聽夏雨
淅淅瀝瀝，下下停停一上午。
夏天的雨，來的總是那么及時，消退了難耐的酷熱，一陣陣的涼爽，給煩躁的心情降降溫。
清晨起床，日常照顧孩子送她離家后，短暫的收拾停當(dāng)，沖了一杯輕燃咖啡，拿出一個堿水面包，吃了半個，剩了半個，坐在飄窗邊，聽著滴哩哩的雨滴和順著管道流下的嘩嘩的雨水，還有什么音樂比得上這自然的杰作，我想此刻你才睜開惺忪的眼，想來如果你那里也下雨，那么滴答滴答的雨滴會讓著夏日的被窩平添一份愜意。
賞夏雨
? 今年沒有錯過玉蘭花、海棠花、杏花、梨花，桃花，“桃花謝了春紅，太匆匆”，春總是短的讓猝不及防，還沒看見嫩黃的新葉，有黑的樹葉已經(jīng)掛滿枝頭，盛夏已至，那夏日雨天的荷花想必是不能錯過的，想起前日路過池塘?xí)r瞥見的田田荷葉，生怕這場雨過后，連殘荷也難尋了，說走就走，顧不上一陣急雨，穿起拖鞋奪門而出，可能更多是迫不及待，不想錯過荷葉上散落的珍珠，滴答滴答，不想錯過雨珠對池塘的眷戀，撲通一股腦兒傾瀉匯成一體，“留得枯荷聽雨聲”這番美景怎么能錯過。
撐傘赤腳在池塘邊駐足，在這陰郁悶熱的早晨，池塘的錦鯉也按耐不住憋悶的空氣，時而躍出水面，鯉魚打挺，而吸引我的是那大片大片的荷，池塘的荷已經(jīng)過了花期，零星晚開的荷花略顯瘦小但不失美麗，一些荷葉也出現(xiàn)了干枯，我也算是提前感受“枯荷雨聲”，荷葉如同一個個倒過來被撐開的傘面，雨水啪嗒啪嗒打在傘面上，一滴雨水像散落的小米珠在葉面散開，如同散落的珍珠，而后有匯聚成一滴大的水珠，停留在荷葉中間，仿佛用盡了全力從天而降，在這荷葉停留片刻，在荷葉中間的水珠越攢越多，無法盛下更多的時候，頃刻間翻瀉進(jìn)池塘，只聽聽見嘩啦一聲，以為是哪條調(diào)皮的魚兒躍出水面，或在覓食，啊原來是荷葉上的雨水，迫不及待和滿池的魚兒、花兒、草兒融為一體，從此墜落人間。
我在此停留，癡癡地看著小小的雨滴在荷葉上散落開來而后又匯聚，最后傾入池塘中，一滴滴雨水匯入池塘，水滴即池塘，池塘即水滴，這不就是人的一生嗎？人的一生中，多少次在這生活、職場一次次將自己揉碎，又一點點重拾破碎的自己，在一次次的破碎和重拾中逐漸強(qiáng)大，打破原有的框架、信條、理念甚至價值觀的束縛，重新進(jìn)入更大的空間，包括物理和精神，難道不是效法水的柔性與堅韌——既能適應(yīng)各種形態(tài)（“水無常形”），又能以柔克剛，水滋養(yǎng)萬物卻不爭奪名利（“水利萬物而不爭”），總是流向低處，包容謙和，順應(yīng)自然規(guī)律，“上善若水”某種意義上具象化了。
“荷花還沒開啊？”一位大姐喃喃道。
突然的一句話打破了屬于我的靜寂，循聲望去，穿著雨披，行色匆匆，面帶遺憾的說，荷花怎么開的這么少，還沒開吧，我望向她指了指蓮蓬、許多摘去蓮蓬的光禿禿的莖稈表明她趕上的是晚開的荷花，大姐滿意地笑了笑，拿起照相機(jī)開始拍照，她是一位家庭主婦，是終日忙于工作的職場人士，抑或是每日穿梭公司、家、菜場的無數(shù)母親中的一位，無數(shù)次惦記著抽空看看今年的荷花，但始終抽不出時間，趁大雨的周日，也正是雨天，難免讓人想起池塘的荷花是否能夠躲過這一劫數(shù)，依然綻放，仍有機(jī)會欣賞，或劫數(shù)難逃，于是披上雨披冒著大雨前來欣賞，初到池塘看見零星的荷花還在心存僥幸喃喃道還沒有開，可此時已經(jīng)盛夏，快七月底，荷花已凋零，正式蓮蓬采摘的好時候，零星的荷花也是晚開的，我開始懊惱，又何必懊惱，其實即便我不指出來，她自己也許已經(jīng)看見了，那你還沒開只是安慰自己罷了。
知夏雨
