In my childhood, just like Mr. Lu Xun, I had a special place – a Hundred Grass Garden. His was in the backyard of his old house; mine was behind the local supply and marketing cooperative, a community store from China’s planned economy days, not far from where I lived. It was a place where everyday items were sold, but to me, it was a playground of nature where I’d often escape when sent out for errands.
Entering the cooperative, one was met with a rich mix of soy sauce and pickled vegetables, alongside neatly stacked fabrics. The back of the store, where tools and fertilizers were sold, opened up to a gentle hill, enclosed by walls. This was my Hundred Grass Garden.
Here, the grass was soft and inviting, a canvas for blooming flowers. Delicate wild bean pod flowers with their slender stems and shy purple blossoms whispered of the simplicity and beauty of nature. Dandelions, with their yellow crowns, dotted the landscape. Alongside the wall, a shallow, clear stream flowed, cool and refreshing to the touch. Its edges were lined with plants like malan and mugwort, treasures of the wild.
Butterflies danced through the air, while grasshoppers and sparrows added life to this green world. Even the occasional praying mantis, intriguing yet harmless, became a part of my play, and the rare sight of a solitary egret was always a moment of wonder.
In that vast garden, I often found myself alone, lying in the comforting grass, chewing on a tender stem, savoring its sweet, fresh taste. Under the gentle sun, in my secluded green world, I found peace and contentment, a child alone yet completely at home.