There's a little girl named Lucky, just for that sea in her heart

This lazy bliss of mine, long lethargic, now wakes up ......

- Hafiz

? My name is Lucky, and I'm going to find that ocean

Serenity

November 10, 2021 at 5:30 am

? Once upon a time, adults told me that over the mountain was the sea. As a young child, I thought to myself that one day, I would climb to that side to see it. So I trekked in silence. Sometimes the prospect was beautiful, but I stayed and played. Sometimes the stone broken road slippery, I flash waist stopped to watch, stagnant, climbed a hill, the front is still a hill. The mountain scenery repeated itself over and over again, and I was discouraged. I never saw the sea. I wondered if the adults were teasing me, just as before I was ten years old, born at the foot of the mountains, growing up in the hilly land, and never leaving my hometown, I always thought that if you went all the way north from your hometown, it was Beijing; if you went all the way to the men's side from your hometown, it was Nanjing. A more apt way to say it is, over the south of the Gan Mountain, is Nanjing. This concept has been fixed words.

Until later climbed Gan Mountain, that side is still the mountain, I did not see the imaginary metropolis of Nanjing ......

Just as I am less and less convinced that there is a sea on the other side of the mountain ......

I stopped trekking forward! .

Gradually grew up, took the train, high-speed rail, airplane, to the Nanjing Railway Station, looking at the flooding Lingbo endless Xuanwu Lake, my heart is also like waves surging: ask the gentleman can have a few sorrows, just like a river of spring water to the east. Xuanwu Lake has been to the north north, is not my hometown?

The other side of the mountain, is the sea, it turned out to be true, only because I did not get to the top of the mountain, I stopped trekking

I missed the approximate waves!

Until, that is, the year before last, I picked up When You Were Like a Bird Flying Over Your Mountain, and befriended the heroine who hadn't been out of the house, or in school for a day, until she was seventeen years old, Tara. Westover.

She was self-taught and awarded an M.A. from Brigham Young University, an M.A. from Cambridge, an M.A. from Harvard, an M.A. in History, an M.A. from Cambridge, a Bill Gates Scholarship, and Time Magazine's "Most Influential Person of the Year" in 2019.

? I finally realized: over the mountains, it really should be the sea,

? She told me, you just have to fly over your mountain like a bird ......

I was enlightened, so I picked up my bag again ......

As if incarnating the stubborn little girl in the painting ... ...

? I know that from now on, my name is Lucky and I will find that sea!

I climbed a mountain I stood on an abandoned red train car by a barn. The wind howled, blowing my hair across my cheeks and injecting a chill into my open shirt collar. In this close proximity to the mountain, the wind is so strong it's as if the top of the mountain itself is exhaling. Down below, the valley is serene and undisturbed. Meanwhile, our farm dances: the sturdy conifers sway slowly, while the mountain ayahuasca and thistle bushes shiver, bowing down at every airflow charge and eruption. Behind me, a gently sloping mountain slopes up and proceeds to stitch itself to the foothills. If I looked up, I could make out the black form of an Indian princess.

The mountains are carpeted with wild wheat. If the conifers and mountain ayres are solo dancers, the wheat fields are a ballet. When the wind blows, each straw follows the rhythm of the group, like countless ballet dancers bending down one by one, leaving dents on the surface of the golden wheat field. The shape of the indentation is fleeting and disappears as quickly as the wind.

Looking toward our house on the hillside, I saw a different kind of movement. Tall figures stiffened and trudged through the air currents. It was my brothers awake, there to test the weather. I imagine my mother standing at the stove, busy frying bran pancakes. I sketched my father standing at the back door with his back arched, lacing up his steel-toed boots and slipping his calloused hands into welding gloves. On the highway below, school buses drove by without stopping.