Topic essay. Essence book

Author: Yingcai Composition Research Institute
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: When I was young, I loved green, as it always made me see something. During art class, I enjoyed using green to paint every piece of land, but that kind of green was lifeless—it lacked vitality and hope, no life or sunshine, nor inspiration or shock. That day, at Grandma’s house, my gaze accidentally fell on the windowsill: a thriving spider plant, its lush, dewy green leaves reaching out from the pot and hanging down, densely covering the dark brown clay pot; a slender stem hung down, with several small spider plants beside it, swaying gracefully and contentedly in the gentle breeze; under the sunlight, those small leaves showed a transparent green, trembling slightly, revealing a simple yet dynamic charm. I was even more amazed and asked Grandma, "Grandma, can you give me a spider plant?" Grandma smiled lightly, "It hasn’t grown yet, and it’s so delicate—it won’t survive." It was too small, with only three or four leaves, and its roots were no bigger than half a fingernail. I planted it in a small bottle, changing the water daily, and a little sunlight was enough to wrap it in warmth. Days passed. Fortunately, it didn’t wither or dry out—I just changed the water, not daring to hope for much. After a week, then two weeks, one day when I picked it out of the bottle as usual, I couldn’t help but gasp! Against the light, I clearly saw a tender root bud bursting from the roots—it was true? I stared, dumbfounded—it had actually done it! Its leaves had become even paler, as if it had poured all its strength into nurturing this precious bud. A huge sense of emotion filled my heart, moved by the hardships it endured as a life to show the world its existence. Yes—I suddenly understood something, it was a life! This was life interpreting its power and existence to the world. Days continued to pass at a steady pace, and I watched the spider plant. The warm sunlight warmed the small bottle on the corner of the table, nurturing its growing body, unfurling each new leaf. This green spirit, its dewy green beauty—was it all because of life? Wasn’t it? All life is beautiful. It poured out its vibrant green day by day, gradually becoming a full, lush landscape, just like its mother, revealing an increasingly elegant demeanor—its mother’s elegance, it was the continuation of its mother’s life! When it had grown out over a dozen leaves, it was already the second year. By then, the spider plant was graceful and elegant, swaying gently, placed in an exquisite box, hanging out another surprise of life. I seemed to vaguely remember that when I visited Grandma’s, the original pot of spider plant had already withered and died. Grandma said casually, with some regret, "Ah, flowers are like this—they wither when it’s time." But I was startled—withered? I remembered it from a year ago, so elegant and delicate, full of vitality, radiant! Fortunately, my spider plant still remained, as the continuation of its mother’s life, allowing that elegant charm to linger in the world. In that moment, I understood the last lesson of life: its impermanence, cruelty, and the beauty it contains.