懊惱中不禁思索起來，中國女人的這一生，忙忙碌碌，整日奔波，忙于賺錢成為獨立女性，忙于照顧孩子盡一個母親最大的責(zé)任和義務(wù)，時代瞬息變化，孩子們已不再是指提供一日三餐便算撫養(yǎng)的時候，閑暇時間還要學(xué)習(xí)如何做一個母親，照顧還存在于精神層面，不知不覺女人已經(jīng)過了全盛，似乎還沒好好的享受青春年華，已經(jīng)人到中年，于是乎稱自己為“中年少女”，所以“中年少女”盡成了一種戲謔。中年少女們從鏡中窺見悄然爬上額頭的白發(fā)、眼角的皺紋，想起自己還未曾綻放，信誓旦旦要重整旗鼓，涂脂抹粉一通操作后，韌性的拉鏈只好重新將漂亮裙子掛進(jìn)衣櫥，望著五里米的“恨天高”，手卻誠實地伸向常穿的平底鞋，裙子再也裝不下已然臃腫的身體，高跟鞋已經(jīng)跟不上現(xiàn)在的節(jié)奏，青春不在，已然進(jìn)入中年，邊感嘆歲月催人老，邊稱自己為“中年少女”，身體到中年心智還未到，還是不想到，還是假裝沒到，無論哪種層面可謂是缺失性補(bǔ)償?shù)闹C謔稱呼，不也是安慰自己么？
? ? ? 榮格說你的人生四十歲才開始，在那之前都是在做研究，榮格的書讀的不多，也沒細(xì)究是不是這位智者的名言，有道理拿來用就好，多有得罪。四十歲這不是人生第三個階段的開始嗎？一個新的時刻醞釀著，就像等待著那即將成熟的蓮蓬，孩子已經(jīng)長大，我的心智日趨成熟，“中年少女”如何？“中年”又如何？趕上全盛的荷如何？沒趕上全盛的荷花又如何？雨中的荷葉像一把把撐起的小傘，雨滴散落在傘面，時而聽到滴答滴答，時而嘩啦啦，魚兒撲通，聆聽這美妙的夏雨奏起的樂章，漫步細(xì)雨，駐足觀荷，采摘一兩個蓮蓬，未嘗不是樂事一件，何必遺憾錯過。不，那不是錯過，那是抓住了，抓住了今年夏的荷花，春有百花秋有月，夏有涼風(fēng)冬有雪，我看盡了春日的花，還能在夏日的雨天看見著夏末的荷花，何其有幸。
回頭徐望，大姐也在樂此不疲地拍著美照，我想此刻她是她自己。
枯荷承雨，是接納殘缺后的從容；中年如荷，卸下全盛時的艷色，卻以更闊的葉面承托生活的點滴——正如這荷葉上的水珠，碎了又聚，終成滋養(yǎng)池塘的力量。
Listen to the Summer Rain
It drizzled unremittingly in a hot summer morning.
Summer rain always arrives just in time, chasing away the unbearable heat with waves of coolness that soothe restless moods.After my morning routine—tending to the child, seeing her off, tidying up briefly—I brewed a cup of light-roast coffee and took out a pretzel bun. Half-eaten, half-left, I sat by the bay window, listening to the drizzle patter and rain rush down the pipes. What music could rival this masterpiece of nature? I imagined you just waking, bleary-eyed; if rain falls where you are, those ticking droplets must make the summer bed all the more cozy.
