Fields through the window

My office is on the third floor, with large doors and small doors, inside and outside glass, and green curtains drawn all day. Sitting all day, my mind is sluggish, framed, folded. Every time I want to think about something, I don't need to think, just press a button, turn the page, like a robot. Today is like yesterday, like yesterday again. There is little change. When I open the window, outside and inside glass, and pull up the curtains, I suddenly realize: The window looks out onto the fields!

From then on, a year, more than three hundred days - rain or shine, the first thing I did when entering the room was to open that door. Rain - to let the water splash on my face to wake me up from the dream of making a living. Sun - to let the dawn caress my hair and the wind rustle within reach, pulling out the colorful, multi-shaped fields of the four seasons - the fields of today and the fields of the past that have fallen asleep somewhere in my memory.

Here, the closest is a round pond, in winter it's so clear, you can see the whole bunch of dogtail seaweed swaying and wriggling, looking straight up to the third floor, challenging: "Are you good enough to roll up your pants and wade down here, scoop us up, chop us up, and cook pig feed like in the old days?". Then they turned to each other happily: "Not afraid! You wouldn't dare ask for candy! You're wearing a wool coat, cotton socks, and a wool scarf all wrapped up like that. In the old days, you had to wear bare feet all day, shorts that were half-sleeved, and shirts that were patched all over"...

Summer, the round pond still shimmers in the sunlight, dazzling in its gentleness with a whole sky of white clouds wandering in the water. Wild daisies bloom along the shore, five pure white petals. Tiny yellow pistils shine like the sun. Thousands, tens of thousands of wild flowers flutter with the same emotion. The morning is excited, youthful in the gentle wind and the deep pink sunlight that begins to be intense but not harsh. At noon, the shoulders droop lazily, heads leaning against each other to avoid the harsh, slanting sunlight that spares no mercy to flowers or jade. The afternoon returns, excited, gentle but stronger and more passionate. Bees and butterflies chirp in search of flowers, shrimps and prawns splash and crackle. Occasionally, you can even see a snake strolling across the pond, drawing a zigzag line on the flat water surface. The pond is peaceful but never without excitement.

In late autumn, the water spinach becomes blunt, the tops are short, the leaves are thick, pointed like rice leaves, small and crispy. It is tough to eat but beautiful in the flowering season. The white and purple water spinach flowers bloom in the morning, immense in the dry fields, shimmering in the shape of bells, facing up to welcome the golden sunlight. I wish I was a kid again, to go pick water spinach flowers to play with.

Third floor, all year round, the curtains are drawn tightly. Outside the window, the four-season field is sometimes leisurely, sometimes full of wind, sometimes drizzling, sometimes pouring rain, sometimes golden and dry, sometimes blazing with sunshine. Sitting here reminds me: There was a time when I had a field of my own like that.

The fields of my childhood. Back then, there was never a time when the whole field was brown with stubble cut across the trees, left to the wind to blow, sad and desolate in the gray afternoon like now. Just a few days after the harvest, the stubble had been lifted up to the fields and ditches, and had reached the village roads and alleys to dry, pile up, and replace the roofs of houses. The soil was turned over, the ridges were made, the sweet potato vines were crushed, and the eggplants were split.

Oh, the fields of the past, why can't I see them anymore? The highway stands tall like a mountain across the old horizon, blocking the view of the old place. My childhood is still left on the roadside with corn grilled on charcoal and potatoes baked in the microwave. Looking at the noisy streets, the flashing lights of cars... suddenly I feel choked up, wishing I could return to the fields of the past!