How to explain the story of Sophora japonica in fortune telling?

Quoted from Prose, 2005, 10, Selected Prose, 2006, 1.

Li Hanrong

A dead body

By the time I got back to my hometown, my father was already lying in the humble mourning hall. The so-called "mourning hall" is the hut where my father had dinner with my mother before his death, separated from their bedroom by a wall.

I knelt down beside my father's body, kowtowed deeply for three times, then gently uncovered the white cloth covering his face and stared at his face carefully. I have never looked at his face seriously, but at this time, I stared at his face, which has lost its temperature and is no longer expressionless.

My father's face still shocked me. The wrinkles on my forehead and eyes are deep, which reminds me of the dry and cracked land and the hillside washed by floods. It is either waterlogging or drought, and there are not many days with good weather. At this time, the fate of father and land overlapped and flashed on this face.

I hold my father's cold hand, a pair of hands that I have never held in my life, hands that I have never greeted, and even his children have never looked at and comforted. This is probably the most difficult and lonely hand in the world. It is those hoes, hoes, pickaxes, shovels, sickles, shoulder poles, brown ropes, straw ropes, plowshares and handlebars that accompany these hands for life ... I looked up and saw that the hoes and shoulder poles used by my father were still standing in the corner not far away, and they seemed to be looking at my father's hand, which was their most familiar hand. What kind of hand is this? The thumb is twisted outward, the middle finger is hooked downward, and the little finger is slightly straight-this is the little brother among the fingers, but it is not completely deformed, and the other fingers are not like fingers. These hands have never stopped working since they were born. Labor changed these hands and destroyed them. I don't know how these hands understand and feel about labor, but as you can imagine, these hands have never hated labor, but they may doubt and refuse to live like hard labor, and eventually they will resign themselves to fate and linger in the deep water of hard labor all their lives. I held my father's hand tightly and said to myself, Father, you have worked hard. This is a late handshake, the only handshake, but we can no longer shake hands and greet each other. What I hold in my hand is calluses, hardships, loneliness, and a father who has gone away.

Finally, my eyes returned to my father's face. I looked at his closed eyes, but I couldn't see his eyes. Just from the crow's feet around his eyes, I recall his expression. But all I can remember is his vague expression. I remember that my father seldom spoke in his later years, and his eyes seemed to contain a lot of worries, and his eyes were always full of sadness. Perhaps most of the dying old people are sad, but the father's sadness seems to be more complicated, not only the feeling of old age, but also the feeling of doubt and failure in life, pity and dissatisfaction with his own life. What is hidden in that eye, I can't know. But from my father's sad face, I feel that when life is gradually leaving him, he has been mourning himself and mourning his hard work.

In fact, our mourning is more like a sustenance, a ceremony. Before his death, my father had expressed his deepest condolences to himself. ...

Second, his arthritis.

Seedlings inserted in deep water will become food one day.

Father, has been inserted in the shady place, cold, gradually pinching every bone of you.

At the age of five, I went to the field to transplant rice seedlings, and at the age of seven, I went up the mountain to cut firewood. Since then, his leg has never been pulled out.

Occasionally, sit in a sunny place for a while, then knock on the painful joints with your hands and knock on your own destiny.

Father, you use pain to relieve your pain.

This may be your only secret recipe, passed down from generation to generation.

You have carefully pasted the rheumatism pain-relieving ointment I sent back. Whenever it rains, your bones still hurt badly.

Father, how can you stop a small plaster? Your whole body hurts, and your whole life hurts. ...

Third, his marriage.

He and his wife (my mother) have been quarrelling all their lives.

Their marriage is more like building a bridge in a torrent: the wood has been carried in their hands and the bridge has never been built. They stood in the rapids, with logs in their hands, arguing with each other and with the rapids.

Maybe it is too bitter to be like a fish. Little water turns into saliva, but it is not used to nourish a dry life, nor to preserve a motto, but mainly used to defile the patched character of the other party and take revenge on the moody sky outside the door.

But they are husband and wife after all. They gave birth to and raised us. It also aroused my suspicion. I regret it, but I can't blame anything. On the night of the total lunar eclipse, Na Yue must have brought enough shadow to their small room. ...

Four fathers dug coal.

My father is 42 to 45 years old and works as a coal digger in a coal mine.

Under the mine hundreds of meters deep, at least tens of millions of years deep, in the middle of the night, my father plunged into it and transported the darkest past to the top of his head, the exit of the faint night.

You live a wet life back and forth, and let yourself sink to the side of death again and again.

You don't understand the change of address and the life of coal. The moment you dig coal, you have touched the worst secret of time.

The gas is already waiting nearby. Geological acupoints, like fate acupoints, are always wandering.

What you can accurately touch is only your own body and the most painful bone in your body.

Many years ago, my father once said this: it's not easy. It takes hundreds of millions of years for a piece of wood or stone to boil into coal.