Admire the Summer RainThis year, I didn’t miss the magnolias, crabapples, apricots, pears, or peaches. "Peach blossoms fade, spring’s red too hasty"—spring always ends before we’re ready. Before I noticed the tender yellow new leaves, dark foliage already cloaked the branches. Midsummer’s here, and the lotus in summer rain must not be missed. Remembering the lotus leaves I glimpsed by the pond the other day, I feared even withered ones might vanish after this rain. So I went—no mind the downpour—slippers on, dashing out. More than anything, I couldn’t miss the "pearls" scattered on leaves, the rain’s longing for the pond as it poured in plops, merging into one. How could I skip the beauty of "lingering withered lotus to hear the rain"?
Umbrella in hand, barefoot by the pond, I lingered. On this muggy morning, koi couldn’t stand the stifling air, leaping now and then. But what drew me was the lotus—past blooming season, withscattered small late blooms still lovely, some leaves already withering. I’d come early to "hear rain on withered lotus." Leaves curved like upturned umbrellas; rain smacked their surfaces, droplets spreading like millet grains, then merging into big beads that lingered, as if falling with all their might to pause briefly. When too heavy to hold, they’d crash into the pond with a splash—startling me, thinking it was a playful fish, but no—it was rain, eager to unite with fish, flowers, grass, dissolving into the world below.
I stayed, transfixed by raindrops scattering, merging, then plunging into the pond. Droplets become pond; pond becomes droplets. Isn’t this life? How many times do we get crushed in life and work, only to piece ourselves back together, growing stronger through breaking and mending—shattering old frameworks, beliefs, values to enter broader spaces, physical and spiritual. Doesn’t it follow water’s flexibility and resilience? "Water has no constant form" yet overcomes hardness with softness; "water benefits all without contention," flowing low, comprehensive, humble, following nature. "The highest good is like water"—here, it becomes tangible.
"No lotus blooms yet?" A lady murmured.Her voice broke my solitude. Glancing over, I saw her in a raincoat, hurrying, looking disappointed: "Why so few blooms? Haven’t opened yet?" I pointed to the seed pods, the bare stems where pods were plucked—proof she’d caught the late blooms. She smiled, lifting her camera. Was she a housewife, a busy professional, or one of the many mothers rushing between work, home, market? She’d wanted to see this year’s lotus, never finding time, until this rainy Sunday—worried the rain might ruin them, yet hoping to catch a bloom. Arriving to sparse flowers, she’d muttered "not opened yet" as consolation. But it was late July; lotus had faded, seed pods ready for harvest. Those few blooms were latecomers. I felt chagrined—yet why? Even without my pointing, she’d have noticed. "Not opened yet" was just self-comfort.
Understand the Summer RainChagrin turned to thought: the life of Chinese women—rushing, busy, striving for financial independence, fulfilling maternal duties. Times change; raising children now demands more than meals. In spare moments, we learn to be better mothers, nurturing minds too. Before we know it, our prime passes; we haven’t savored youth, already middle-aged. Hence the playful term "middle-aged少女" (middle-aged girl). Catching sight of gray hairs, crow’s feet, we vow to regroup—putting on makeup, only to have that pretty dress zipper strain, hanging it back. Staring at 5cm heels, we reach for flats instead. Skirts no longer fit, heels can’t keep pace. Youth gone, middle age here—lamenting time’s cruelty, yet calling ourselves "middle-aged girls." Mind not yet middle-aged? Unwilling to admit? Pretending? Either way, it’s a compensatory jest—a form of self-comfort.
Jung said life begins at forty; before that, it’s research. I’ve read little Jung, not sure if he truly said it—but if it resonates, I’ll borrow it. Isn’t forty the start of life’s third act? A new moment brewing, like ripening seed pods. Children grown, minds maturing. So what if I’m a "middle-aged girl"? Middle-aged? What if I missed full-bloomed lotus? Or caught it? Raindrops on lotus leaves like little umbrellas—pitter-patter, crash, fish splashing. Listening to summer rain’s melody, strolling in drizzle, watching lotus, picking seed pods—isn’t this joy? No regret for "missing"—I seized this summer’s lotus. Spring has flowers, autumn moon, summer breeze, winter snow. Having seen spring’s blooms, to witness late summer lotus in rain—how fortunate.
Looking back, the lady was still happily taking photos. In this moment, she was just herself.
Withered lotus bearing rain—serenity in accepting imperfection. Middle age like lotus: shedding full bloom’s brilliance, yet with broader leaves catching life’s ups and downs. Like those dewdrops on leaves—breaking, merging, finally nourishing the pond.
