy? But this stubbornness made me lose my pride. I really want to warn all adult boys not to be stubborn to their mothers, let alone be shy. I see, but it's too late.

The son wants to make his mother proud. After all, this emotion is so real that the notorious idea of "wanting to be famous" has changed his image a little. This is a complicated problem, leave it alone. As the excitement of winning the novel faded, I began to believe that at least I was wrong: the road I collided with paper and pen in the newspaper was not the one my mother expected me to find. I come to this garden year after year, and year after year, I want to think about what my mother wants me to find. My mother didn't leave me any meaningful philosophical words or teachings that I should abide by, but after her death, her hard fate, unyielding will and unobtrusive love became more and more vivid and profound in my impression as time went on.

One year, the October wind raised the quiet leaves again. I was reading in the garden and heard two old people walking say, "I didn't expect this garden to be so big." I put down my book and thought, how many anxious roads did my mother take in such a big garden before she found her son. For the first time in many years, I realized that this garden is not only full of my ruts, but also full of my mother's footprints.

Author: asahorse 2009-3-7 2 1:23 Reply to this speech.

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4 reply: Ditan and I

five

I haven't forgotten a child-a beautiful and unfortunate little girl. I saw her when I first came to this garden that afternoon fifteen years ago. At that time, she was about three years old, squatting on the path to the west of Zhan Mu Palace to pick up "little lanterns" falling from trees. There are several big pear trees there. In spring, clusters of tiny and dense yellow flowers bloom. When the flowers fall, countless small lanterns are produced, like three leaves stacked together. Small lanterns turn green first, then white, then yellow, and fall all over the ground when they are ripe. Small lanterns are exquisite and precious, and adults can't help but pick them up one after another. The little girl babbled and picked up a small lantern; Her voice is very good, not as shrill as a person of her age, but very round and even rich, perhaps because the garden was too quiet that afternoon. I wonder why such a small child came to this garden alone. I asked her where she lived. She casually pointed to it and called her brother. A boy of seven or eight years old stood in the grass by the wall. He looked at me and thought I didn't look like a bad person. He said to his sister, "I'm here" and bent down again. He is catching some bugs. He caught mantis, grasshopper, cicada and dragonfly to please his sister. For two or three years, I often saw them under those big pear trees, and my brothers and sisters always played together, playing in harmony and growing up. I haven't seen them for many years since then. I think they are all at school and the little girl is old enough to go to school. She must have bid farewell to her childhood and won't have many opportunities to play here. This is normal, there is no reason to take it too seriously. If I don't see them in the garden for one year, I will gradually forget them.

It was a Sunday morning. It was a sunny and heartbreaking morning. Many years later, I found that the beautiful little girl turned out to be a mentally retarded child. I rocked my car to those big Luan trees, which was the season when small lanterns were everywhere; At that time, I was suffering from the ending of a novel. I don't know why I gave it such an ending, and I don't know why I suddenly didn't want it to have such an ending. So I ran out of the house, trying to rely on the peace in the garden to see if I should give up the novel. As soon as I stopped the car, I saw a few people playing with a young girl not far ahead, making strange gestures to scare her, running after her, and intercepting her while shouting and laughing. The girl ran around several big trees in horror, but she didn't let go of the skirt rolled in her arms. Her legs were bare and she seemed unconscious. I can see that the girl has some mental defects, but I haven't seen who she is yet. I was about to drive to clear the way for the girl, when I suddenly saw a young man riding a bike quickly in the distance, so all the guys playing with the girl ran away. The young man put his bike near the girl, stared at the scattered guys, panting and saying nothing. His face is as pale as the sky before the storm. At this moment, I recognized them. This young man and this young girl are little brothers and sisters. I almost exclaimed or wailed in my mind. Things in the world often make God's intentions suspicious. The young man walked towards his sister. The girl let go of her hand, her skirt hung down, and many small lanterns she picked up spilled all over the floor and scattered at her feet. She is still beautiful, but her eyes are dull and dull. She just looked at the scattered guys and looked at the farthest emptiness. It is impossible for her intelligence to understand the world, right? Under the big tree, the broken sunshine dotted it, and the wind blew small lanterns everywhere, as if there were countless small bells ringing silently. My brother helped my sister to the back seat of the bike and took her home without saying anything.

Silence is right. If God gave the little girl both beauty and mental retardation, it would be right to go home speechless.

