Dip snow for ink

Author: Zhou Tao
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 2002-09-01
Features: The benefits of winter start from November of the old year and last until April of the new year, making up half a year of winter in the western part of northern China. This is truly a severe winter, occupying half of our lives and squeezing the other three seasons together, dividing the year into a unique day-and-night pattern of seasons. Our relationship with winter is like that of night owls with the night or dreamers with space—a connection often unnoticed by people from other places. Who can perceive the tacit harmony of the people in the western part of northern China with the long winter, remaining calm and at ease? Who can notice their dazed and eager adaptation to spring? Indeed, it is not easy to observe, though it is written on their faces and in their eyes. Even they themselves may not understand, for many aspects of their nature are gifts from this severe winter. If we consider spring as a concert, summer as a major football match, and autumn as a colorful and magnificent series of Peking opera performances, then winter is our steady and flavorful daily life. Some pity us, thinking we are very unlucky, as if we were exiled to a cold region, like penguins. This is not surprising, as they do not understand winter—it is not a matter that can be explained by theory. We see winter this way: it is like daily life, both hateful and loved; both tedious and liked; both seemingly too long, yet making us cherish its many benefits in the scorching summer. For example, last summer, the heat made me almost naked all day, with nothing on my upper body. Unable to endure it, I looked at the bright window glass bathed in sunlight and wished, "If only it could snow now!" What does this show? It shows that we miss snow, and also that snow is equally indispensable in human life. It is our friend in winter and the content of winter—a seemingly hollow thing. Our longing for it often begins in summer, like an appointment, or like a homeless friend who suddenly arrives from afar without an invitation but is always on time. It is very considerate, never failing to keep its promise. And when it arrives, the world changes. No one remains indifferent; everyone is filled with awe and lament, unable to articulate why they are happy or sad. A heavy snowfall profoundly touches and transforms people's lives. Often, gazing at the swirling snowflakes dancing in the gray sky outside the window, one feels moved, joyful, and then a nameless sorrow. Snowflakes are like living, breathing things, moving up and down, left and right, even swaying outside the window glass, as if waving or smiling, like an infant's innocent hands or a fairy's swaying skirt. At such moments, you might whisper to them, "Where have you been? You've been wandering around for so long!" They say nothing, just soaring, spinning, and dancing, like a ballet spirit accompanied by the music of "The Butterfly Lovers." From the sky to the earth, this is their stage, their artistic life. Then, tired from dancing, they land on the ground and sleep quietly, with their own fur as their blanket. Especially on such winter nights, the entire space resembles the deep, dark, and blue depths of the ocean. The snow has already thickened, yet it continues to fall. The amber glow of streetlights fades, like a humble gaze looking down at the feet. Under the lights, the large, fluttering snowflakes and snowballs, like moths in a bright light, flutter and compete, colliding and scattering white powder. The thick, fluffy snow reflects a layer of blue light, intertwining with various colored lights and merging with the gray-blue night glow from the sky, creating a sense of a cosmic night. Walking slowly on the thick snow of a winter night is like being an astronaut on the moon. Sometimes, after a heavy snowfall, it is a bright and clear morning. The sun, like a foolish boy who has come to the wrong door, is completely in summer attire—shorts, a tank top, and a flushed face. This sun, when it falls into the winter morning, creates a striking contrast. All the snow resists it, reflecting its light and rejecting this universal lover of all things. The sunlight coming down from the sky and the light reflected back by the snow collide in the air, scattering rays of light, dazzling the eyes—as if one is caught in a war of light, unsure which side to follow. Still, I believe that the winter scenes that bring me the greatest joy in life are riding across the snowfields and driving through the ice city. Though these experiences are different in scenery, they are both joyful. In the river valleys, on a snow-covered day, gathering friends, with long spears and swift horses, or under the guise of hunting or a wedding, carrying fine wine and young lambs, we race for miles, filled with laughter and chatter. Then, we halt on a high slope, gazing far and wide. The world is a single hue of white, the mountains and rivers pure and beautiful, the world thick and sturdy, as we sing and stroll. All at once, someone shouts, "I love my country!" As night falls on the ice city, the lights twinkle and reflect, the long streets and ice rivers stretch out, tall buildings and snow-covered peaks glitter with starlight, thousands of cars flow, their taillights flickering, music and songs return to courtyards, and lights shine on terraces, making the prosperous land a bridge and the frontier an eternal city of lights. At such moments, sitting in a car, one feels as if in a dream, unable to believe that what lies before them is the same small crossroads town from 40 years ago! Reflecting on the present and remembering the past, one cannot help but feel the passage of time. Suddenly, I recall the curious question from a southerner: "Are there