Orchids in the misty village: what rural stories do they hold?

Promoting Chinese orchid culture, spreading orchid knowledge

Yancun is a village in my hometown, right at the foot of "Men Mountain" opposite my home. Yancun sits in several mountain hollows at the foot of Men Mountain, a fairy-like village, and everyone around Yancun thinks so. But the people of Yancun do not think so. They always feel that standing outside the village and looking at their village is the real pleasure. They always grumble that with all the mist and fog drifting around, they cannot see very far. On every morning in spring and autumn, the mist drifts endlessly, and around the rain in summer, the mist always visits their village. Still, after living there long enough, they get used to it. Sometimes they call themselves descendants of immortals, and jokingly regard themselves as immortals.

I have been away from my hometown for many years, and I have forgotten many things, but what I cannot forget is that wondrous sight of Yancun. As a child, I did not know that the mist-shrouded sight was a landscape. I only knew that in Yancun in the morning, once the mist rose and disappeared, the sun would come out; in the afternoon, once the mist rose, it would rain. If it was summer in Yancun and mist rose after the rain, then you might soon have a chance to see a beautiful rainbow in Yancun. As I gradually began to study, I learned from books what "landscape" meant, and I also learned how to appreciate the landscapes that belonged to my school days. Back then, running and playing with classmates was a landscape; when the teacher asked questions on the podium and classmates raced to raise their hands to answer, that was a landscape; at the sports meet, running on the school field while teachers and students from different classes around the big field shouted encouragement and clapped was also a landscape; at the end of a semester, when the teacher announced the top three students in the class on the podium, that was even more of a landscape; so the mist and clouds that often shrouded Yancun became the landscape in front of my home.

In my school days, I remember that classmates who came from Yancun always brought some orchid plants and planted them in the flower beds on campus. Through spring, summer, autumn, and winter, we could all admire the beautiful orchids, and what the classmates loved even more was the wisps of delicate fragrance that flowed through the classroom when the orchid plants bloomed. In this way, I fell in love with orchid plants, fell in love with the brilliantly colorful orchids, and loved even more the orchid fragrance that drifted with the wind. From then on, I became fond of drawing. In my drawing book I drew many orchid plants and many blooming orchids, as if the orchid fragrance had already flowed down from the pages and seeped into my heart. It was not until one day, when I drew in my drawing book the mountains of Yancun, the mist and clouds of Yancun, and the pavilions on the riverbank cliffs of Yancun, that I truly fell in love with the scenery of Yancun.

I remember one year during the Lantern Festival, the rapeseed flowers had all bloomed, and there was a feeling of spring filling the whole garden. It seemed everyone was still celebrating the New Year, and people visiting relatives and friends came and went in front of the house from time to time. At that time, I ran into a classmate from Yancun. He and his parents were going to his maternal grandparents' house. His father held gifts in his hands, and his mother pulled him along, walking the whole way, so happy, and that smile seemed to be looking forward to his grandmother making him lots of good things to eat. When he came closer, I saw that he was holding an orchid plant in his hand, with an orchid in full bloom, so bright and red. He had me sniff the flower with my nose, so very fragrant. That refreshing orchid fragrance rather captivated me and made me like it very much. He said, "It's for my cousin at my uncle's house." Having a special fondness for orchids, my eyes never left the orchid plant in his hand, and he immediately saw what was on my mind. He quietly said to me, "Come with me back to the woods on the mountain in Yancun to dig for orchids." He decided not to go with his parents to his maternal grandparents' house, and had his mother pass this orchid plant on to his cousin. He wanted to hang out with me for a while. When his parents saw how well he and I were talking, they just went on casually and no longer walked with him.

Speaking of "Yancun," a place I had long yearned for, although it was only seven or eight li from my home, I had never been there even once. The Yancun I could see every morning when I got up seemed very, very far from me, and the Yancun close to me could only exist in my drawing book. This Lantern Festival, also the beginning of spring, the season when rapeseed flowers bloom, we would step through the scenery of rapeseed flowers and, along with the footprints of many people of Yancun, walk into Yancun and comprehend that long-yearned-for moment of Yancun. The road to Yancun was winding and curved. The road that could take vehicles to Yancun took a long time, so we could only choose the road paved with bluestone slabs and stone steps. At the Lantern Festival, Yancun was right before our eyes. On the blooming rapeseed flowers was reflected the spring mist and clouds, and the mist filled the whole village. On the mountain behind the village, one could see the scene of rapeseed flowers just beginning to bloom. Many trees in those forests were bare and had not yet put out new leaves, while some trees were evergreens with luxuriant green leaves. Below Yancun, the farmhouses shrouded in mist appeared and disappeared, faint and indistinct, and with the layered green mountains covered with rapeseed flowers, they set each other off, forming the ink and wash painting of blue and green on a scroll. If that is not a fairy scene, what is? We climbed up into the woods of Yancun to seek the fragrance of secluded orchids. On the forest slopes, I found the secluded orchids from my dreams. There is a poem that says: The orchid embroiders green leaves, with two or three flowers blooming. Gathered in the woods by oneself, its fragrance has long been secluded. When searching, the stone path hides it; in a pot by an old window it stays. I will plant the secluded orchids I gathered myself in a pot and place them by the window of my room, keeping watch over them through spring, summer, autumn, and winter, as buds flourish and leaves spread, as flowers bloom and fall.