字如秧，人如田

字如秧，人如田

——兰溪夜话之二  

Words Like Rice Shoots, People Like Fields 

—Lanxi Night Talk No. 2  

连日阴雨，江面泛起细密波纹。昨日黄昏，沐霞村作文班的周老师提着旧帆布包经过我家门前，忽然停下脚步，从包里取出一叠作文本，苦笑道："水河叔，孩子们明明写得不错，我让几个孩子再改改，他们却追问：'老师，这样修改能获奖吗？'"  

Day after day of rain, the river surface rippled with fine waves. At dusk yesterday, Teacher Zhou from the Muxia Village composition class passed by my door carrying an old canvas bag. He suddenly stopped, took out a stack of composition books, and said with a bitter smile: "Uncle Shuihe, the children write quite well. I asked a few of them to revise their work further, but they pressed me: 'Teacher, will these changes help win an award?'"

此言耳熟。想起生产队插秧时节，老队长常嘱咐"秧根要稳，腰身要沉"，性急的年轻人光盯着田埂长短，反倒把秧苗插得歪斜散乱。读书写作，其理相通。  

This sounded familiar. It reminded me of the rice transplanting season in the production team. The old team leader often advised, "The roots must be firm, the waist must be sunk." Impatient young people, focusing only on the length of the field ridges, ended up planting the seedlings crooked and scattered. Reading and writing follow the same principle.

乡间老话常说："靠天吃饭，依地穿衣"。有时须搁下笔墨，抚心自问：究竟是喜爱墨迹渗入纸页的沙沙声，还是只想摘取文章换取墙上的奖状？若一味追逐鲜红印章，那作文本岂不成了秋收时悬在牛眼前的玉米棒——牛儿以为向前奔走，实则被人牵着空穗兜圈？  

As the old village saying goes: "Look to heaven for food, look to earth for clothing." Sometimes you must set down the brush and ask yourself: Do you truly love the rustling sound of ink soaking into the paper, or do you just want to gather essays to exchange for certificates on the wall? If all you do is chase red stamps, then isn't that composition book just like a corn cob dangled before an ox during harvest—the ox thinks it's moving forward, but in reality, it's being led in circles by an empty tassel?

在我看来，好文字犹如新米，需经舂捣筛拣。但归根结底，再香的米粮也出自自家田地。文章有无魂魄，不在奖状厚薄，而在是否用真心热血浸润。写作之本意，原非堆满谷仓，而是滋养心性——耕好自己的地，饱满自己的心。  

In my view, good writing is like newly harvested rice—it needs pounding and sifting. But in the end, even the most fragrant grain comes from one's own field. Whether an essay has soul depends not on the thickness of awards, but on whether it is soaked with genuine effort and passion. The original purpose of writing was never to fill granaries, but to nourish one's character—to cultivate one's own field and enrich one's own heart.

周老师听至此，眼尾细纹渐渐舒展。写作不再是丈量田亩的绳尺，而是掌中的一把稻种。依旧挑灯夜书，却不再惶惑；依然盼望丰收，却不怨地薄。只因字在笔下，地在心中，收获的每一粒稻米，都长着自己的筋骨。  

Hearing this, the fine wrinkles at the corners of Teacher Zhou's eyes gradually softened. Writing is no longer a measuring rope for fields, but a handful of rice seeds in the palm. Still burning the midnight oil, but no longer perplexed; still hoping for a good harvest, but not complaining about poor soil. Because the words are under the pen, the field is in the heart, and every grain of rice harvested grows with its own strength.