Day and Night: Little Dumas

The flowers and trees are quiet. They are silent and only grow, bloom and wither calmly in their own time and according to the rhythm of life. In spring, the magnolia's plump petals are like rice paper dipped in milk, held up bravely in the wind that has not faded away, with an indescribable beauty; the gardenia in midsummer has a completely different temperament, with a pungent and thick fragrance, and a blinding whiteness, as if it has accumulated a whole year's strength and has to vent it out happily in these few days. In the depths of autumn, the sweet-scented osmanthus comes. The fragrance is subtle and delicate. You need to calm down to capture the sweet warmth from the slightly cool air. I love watching their shadows in the garden. On a moonlit night, the shadows of flowers and trees are cast on the white wall, sparse, bright, and staggered, like a painting written in light ink, or a silent shadow play. When the wind comes, the painting comes alive. The branches and leaves are swaying, and the light and shadow are flowing. It is so trance-like that it makes people unable to distinguish the boundary between reality and illusion. These flowers and trees, read through the cold and heat, silently face the morning and dusk. They don't compete with anyone, they just dig their roots deep into the soil and manage their time calmly. If there are turmoils in people's minds, look at them and they will feel a little clearer and more open. It is a silent teaching that tells you what growth is and what peace is.