People come and go in busy streets. The unique facade attracts tourists. I want to buy shoes and special gifts in this holy city-Lhasa.
There are so many thangkas, strokes, jewels ... The store is crowded with people, but my attention is attracted by a humble shop. A shop without a signboard, the door was half open, as if inviting me in.
"It's really strange to be so cold and cheerless." I thought as I pushed the door in. It's full of all kinds of copper products, so dense that it really scares me. A middle-aged man came out of the room with heavy eyebrows and a common plateau red face and said, "What do you want?" "Listen to him and ask," I'm just looking around. "It may be that the store is too quiet, so I can't help lowering my voice.
Bend down and look at each artifact carefully. Some bronzes are obviously rough by hand, but the objects on the display case are surprisingly exquisite. Perhaps it was because he looked at the copper pot for too long that the man volunteered, "It took my master a year to polish it." "A year?" I am surprised that a palm-sized pot, just as an ornament, will take a person a year.
I can't help talking to that man. He told me that he had studied art here for more than 30 years and watched this commercial street gradually prosper. "More than 30 years, then you must be very powerful." I praised him so much, but he denied it again and again, and his simple face showed awe: "Thirty years of making copper is far from my master's craft. The teacher has been in contact with him all his life, and he has always been a night watchman; I love this craft and I am willing to keep watching it and let this craft pass on. " Looking at his pious and firm eyes, a little respect arises spontaneously, just because this watch is so valuable, not chasing money and fame, but for the culture of love. "Thank you," I said suddenly, and he smiled foolishly.
As soon as I opened the door of the shop, the noise came at me. Noise makes the store look out of place, so lonely and unique. But I know they will never be alone. Even though the watchers will inevitably feel lonely and quiet, their hearts are full, and they will never lose and lose because they have hope.
How many people are watching in this world? There are fewer and fewer scarecrows in the wheat field. You are in a hurry. Can you see the watchmen guarding their careers carefully? Can you feel their expectations?
I put the copper pot brought back from Lhasa in a conspicuous position at home. Every time I see it, I can think of that store and a group of awesome watchmen.
The society is developing rapidly and the culture is bleak. What this era needs is to see more and protect what we cherish, just because seeing more can be understood and loved by more people one day and passed on.
At this moment, would you like to see a treasure with me?
Chapter Two: Watching Poetry
In the middle of the night, the building silently casts a sleeping shadow, and the stars in the sky are like candlelight that people hold carefully. A touch of starlight falls on the morning glory-covered newsstand in Tianxiang Street-where an old man lives poetically.
Early in the morning, people who get up in the morning come out of the alley along the street. I pass by here every day when I go to school. I saw that the old man neatly classified a lot of messy newspapers and periodicals, skillfully stuffed newspapers into iron clips, orderly, leisurely and neatly. In the throng of people, the old man is like the hero in a black-and-white movie, quiet and unassuming, calm and not amazing. From a distance, the newsstand at this time has a kind of interest of "clouds out of the window", like a four-corner eaves pavilion, staring at the people coming and going in the alley. Every time I meet the old man's eyes, my morning troubles disappear.
At noon, I didn't find the old man in the dark suit room and the staggered briefcase room. When I looked up for the first time, I suddenly found that the old man was sleeping comfortably in the shade of mango trees, and the fan in his hand had slipped from his chest. Two grandfathers beside the rocking chair are fighting fiercely on the chessboard, but the old man is unmoved. A small tin can was placed on the newspaper, and passers-by walked away with the newspaper and dropped a coin-the customer trusted the old man, and the old man trusted his customer. Cicada has been singing. Amid the noise, this newsstand seems to give me a temperament of "picking chrysanthemums under the east fence and seeing Nanshan leisurely" It seems to be watching the blue sky and white clouds at the corner of the mountain, and it seems to be sitting on the top of the mountain listening to the sound of waterfalls. There is a poetic corner in my heart.
As night fell, the newsstand stood out in a shop that turned off the lights and closed the market. Look at that alley-I think you must be waiting for those workers who come home late. The workers who call it a day pass by the newsstand. You hand in a newspaper with a smile, then turn around and lock the door of the newsstand with satisfaction, pick up some newspapers, pick up the bamboo fan and go home with starlight. The city fell asleep quietly again.
As the days go by, I often think of the old man. I think the old man is in that alley every day, watching the restless people on the road and the leisure in the noisy city.
Although I can't see this poetic old man every day when I go out of the alley, I will go to the newsstand to chat with the old man as long as I have leisure. Because I am very grateful to the old man for leaving a corner of the city with his leisurely poetic life, watching the little poems disappearing into people's hearts and watching the envied mood and life of countless people.
