The Divine Brush of the Wind

Tang Chizi

Tang Chizi is a member of the Chinese Writers Association and an associate professor at the School of Liberal Arts， Yuxi Normal University. He is mainly engaged in the creation and research of children’s literature. He has published more than 100 papers and reviews， and more than 50 literary works. Some of his works have been translated into English and Japanese and published.

Far Within the Fields

Tang Chizi

Hope Publishing House

May 2024

38.00 (CNY)

In this natural beauty essay that blends poetry and painting and is full of fairy tales， Tang Chizi uses delicate brushstrokes like wind silk and poetic text narration to paint the subtle feelings that go deep into nature， write the beauty of all creatures， and write about the beautiful time of harmonious coexistence and interdependence between man and nature.

I often think about the growth of grains.

Standing at the edge of a golden sea of rice waves， I feel as if I’ve fallen into a dream. The child within me， who escapes adulthood and the modern city， suddenly feels like a little fish， swimming out from the fringes of the urban world. Before I realize what’s happening， my five-foot-three body seems to shrink instantaneously. Reflexively， I roll into a soft， green pile of wild grass， just like when I was a child.

Am I really dreaming? The smell of the earth， the scent of rice， the fragrance of wildflowers， the smell of insects， the aroma of wild herbs， and the taste of wild fruits--all sweet， fresh， and slightly pungent--flood my senses. These familiar smells rush into my skin， quickly penetrating my inner layers， flowing through my bloodstream， and coursing smoothly and freely through my body， just like in childhood.

Oh， deep breath， how I crave a deep breath at this moment. It’s like renewing life， recharging， and returning to the fields of my childhood.

A deep breath， inhaling all that I have missed， the intoxicating fragrance， the once all-encompassing essence of life that I had to leave behind. Just one breath is enough to make my heart swell and ache. Before the tears can fall， my heart begins to intoxicate， overwhelmed by the happiness and sweet aroma. The sorrow retreats， replaced by an expanding sense of bliss. My heart is drunk， fermenting， slowly softening--will it turn into a sweet wine or a sticky mud?

Oh， whether it’s sweet wine or sticky mud， it’s the treasure of a rural child’s peace. Those carefree days of rolling and stamping in the mud， uncovering earthworms， finding red and green pebbles， sweet reeds， crunchy lotus roots， spring sprouts， summer shrimps， and autumn silver fish. The mud child， carefree and reckless， with only two black eyes and a mouth of bright white teeth. The wind blows against their backsides， urging， “Hurry home for hot water， hurry home for hot water!” The mud child giggles and runs home. Hey， Mom’s rice wine egg soup is just out of the pot， the hot fragrance like a warm embrace wrapping around the naughty mud child. Oh， even if scolded， the day wasn’t wasted. The child， scrubbed clean by Mom， drinks the sweet rice wine egg soup， carrying the wild fragrance in every pore， and falls into a happy sleep under the starry sky lit by fireflies. Now， the heart of the child who played in the mud is also joyfully softened into a lump of mud， from which a hazy white wildflower blooms.

The wind， the rural wind， has a different scent and temperament than the urban breeze. The rural wind loves to chase barefoot mountain children playing in the mud， to caress the slopes filled with white wildflowers like snow. It’s spicy， free-spirited， and never as gentle and civilized as the city wind， which hides from tall buildings and lampposts， sometimes forced into damp underground railways to cry. The rural wind is wild and free， happy to chase mischievous children for a while， to shake the village’s plants and rivers; when tired， it drinks a can of sweet fruit wine on a hillside and falls asleep among dancing golden pheasants and butterflies. It loves to watch the fairies dance with drunken eyes， to touch the bright spots with its fingers， and when fully rested， it comes out to blow again， filling the air with intoxicating fragrance.

The rural wind is an old friend of rural children， and I never expected it to follow me for thousands of miles， for decades， to find me， the one who ran to the city and then fled back. The rural wind has a great memory; it recognized me in the rice fields and， along with all the familiar scents， rushed to me， intoxicating my heart at once.

I fall into the embrace of the fields， eyes closed， enjoying the greetings from my old friend， the wind. Oh， this rural wind， so rugged， yet it holds the world’s most delicate treasure. In its hands is always a divine brush， like a reed. Do you know the secret of the wind? Perhaps only children who play in the mud know.

My rural wind， the wind I haven’t seen in over thirty years， uses that reed-like divine brush to gently draw on my face like silk. But more than silk， it’s like mist， like fine rain， like the waves of a night river. Has my face， no longer covered in mud but weathered by time， lost its childhood elasticity? Is it no longer as plump and beautiful as a mountain fruit? But wind， how do you recognize the changed me?

I want to ask the wind， but the soft divine brush keeps me still. Under its delicate strokes， I become a plant in the wind， perhaps a bundle of grain， a handful of autumn’s barnyard grass. But not a stalk of golden rice， for I fear I lack the golden glow of the rice.

The wind says nothing but seems to murmur softly in my ear， familiar and intimate hometown words， saying， “Don’t move， don’t move.” At this moment， I realize how much this voice， this gentle touch， resembles those hands I haven’t felt in over thirty years--the world’s gentlest hands， hands imbued with the fragrance of the countryside， and the voice and hands of my grandmother， whom I have missed for so many years.