Coal without any culture and a father without any culture need a lot of culture to explain it clearly, or even not at all.

Heaven has no culture, earth has no culture, and coal has no culture. I sat in front of the coal dug by my uneducated father, warmed my hands and began to learn a little culture.

With a lifetime of darkness and mottled scars, my father walked into the middle of the night, never looking back and never coming out again. Father, you have finally become a legendary night. Since then, my son's night has become deeper and deeper. ...

An anecdote about my father

When I was very young, I heard from the villagers that my father was "immoral", and my mother occasionally complained that my father was unfaithful to her.

One day, two villagers were whispering in the field, as if talking about a big secret. I walked over and stood beside a corn, pretending to observe a few thin bees parked on the leaves. The buzz of bees mingled with their deep voices. I only heard one sentence: "... he knocked on Zhang's door last night."

Later, I learned that it was sexual and emotional hunger.

My hungry father, lonely father, once knocked on a woman's door on a serious night.

Looking back today, at that time, farmers were in and out of the fields all day, and the radius of activity was no more than 15 Li. The people they know have almost no friends, let alone friends of the opposite sex, except for the 100 faces that the same village looks up to. Think of my poor father. Husband and wife are always at odds, sometimes they don't talk for days. He must have unspeakable loneliness and unspeakable pain. I don't think he has to do anything when he knocks on a woman's door. Maybe he just wants to say a few words and have a rest. Maybe he wants to see another woman's sympathetic eyes and get some comfort. Alas, my lonely father, how did he get through the long night without love and confidant? In the long night of your life, father, have you found one or two kind stars?

Imagine that scene:

An anxious person, carefully stepping on the moonlight of revolutionary ethics, evaded the harsh questioning of the stars like a thief. The fallen leaves hit him on the head like fists. He dragged the trembling shadow, slowly and quietly approached the door left unlocked, perhaps locked, in the night-

I thought I heard him gently call out three times:

,, Zhang, etc ...

Seven fortune-telling

On the bridge by the river, near the rapids, my father gave his hand to the blind fortune teller.

"Your fingers are thick and hard. In the stone, you can take out the gold from your previous life. Unfortunately, your palm is too narrow to hold anything, and the gold that you finally took out of the stone is gone. "

Father turned around again, bent down and put his spine, another part of his fate, on the blind man's hand.

"Your back, no long bones, no long cartilage, is a man's bone. Not bad. It's a little bent, which is not a good sign. You have been walking on a steep slope. Bend when going uphill. Bend when going downhill, and bend when you bend. When you sleep at night, just straighten up and lie on your back. Imagine the moon lying on its back in the sky. On steep roads, people will bend over to climb and lie on your back. I am also correcting my spine and correcting my life. "

The swift river occasionally interrupts the blind man, and the blind man repeats. Father looked at the river, looked at the blind man and touched his bones. He didn't speak for a long time.

Besides the torrent, did my father hear another torrent? ...

Eight in the corn field

Father has a hoe on his shoulder. When he entered the cornfield, corn stood in his way. They said in unison, "We are children with green leaves, grandpa, please put down the iron guy in your hand."

Father is very obedient, leans his hoe on the ground and drills into the corn field with a smile.

Father's blue shirt shook a few times and was submerged by the corn forest. All over the mountains, only the leaves of corn are ringing.

Only the wind in May knew that my father was squatting at the foot of corn and pulling weeds a little. These children who rushed to the sky suddenly felt a rising temperature under their feet.

Labor is hidden in an unknown corner. In the nearest place to the root, the world has recovered its simple truth: here, a pair of hands repeatedly discuss and explore with the land.

At this moment, no one knows where his father has gone. My father seems to have disappeared.

Hoe motionless, as if a hint:

An invisible old farmer is deep in agriculture, changing the image of summer. ...

He heard the running water of Tianhe.

My father told me that after he was seventy years old, he often heard the running water of Tianhe.

In the dead of night, my father sat in the moonlight and heard the distant tide falling from the sky.

When I was young, my father often told us stories from the sky, the story of the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl, the story of Chang 'e, and the story of Pangu. But at that time, he didn't say the sound of running water in Tianhe.

Maybe this is an illusion? When people get old, they come back and become children. Does the father feel fresh about his forgotten story and more mysterious about this seemingly familiar world?

Civilization has expanded people's cognition and reduced people's deeper subconscious perception. Father is almost illiterate, and civilization has not awakened his subconscious night. It is very likely that my father's perception of the universe is still in a prehistoric state. It is a myth, a legend, a poem, an altar of a psychic.

When civilization and technology dominate and change most people's eyes, ears, consciousness and feelings, the "prehistoric adherents" like their parents become absolutely weak, and they have to reluctantly obey the civilized order that they do not fully understand, but in the depths of their consciousness, they still maintain the blood relationship with the mysterious "prehistoric world".