You smiled calmly, stood on the newsstand and looked at me again. Every elongated wrinkle was filled with joy. The golden powder of the sun passed through the morning glory branches in bundles, as if watching the newsstand, and seeing the unbroken troubles in everyone's heart flowing away with the sun.
Article 3: Composition of Land Watchers
When I was a child in the country, my grandfather didn't like to laugh very much, but he often looked at his own acre of land outside the window alone, serious and quiet, but he sighed from time to time, perhaps because he was worried about the land.
Grandpa hasn't studied for several years, and his voice is like a drum. When he walks, he will bring his own "da da" sound. However, such a big person has motherly tenderness for the land. He has been dealing with the land all his life, and the soil has penetrated into his skin and flowed into his blood. He has believed in the old farmer's "good protection of the land" all his life. He said that the land is alive, just like the fetus in the mother's belly, and the land has its own life, but every beat is supplying the blood of the food we eat.
He is the watchman of those acres of land, and will never allow anything to destroy his sacred Eden. He loves every life in the Garden of Eden, even the weeds, and he feels a little pity.
Such a gentle man, I have repeatedly seen him furiously stop the steel monster from occupying that small piece of land. He waved a cracked and powerful khaki fist and scolded those who politely wanted to build a house or buy his land with embarrassing words like a child.
Many people say that he is a stubborn old-fashioned. He was silent, and still insisted on bending down to work in the most primitive way, disdaining using tractors. He thought it would destroy his land, and he tried his best to protect it all his life. Is this right or wrong? He only believes in himself.
Last year, I heard that he fell out with the construction team again. When I saw him again, I was surprised to find that he was old and his waist was getting lower. He said that he would stop playing drums and walking in a hurry, and he was more tired and tired.
"I am too old to protect my land." Grandpa sighed lightly, still staring blankly out of the window. In the distance, the sun has disappeared behind a house.
Grandpa declined our kindness to let him go to town. He is the only caretaker in that land. Finally, the bus started, and grandpa stood barefoot in that field, as if he had taken root. It is another spring, and the new green shoots and dead branches in winter are flying in the fallen leaves. Grandpa is old. He wants to protect this land with his last remnants, and expects someone to continue to protect the only pure land in Fiona Fang for him in the future.
Watchmen, guards and expectations. When the car turned a corner, I found that I had lost my grandfather. He may still be dreaming his own dreams in his own little garden of Eden, guarding his fragile dreams and quietly watching the extravagant hopes.
Chapter Four: Watchers of National Music.
I vaguely remember that crisp autumn day. I know another identity of the teacher and my own mission.
That year, my mother wanted me to learn a national musical instrument, so that I could hold a skill in the fierce competition and not be led by others. And I was puzzled, and she led me to the teacher's residence.
This is a big yard, and the antique old house is covered with intricate wires. The wall has mottled off, revealing navy moss, like human skin. Yellowing walls and gloomy stairs tell the passage of time. I heard music coming from all directions, rich saxophone, loud trumpet, elegant guzheng … but there was a sound I couldn't distinguish. Clear and transparent, the fingers are coherent and smooth, like cuckoo singing, like children's innocent laughter.
Mom smiled and said, "That's your teacher playing the piano."
Pushing open the creaking door, he was greeted by an amiable old man with a small and ancient piano in his arms, from which the sound of nature probably came just now.
Sit down. The teacher handed me a brand-new piano. It is small, but heavy. Smooth wood leans against my stomach, and sharp metal strings shine with condensed light. The teacher smiled and said, "This is Qin Liu."
I was surprised by its nice name. The willow is crying, the piano is everywhere, the spring breeze is blowing, everything is full of vitality, and it is a scene of spring. But I had never heard of such a musical instrument before, so I asked carefully, "Teacher, aren't there many people learning?" The teacher still nodded with a smile and said, "In recent years, fewer and fewer children are learning national musical instruments, especially in Qin Liu."
I finished playing by myself, and the teacher suddenly asked me, "Why do you learn piano?" I was a little at a loss, so I had to answer honestly: "I went to school for the exam." The teacher's eyes were a little sad, and it was quiet in an instant.
"I have been teaching piano for decades. National music is the traditional culture of China people. I am like a watchman, guarding the things of my ancestors. What I expect is that a child like you can pass on the culture. It's better to be the next night watchman. "The teacher paused and stared at me thoughtfully. "Learning the piano can't be utilitarian, otherwise the piano will not be good. I've been watching it for many years, and I'll keep watching it until I can't stand it. I hope that in the future, you can become a watchman like me. "
Teachers are watchmen, guarding the past and looking forward to the future of national music. My mission is to inherit culture and music. Maybe I will be qualified to "watch" in the future, and I can try to learn to be a night watchman.
