Little Notes on Grass: There Is No Grass That Is Not a Flower

A friend opened a flower shop. When the new store opened, she invited me to visit. In the small shop, all kinds of flowers and plants were displayed: some grown in water, some in pots, and some without roots. Whether they were large water-grown flowers in bloom or the lush green foliage plants in pots, they were all scenery of the most beautiful kind. I asked my friend: Does anyone buy these potted plants without flowers? My friend comically peered out from behind the frames of her glasses and said lightly: The ones that do not bloom actually sell better than the ones that do. People who are generally allergic to pollen, dislike short blooming periods, or find flowers hard to care for mostly choose this kind of non-blooming potted plant. Actually, every kind of grass is a kind of flower! I was stunned, and as I savored this sentence carefully, it was indeed so. From the tiny grass on a green field to the large landscape potted plants in elegant halls, they do not bloom, yet they possess a generous kind of beauty.

I remember that in elementary school there was a boy in our class. He was younger than all of us, did not like to talk, and was a bit deaf; without a hearing aid, he could hardly hear anything. His father had died of cancer when he was very young, and he and his mother depended on each other. His mother was a teacher at our school and taught the graduating class, so she usually had almost no time to look after him. So he would often sit quietly in his seat alone. The only time he drew everyone's attention was during class, when he would suddenly let out a few inexplicable screams and then sweep all the books on his desk onto the floor. In this way, we saw him as a "strange child." We never took the initiative to play with him or talk to him. Apart from those few screams during class, he was always completely quiet.

His mother would occasionally come to "check in," standing outside the classroom window and watching from afar, her face full of exhaustion. Sometimes she would chat with our teacher for a few words, then stand somewhere he could see and wave. At such times, he always revealed a brilliant smile, even showing his teeth. To this day I still do not know how such a quiet boy could bloom with such a smile; I only know that the smile was like a flower blooming in the dust, sunlight breaking through a face covered in gloom.

One semester, the school organized a painting competition. Students' works were to be submitted to the central elementary school in town to compete for prizes. The teacher frowned tightly, because rural schools have limited resources and had almost never had art classes. Many students did not even know what kinds of pens and paper were needed for drawing. But before the deadline, what made everyone's jaws drop was that this quiet boy actually submitted a set of Chinese paintings, four in total: plum, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum. They were painted vividly and freely, and beside each painting was a poem, with clear, elegant, vigorous, skillful, and lively handwriting, followed by a bright red signature seal. As expected, his paintings won first prize and were also sent to the city for the competition.

At the class meeting, the teacher asked him to say a few words about his award. Blushing, he kept refusing to stand up, and in the end it was his deskmate who pulled him to his feet. He scratched his head, stammered for a long while, and said, My ears are not good, so my mother told me, if your ears are not good, your eyes are still good, so I learned to paint. There is always one thing I can do well. Below the stage it was completely silent; no one spoke. Sunlight fell on his face, and even the fine little hairs were seen so clearly. Standing there, he was like an angel. Every child is a flower. They are not necessarily noble and magnificent peonies, nor necessarily passionately fiery roses. They may be a tiny blade of grass, so very small on a green field, but there is no grass that is not a flower. They are all a kind of living green grass.

--end

Author: Mei Xiaoling (image from the internet, deleted if infringing)

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