When he entered the old age, the "temporary relationship" established with the civilized order gradually relaxed, and the mysterious and chaotic "prehistoric world" maintained by the subconscious appeared again. My father returned to childhood, to myths, legends and poems, and to the age of mediums.

Besides what we saw, did his eyes see "images other than images"? My father said several times that he saw a white horse running in the sky. I said it might be fog or clouds, but my father said he heard the sound of horses' hooves at the same time.

He said over and over again that he heard the sound of running water in the Tianhe River. Once, I was listening to my father. He said that he heard the high tide in Tianhe, and I only heard the sound of dew dripping on the leaves of Sophora japonica in the yard.

In fact, the old man sitting in the moonlight, my father, has walked on his way home, has entered the prehistoric clouds, and has heard the voice of Tianhe.

We only see his back. ...

The last pair of ancient ears on the earth have disappeared. Who can hear the mysterious voice?

Shidajing

My father dug a well for the village that summer.

He went deep down to look for water veins. The hungry village is full of expectations because of him.

Leaving the boring life temporarily, he returned to his ancestral home, back to a long time ago.

Baskets and baskets: the rubble of the Republic of China, the dry soil, the sediment of the Tang Dynasty ... the past time came to the ground one after another.

Copper coins, jade bracelets, rusty swords ... the distant life suddenly turned back, and so many hidden details surprised us.

He must have arrived in BC, when Confucius' river was flowing backwards, and he felt a warm current rising slowly from his feet.

For seven days and seven nights, my father has been sinking. For seven days and seven nights, my father opened a general history of China.

However, my father said to Mr. Li Baoyuan, a private school teacher squatting by the well, "Baowazi, I just dig wells and don't know much." .

What do I know compared with my father? I'm just a speck of dust on the ground. I've never been five meters below the ground. Crops know the land better than I do.

Therefore, I never dare to despise my illiterate father.

Father is a deep well, and I, in his long life, only scooped up a few small bowls of water. ...

Father with eleven hands and a canopy.

It is my father's lifelong habit to look up at the sky with a cool canopy in his hand.

He is afraid of too much bright light, too big and too steep, and his little eyes have nowhere to stay, and he is afraid that the sky will reveal too many worries, so he can't judge and can't bear it.

So he put his hand over his forehead and set up this temporary awning, a small boundary between this man and God. Then he looked up at the sky.

Looking up in the morning is the most important thing. The weather will determine his day's business and the growth of crops. All the planetesimals he has repeatedly observed know him, and they can't forget to exchange glances with him before they leave in a hurry.

Staring at dusk is the most leisurely. Moon, who is his brother, the first thing far away is to try the blade of his hoe with your fingers from the sky, and then carefully stroke his hair, his wrinkled face, his rough hands and the plastic buttons on his chest.

Night view is the most mysterious. When the coolness came, he still locked a certain direction under the awning with his hand. He was afraid that he would disappoint too many greeting eyes. At this time, his views are related to land and crops, more to his mood, and to his imagination and dreams. The rising tide of the Tianhe River has widened his inner riverbed countless times, and the vineyards in the sky are within reach. An old man who drank too much bitter wine seemed to smell the afterlife. ...

Looking up at the sky with a cool canopy in hand is a ritual of my father's life. ...

Twelve nettles

Walking in, my legs were numb, and then a feeling of numbness spread all over my body.

Father didn't blame nettles. He said that vegetation has its own temperament. Even if the emperor comes, he will not kowtow to him, but will only make him numb and blush; Let him know that a sword can harvest pillars, but it can't change the temper of a grass.

In autumn, my father rubbed a long well rope with nettles. Every night, he salvaged the lonely moon. Please go home.

Many years later, the sons carried his father up the mountain with the hemp rope that he had rubbed before his death. The moon stayed overhead for a long time, watching him sink into the soil.

Nettle, in his father's grave, dense forest. ...

13 people died of emphysema.

Cough, breathing day and night, bright moon outside the window, unfortunate infection, swelling; The earth wall around him is still peeling off, just like his rapidly collapsing body.

A short sentence, you have to pause repeatedly to finish. The aggrieved language stops and stops in the narrow door of lack of oxygen, which is hard to say, but no one can understand it.

How can you understand the deep pain and sadness after taking medicine and injection? Every inch of blood and meat was soaked by wind and rain, and his broken lungs also accumulated a lifetime of chill.

Later, everything he said was like moving a boulder. He simply doesn't speak, and occasionally uses gestures. The painful chest is full of carbon dioxide for a whole era.

His blue face makes it difficult for light to breathe. I saw him mobilizing his last strength to escape from the oxygen-deficient chest. I saw my father hanging upside down on a dry lung.

In the middle of the night, when I woke up, the moon was refreshed. My father spit out the last sputum and spit out the lowest evaluation of life. He turned and left.

He finally got rid of the control and harm of air. This man who struggled in the mire of hypoxia all his life gradually turned into vegetation. In the dark, he sent oxygen to the dusty world. ...