Chapter 5: Watch.
It's a newsstand that I pass every day when I go home.
It's just an ordinary newsstand. Inside, Abreu is in his fifties, and his plain flat head is mixed with a few inconspicuous white hairs. There is no TV, no cell phone, only a fan, an ordinary fan. Abreu goes to the newsstand early every morning. Every time I go out at seven o'clock, I can always see Abreu sorting out newspapers and periodicals, or he has already sorted it out and looked at the newsstand silently.
When I was in primary school, I liked reading comics best. Serial comics let me go back to Aberdeen to buy one from time to time. Since then, I have always had a question: Aber, the top comic book, can't be found. Every time I look everywhere, I can't find it. I want to point and say, "This!" "Abreu will bring it to me slowly. I thought to myself: maybe there are too many kinds of books, and Abreu didn't write them all down.
When I was in junior high school, I was fascinated by Readers and Story Club. The story club cost four dollars. Every time I give Abreu five dollars, he always thinks for a while, and then goes to find another dollar for me. Aber doesn't like to talk very much, and he just answers the word "good" every time. He usually sits in a chair with a backrest next to him, holding a fan in his hand and looking at the newsstand as if it were everything to him.
One morning, my classmates and I were waiting for the bus. Inadvertently, I asked my uncle: "Hey, have you ever bought a book from my uncle?" "Yes, what's the matter?" "Why is Abreu so slow to change money every time?" "Don't you know Abreu? Let me tell you, it's like this ... "My classmate told me about Aber, and I suddenly realized that Aber is an old man who lives nearby. He was born with some mental problems, but there was nothing wrong with his actions. So every time Abreu gives me money, I look for it slowly, and the location of some books and periodicals is hard to remember. But Abreu has a wife and a son at home. His son can only support himself, so the residents of the neighborhood committee learned about the situation in Abreu and arranged the job for him. It won't be difficult for Abreu, who also regards it as everything to himself.
Only later did I know that what Abreu carefully reads every day is not only an ordinary newsstand, but also a career and a family.
Later, whenever I saw Abreu silently guarding the newsstand, I felt a sense of admiration for Abreu. This is a watch!
Chapter 6: Look, in the kite.
It's been ten years since I first met Master Mao.
A thin old man, wearing a pair of glasses that have not been changed for many years, is staying in his shabby kite workshop. In the past ten years, people have come and gone in the kite workshop, and the kite style made by Master Mao has changed again and again. The kite workshop that was once a smash hit has been dilapidated and refreshed. Master Mao is still in that ancient village, watching and waiting for something.
Thinking of him again today, I finally decided to visit this taciturn, stubborn and bloody kite artist again.
The dilapidated kite workshop was somewhat unexpected to me: the original bright white wall has now peeled off, revealing a terrible brown-green; The unknown old tree in the yard curled up in the cold wind and was listless; The wooden counter is not as strong as it used to be, but now it is trembling to meet several guests.
There are really not many people who may come to visit handmade kites. Just as I was thinking like this, the familiar old man welcomed me in with a smile. I just found out that he is the only one left in the kite workshop. I can't help wondering. After all these years, Master Mao is still here, watching. "What kind of kite do you want? Goldfish or butterflies? " His chapped mouth asked me with a smile, inadvertently revealing the wrinkles around his eyes.
Then he spread out the rice paper, turned on the desk lamp, narrowed his eyes, held a slight stroke and got up. In his skillful writing, a lifelike butterfly flew out of the paper in a short time. Bamboo sticks and tassels, with his quick mercy, a decent butterfly is formed. I saw the enthusiasm in his extremely focused eyes, which could not be covered by white hair. I can't help asking, "Master Mao, when will you make a kite?"
He looked up, and at the other end of the reading glasses was his firm and resonant face. "I don't know. I only know that I have to stick to it. "
The huge kite workshop and his lonely back shocked me again and again. Master Mao is guarding his kite workshop and the old kite, but he is also looking forward to the future, waiting for the handmade kite to usher in another life.
"Well, it's over." His calm voice came. Under the vast sky, he turned the kite string, and the kite wagged its tail and disappeared into the clouds on the horizon. Master Mao turned around and smiled at me.
What he expects is not only the craft of handmade kites. Master Mao is looking at the traditional culture of China that has been passed down for thousands of years, and what he is waiting for and expecting is the rebirth of the traditional culture of China.
I smiled back at him. Yeah, watch, wait for the new students.
