听夏雨
淅淅沥沥，下下停停一上午。
夏天的雨，来的总是那么及时，消退了难耐的酷热，一阵阵的凉爽，给烦躁的心情降降温。
清晨起床，日常照顾孩子送她离家后，短暂的收拾停当，冲了一杯轻燃咖啡，拿出一个碱水面包，吃了半个，剩了半个，坐在飘窗边，听着滴哩哩的雨滴和顺着管道流下的哗哗的雨水，还有什么音乐比得上这自然的杰作，我想此刻你才睁开惺忪的眼，想来如果你那里也下雨，那么滴答滴答的雨滴会让着夏日的被窝平添一份惬意。
赏夏雨
今年没有错过玉兰花、海棠花、杏花、梨花，桃花，“桃花谢了春红，太匆匆”，春总是短的让猝不及防，还没看见嫩黄的新叶，有黑的树叶已经挂满枝头，盛夏已至，那夏日雨天的荷花想必是不能错过的，想起前日路过池塘时瞥见的田田荷叶，生怕这场雨过后，连残荷也难寻了，说走就走，顾不上一阵急雨，穿起拖鞋夺门而出，可能更多是迫不及待，不想错过荷叶上散落的珍珠，滴答滴答，不想错过雨珠对池塘的眷恋，扑通一股脑儿倾泻汇成一体，“留得枯荷听雨声”这番美景怎么能错过。
撑伞赤脚在池塘边驻足，在这阴郁闷热的早晨，池塘的锦鲤也按耐不住憋闷的空气，时而跃出水面，鲤鱼打挺，而吸引我的是那大片大片的荷，池塘的荷已经过了花期，零星晚开的荷花略显瘦小但不失美丽，一些荷叶也出现了干枯，我也算是提前感受“枯荷雨声”，荷叶如同一个个倒过来被撑开的伞面，雨水啪嗒啪嗒打在伞面上，一滴雨水像散落的小米珠在叶面散开，如同散落的珍珠，而后有汇聚成一滴大的水珠，停留在荷叶中间，仿佛用尽了全力从天而降，在这荷叶停留片刻，在荷叶中间的水珠越攒越多，无法盛下更多的时候，顷刻间翻泻进池塘，只听听见哗啦一声，以为是哪条调皮的鱼儿跃出水面，或在觅食，啊原来是荷叶上的雨水，迫不及待和满池的鱼儿、花儿、草儿融为一体，从此坠落人间。
我在此停留，痴痴地看着小小的雨滴在荷叶上散落开来而后又汇聚，最后倾入池塘中，一滴滴雨水汇入池塘，水滴即池塘，池塘即水滴，这不就是人的一生吗？人的一生中，多少次在这生活、职场一次次将自己揉碎，又一点点重拾破碎的自己，在一次次的破碎和重拾中逐渐强大，打破原有的框架、信条、理念甚至价值观的束缚，重新进入更大的空间，包括物理和精神，难道不是效法水的柔性与坚韧——既能适应各种形态（“水无常形”），又能以柔克刚，水滋养万物却不争夺名利（“水利万物而不争”），总是流向低处，包容谦和，顺应自然规律，“上善若水”某种意义上具象化了。
“荷花还没开啊？”一位大姐喃喃道。
突然的一句话打破了属于我的静寂，循声望去，穿着雨披，行色匆匆，面带遗憾的说，荷花怎么开的这么少，还没开吧，我望向她指了指莲蓬、许多摘去莲蓬的光秃秃的茎秆表明她赶上的是晚开的荷花，大姐满意地笑了笑，拿起照相机开始拍照，她是一位家庭主妇，是终日忙于工作的职场人士，抑或是每日穿梭公司、家、菜场的无数母亲中的一位，无数次惦记着抽空看看今年的荷花，但始终抽不出时间，趁大雨的周日，也正是雨天，难免让人想起池塘的荷花是否能够躲过这一劫数，依然绽放，仍有机会欣赏，或劫数难逃，于是披上雨披冒着大雨前来欣赏，初到池塘看见零星的荷花还在心存侥幸喃喃道还没有开，可此时已经盛夏，快七月底，荷花已凋零，正式莲蓬采摘的好时候，零星的荷花也是晚开的，我开始懊恼，又何必懊恼，其实即便我不指出来，她自己也许已经看见了，那你还没开只是安慰自己罢了。
知夏雨
懊恼中不禁思索起来，中国女人的这一生，忙忙碌碌，整日奔波，忙于赚钱成为独立女性，忙于照顾孩子尽一个母亲最大的责任和义务，时代瞬息变化，孩子们已不再是指提供一日三餐便算抚养的时候，闲暇时间还要学习如何做一个母亲，照顾还存在于精神层面，不知不觉女人已经过了全盛，似乎还没好好的享受青春年华，已经人到中年，于是乎称自己为“中年少女”，所以“中年少女”尽成了一种戏谑。中年少女们从镜中窥见悄然爬上额头的白发、眼角的皱纹，想起自己还未曾绽放，信誓旦旦要重整旗鼓，涂脂抹粉一通操作后，韧性的拉链只好重新将漂亮裙子挂进衣橱，望着五里米的“恨天高”，手却诚实地伸向常穿的平底鞋，裙子再也装不下已然臃肿的身体，高跟鞋已经跟不上现在的节奏，青春不在，已然进入中年，边感叹岁月催人老，边称自己为“中年少女”，身体到中年心智还未到，还是不想到，还是假装没到，无论哪种层面可谓是缺失性补偿的谐谑称呼，不也是安慰自己么？
荣格说你的人生四十岁才开始，在那之前都是在做研究，荣格的书读的不多，也没细究是不是这位智者的名言，有道理拿来用就好，多有得罪。四十岁这不是人生第三个阶段的开始吗？一个新的时刻酝酿着，就像等待着那即将成熟的莲蓬，孩子已经长大，我的心智日趋成熟，“中年少女”如何？“中年”又如何？赶上全盛的荷如何？没赶上全盛的荷花又如何？雨中的荷叶像一把把撑起的小伞，雨滴散落在伞面，时而听到滴答滴答，时而哗啦啦，鱼儿扑通，聆听这美妙的夏雨奏起的乐章，漫步细雨，驻足观荷，采摘一两个莲蓬，未尝不是乐事一件，何必遗憾错过。不，那不是错过，那是抓住了，抓住了今年夏的荷花，春有百花秋有月，夏有凉风冬有雪，我看尽了春日的花，还能在夏日的雨天看见着夏末的荷花，何其有幸。
回头徐望，大姐也在乐此不疲地拍着美照，我想此刻她是她自己。
枯荷承雨，是接纳残缺后的从容；中年如荷，卸下全盛时的艳色，却以更阔的叶面承托生活的点滴——正如这荷叶上的水珠，碎了又聚，终成滋养池塘的力量。
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.
