The day I went to help the farmers is one I still cannot forget.

Back then, I was walking in the field, my feet as if locked in a tug-of-war with the soil. The soil was both moist and rich, so that every step I won was hard-earned. With no small effort, I reached my destination: a suspicious gap in the rows of rice seedlings (it must have been the result of golden apple snails eating everything clean). I bent down and planted a new seedling, but the water falling from the sky kept pouring down without letup, so that the newly planted seedling was left with only its green tip above the paddy water, swaying weakly, like a drowning person's final cry for help.

I bent down and lowered my head, and the rain rolled down in strings along the edge of my bamboo hat; I took a step, and the water level inside my rain boots began to rise and fall unevenly. The rain was swift and thick, blotting out some of the brightness of the day. Heaven and earth were one dark, wet blur.

I had no time to look up, and it was hard to gaze around, so that I could not be sure when the rain had paused; I only felt as if someone had turned on a light at the far end of the sky, drawing the light in. I straightened my back, and only then did I see the layered distant mountains, which had been given back a clear face, though there were still some clouds lingering unwillingly, entwining into a wisp of tenderness around the waist of the sturdy mountain forms.

I stood in the field, deeply moved by the unpredictability of nature. When I came to my senses, I hurried to check on my farmer friend; he still maintained his posture of labor, and in this moment, he was both a tiny and a sacred presence.