Chapter 7: The Catcher in the Paddy Field
Grandpa is a farmer. He spent his whole life vigil in rice fields.
As far as I can remember, a small two-story house was painted with lime, but it was not a very thick one. Lingnan is wet and rainy, and there is a thick layer of moss on the wall. That's grandpa's home, my childhood home. There is always a green slate under the eaves with a few red bricks on it. It is cold and cold to sit on it in summer. When he is not working, grandpa sits here, blowing his head slightly and looking at the rice fields not far away. That's grandpa's paddy field, the paddy field that he accompanied and watched all his life.
Grandpa's field is not big, but dad said grandpa worked hard when he was a child. Dad was poor when he was a child. Several neighbors bought a cow together, but they had no money and had to work to compensate for the right to use the cow. Grandpa took on the heavy responsibility of cultivating more land.
Spring planting and autumn harvest moistened this rice field with countless sweat. Waiting for the sun to rise and the sun to set, waiting for the seasons to change, this is the person who really understands the land. In the natural environment, sowing again and again ushered in harvest again and again. Maybe grandpa didn't know that he gave Paddy the greatest respect in this cycle again and again.
Until now, grandpa still doesn't want to leave his rice field. Every holiday, when I come here, I can always see the busy figure in the rice fields. The sunshine in summer is always inevitable, but the figure in the green microwave bears silently. Don't! How can it be said that it is silent? You don't know, grandpa's happiness. At sunset, the figure came slowly and was drawn long. Birds return to their nests and sing happily. Grandpa is dark, tall and thin, with bright eyes. Along the way, one, two, three ... eight times, nine times, nine times. It's just a short walk, step by step! Like a child bidding farewell to his mother, migratory birds are about to move south, and grandpa left his eyes to his rice fields.
Grandpa likes autumn best. All day, I've been saying: the rice is about to ripen. In his spare time before the autumn harvest, grandpa always likes to go for a walk in the fields. Gently stroking golden rice with a pair of wrinkled hands. There is a smile on her mouth, silly, simple and pure. After the autumn harvest, the rice is shelled and put on fire bags filled with pearls, and one bag is distributed to each family.
I was puzzled and asked, "Why do you want to give it away? How much sweat does it take to grow it! "
Grandpa replied, "Just for fun."
Gradually, I understood: Grandpa watched the rice fields all his life, waiting for the sun to rise and set, waiting for the seasons to change, and all he pursued was inner peace and happiness.
Chapter 8: The Catcher in the Rye
Day after day, year after year, I have been standing in the vast wheat field, staring at the distance with straight arms, motionless.
I am a scarecrow in the wheat field.
When I was first made into this field, there were always some naughty children who liked to climb up and down on me, scaring the birds parked on my shoulders away. At that time, the sky was still very blue, so pure that it seemed that there was no room for a grain of dust. Large tracts of wheat sway with the wind, and the wheat waves seem to extend into the sky, one integrated mass. I stood quietly in the wheat field, quietly looking at this unique blue sky.
As a scarecrow, I don't know what the concept of time is. All I know is that the children running and playing under my feet have changed batch after batch. When the harvest season comes, I can see people sweating in the fields, and I also notice that people are gradually turning from sickles in their hands to rumble harvesters. Only the birds that have gone in winter and returned in spring have not changed much.
I don't know how long it took, but I found that the jewel-like sky I was looking at was gradually overcast. The chimney erected abruptly in the distance of the wheat field is continuously spewing black smoke, which permeates the sky and can no longer be dispersed. When the wind blows, the dust hits my face, which makes me uncomfortable. Slowly, I began to hate the deafening harvester, and the smoke from behind sprayed on me, making me feel like rolling in coal ash.
I am still standing in the wheat field, looking at the sky that seems to be covered with a gray scarf. I'm looking forward to the day when it turns blue again. I'm watching.
For a long time, I suddenly found that there were no more children playing at my feet and no more birds flying to me in droves. I was shocked. The sky I saw looked like a gray-black coat. My side is no longer fresh and sweet fog, but a very uncomfortable dust stuck to my body. I seem to be in a mass of gray paste, and the wheat hangs its head listlessly.
But I haven't given up yet. I still remember watching the sky for a long time.
An unusual rainstorm washed the earth under my feet. The rain accumulated deeper and deeper, and gradually flooded my feet. I feel that the soil is getting looser and looser, which makes me wobbly and weak. Suddenly there was a loud noise and I fell into the mud. Thick mud covered my whole face, and I couldn't see anything except the sound of running water. It was dark.
I don't think I can see the blue sky in my memory anymore.
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