I wonder since when, every time I go back to my home in Hubei, I have to walk around the old house a few times. This is mainly because I can see new changes every time I walk. Below the eaves is a stream and different green plants constantly grow on its banks throughout the four seasons. Some of the plants have been there as long as I can remember, yet I am never able to name them. For example, there is a large plant with broad green leaves. I often sit in the middle of it as my exclusive sofa. Its leaves are very strange, a bit like aloe vera, but not as thick as it and without thorns. It has over a hundred leaves like that and can even lift me up halfway. Its stamens, which are stiff and fragrant, emerge in the middle each year. I know there are apps to identify photographed plants, and it should be easy to find out the species, yet I still feel reluctant to break the mystery. So I simply conserve it in memory. There are also some plants that I can name, such as orange trees, tangerine trees, plantains, bluegrass, ginger seedlings, konjac, celosia, and morning glory. The plants under the eaves are changing all year round. Some are seasonal flowers and plants, and mom always picks out the beautiful ones and keeps them. I, however, can only occasionally see these naturally growing plants in the rain with dripping raindrops during my brief visit back home.

As I want to reproduce the garden in my mind today, she is like a cool summer mat, gently rubbed on the drawing board. I have a pleasure of trying to compete with the city in terms of quietness. Although it seems to be coaxing myself, I really feel more connected to the moment when I first produce them. They travel from the number 0 to this world peeped by living creatures. Thus form is still important, even though it may be a mere shape.

Gallery