Who can figure out the world? Many things in the world are unspeakable. You can complain about why God has brought so much suffering to this world, and you can also fight to eliminate all kinds of suffering and enjoy loftiness and pride for it. But if you think more, you will fall into deep confusion: If there is no suffering in the world, can the world still exist? If there is no stupidity, where is the glory of wisdom? If there is no ugliness and beauty, how can we maintain luck? Without meanness and meanness, how will kindness and nobility define themselves and become virtues? If there is no disability, will the voice become boring because of its platitudes? I often dream of completely eliminating disability in the world, but I believe that by then, patients will suffer the same pain instead of disabled people. If the disease can be completely eliminated, then the pain will be borne by people who are ugly, for example. Even if we can eliminate ugliness, ignorance and meanness, and all things and behaviors we don't like, all people are equally healthy, beautiful, intelligent and noble. What will happen? I'm afraid all the plays on the earth will come to an end. A world without difference will be a stagnant pool, a desert without feeling and fertility.

There always seems to be disagreement. It seems that we have to accept suffering-all human dramas need suffering, and existence itself needs suffering. Looks like God was right again.

So there is a most desperate conclusion waiting here: who will play those who suffer? Who will embody the happiness, pride and happiness in this world? It is unreasonable to leave things to chance.

As far as fate is concerned, don't talk about justice.

So, where is the road to redemption for all unfortunate fates?

If wisdom and understanding can lead us to the road of redemption, can all people get such wisdom and understanding?

I often think that ugly women make beautiful women. I often think that fools lead to wisdom. I often think that cowards set off heroes. I often think that all beings have become Buddhas.

Author: asahorse 2009-3-7 2 1:27 Reply to this speech.

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5 reply: Ditan and I

seven

If there's something I haven't said, Ditan, don't think I've forgotten. I haven't forgotten anything, but some things are only suitable for collection. Can't say, can't think, but can't forget. They can't become languages, they can't become languages, and once they become languages, they are no longer them. They are a hazy warmth and loneliness, a mature hope and despair, and their territory has only two places: the heart and the grave. For example, some stamps are used to send letters, while others are just for collection.

Now I am walking slowly in this garden with my bike, and I often feel that I have been playing alone for too long. One day I sorted out my old photo album, a photo taken in this circle more than ten years ago-the young man was sitting in a wheelchair with an old cypress tree behind him and an ancient altar in the distance. I went to the garden to look for the tree. I searched according to the background in the photo and found it soon. I looked for it according to the shape of its branches in the photo and made sure it was it. But it is dead, and there is a vine with a thick bowl around it. One day, I met an old lady in this garden. She said, "Hello, are you still there?" She asked me, "How is your mother?" "Who are you?" "You don't remember me, but I remember you. Once your mother came here to see you, and she asked me if you saw a child rocking a wheelchair. ..... "Suddenly I feel that I have been playing in this world for too long. One night, I was sitting alone reading under the street lamp beside the altar, and suddenly there was a suona sound from the dark altar. Surrounded by towering old trees, the square altar covers an area of hundreds of square meters and is open to the sky. I can't see the suona player. Suona sings in the starry night sky, sometimes sad and happy, sometimes lingering, sometimes desolate. Maybe these words are not enough to describe it. I woke up and heard clearly, ringing in the past, ringing now and ringing in the future.

One day, I will hear someone calling me back.

At that time, you can imagine that a child is tired of playing, but not enough. Many novel ideas in my heart can't even wait until tomorrow. You can also imagine an old man, no doubt walking to his resting place and working hard. You can also imagine a pair of lovers in love, saying "I don't want to leave you for a moment" to each other again and again, and saying "it's getting late" to each other again and again. It's getting late, but I don't want to leave you for a moment. I don't want to leave you for a moment, but it's getting late after all.

I don't know if I want to go back. I can't say whether I want to or not, or it doesn't matter. I can't tell whether I am like that child, like that old man, or like a lover in love. Something like this: I am the three of them at the same time. When I came, I was a child. He has too many childish ideas, crying and crying to come. As soon as he saw the world, he immediately became a desperate lover. For lovers, no matter how long it takes, it is fleeting. At that time, he knew that every step was actually on the way back. When the morning glory first bloomed, the funeral horn had sounded.

But the sun, it will always be the sunset and the rising sun. When he went down the mountain to collect all the desolate afterglow, it was just the time when he climbed to the other side of the mountain to burn. On that day, I will also quietly go down the mountain, leaning on crutches. One day, in a ravine, a happy child will definitely run up and hold his toy.

Of course, that's not me.

But isn't that me?

The universe refines a song and dance into eternity with its endless desire. What kind of name this desire has can be ignored.