wolves on the streets of Urumqi?" I laughed heartily alone. Nature's beauty and human-made beauty are both beautiful—why must one be praised while the other is? The creation of heaven and earth, the work of gods and demons, is something we all love and cherish. There is no need to curse the city to show one's closeness to nature. Oh, lovers of life, let us understand, appreciate, and enjoy life more! Do not be in the mortal world yet shout of renouncing the world, or live in the city yet clamor about retreating to the mountains and forests. Do not speak of what you do not intend to do, for that is very hypocritical. Similarly, if you have the strength to love winter, what in the world cannot you love? Coconut breezes, banana rains, white sand, green waves, ten miles of flower-lined streets, a hundred miles of camphor trees, willows by the riverside with the morning wind and the lingering moon, the fragrance of osmanthus in the late autumn, the sound of cicadas in midsummer like a dream—need I say more? Winter is an existence, winter is a life, perhaps its timely arrival meets the needs of our cyclical body. As a girl once wrote in an article: "Gazing at the pure white snow, my heart suddenly becomes calm, as if touching the edge of long-lasting peace." (From the Supplement of "Xinjiang Economic Daily," January 31, 1996) To refuse winter is to refuse life; to understand winter is to understand life. Moreover, is it happy to escape winter? Fish cannot live without water, and people cannot live without land and winter. The memories winter leaves us are often clearer, deeper, and more unforgettable than those of summer, autumn, and spring. The benefits of winter in a person's life are like the influence of a father—unconscious yet penetrating the bones. Thus, the benefits and wonders of winter, their profound and moving aspects, are easily listed at hand. Every scene, every object, every sight subtly influences human existence—I will casually pick a few scenes from my memories to share with you: First, during a migration, the snowfield is vast. The large herds of cattle, sheep, and camels have gradually moved away, leaving a single horse isolated in a mountain hollow. The snow is knee-deep, the wilderness boundless. The horse nibbles at the snow, lifts its head, unaware of whether it has been abandoned or which way to go. Looking left and right, the path is lost, running through sand and snow, bellowing. The vast world contrasts with the small horse, surrounded by thick snow. The migrating people and horses have long disappeared. Second, a six-month-old baby, unable to speak, coincides with a auspicious snowfall. Holding the baby outside, we make them look up. The baby's eyes are round and lustrous, like the essence of life, deep and unfathomable. Suddenly, large snowflakes fall onto their eyelashes, trembling like butterflies perched on flowers. The baby is amazed, eyes wide open, motionless for a long time. That snowy day, that baby, that scene—unforgettable. Third, I asked a friend to get me two Kuche gray lamb pelts, but I forgot to mention it. Years later, the friend indeed sent them. I also asked another friend to have a Uyghur hat maker make a hat, and after several years, it was finally completed. After the hat was made, I longed for winter, and when winter arrived, I longed for cold days. During a heavy snowfall, wearing the hat out, the lamb fur flutters, the color gray-white, snow not sticking to it. On sunny days, it seems as if snow has fallen on the hat. It has the meaning of "When winter comes, the sky will snow" and "Snow covers the bow." The hat is not in vain, it is not cold until it drops below zero degrees, and when worn, sweat pours out. Fourth, making dumplings on a heavy snowfall is particularly flavorful, allowing one to travel thousands of miles and connect with the past. Under the snow curtain, the mind is undistracted, free from worldly troubles, and the dumplings made are especially delicious. Fifth, sweeping snow is one of life's great joys. With a long broom and a square shovel, gathering fluffy snow into white jade mountains, without raising dust, turning the divine craftsmanship of heaven into white jade on earth. It can stretch the limbs, activate the blood, benefiting both others and oneself, far better than exercising solely for fitness! Sixth, on a heavy snowfall, friends come, adding great charm. Those willing to brave the snow to visit are truly sincere; those who welcome guests in the snow fill my heart with joy. In a warm room, with smoke warming the space, the soul is relaxed, sitting and talking about trivial matters, laughing and discussing books without words. When the fun is over, the friends leave, leaving behind deep, fat footprints of old friends on the new snow, a lingering farewell. Seventh, watching winter swimmers makes one's skin prickle, but then realizing one is still on land, standing fat and foolish like a penguin, makes one feel even warmer. Eighth, watching people slip and fall on the street, I am about to laugh, but suddenly my own feet slip, and I fall headfirst. Instead of laughing, others extend their hands to help me up. Ninth, children play snowball fights and build snowmen, full of enthusiasm, unaware of the cold. Watching them, one is moved and suddenly recalls childhood and Lu Xun's description of "small hands like purple ginger." Tenth, "Mountains dance like silver snakes, plains gallop like tigers" is a common sight in winter, while "Red and white adorned, even more enchanting" is before my eyes. Thus, I recite the lines from "Spring River Song—Snow," the magnanimity of a great leader, inspiring and uplifting. I recall Mr. Mao Zedong, who loved snow in life. Plum blossoms delight in the snow, it is no wonder if flies freeze to death. Written in Xinjiang on January 8, 1996