Tea and Heart

 　　From the moment tea leaves leave the tea tree, they yearn to meet water…

　　Another season of new tea has arrived. Looking at the tender green leaves in my hand, soft and gentle, a small bag of four grams—exquisite and elegant—it seems to be admonishing tea drinkers to cherish every sip, or perhaps it's specially prepared for those with a special affinity for tea. If one drinks too much, like a cow gulping it down, the elegance of tea is lost.

　　From the moment tea leaves leave the tea tree, they yearn to meet water. Watching the tea and water meet in the cup is deeply moving. A stream of boiling water is poured in, and the tender green leaves undergo a fiery trial as they flutter and dance. The water is passionate and unrestrained, the tea subtle and reserved, yet in an instant, they are intertwined, vibrant and entangled, touching each other deeply. In the warmth, the water steams, and the tea slowly unfurls, like a graceful fairy. As the delicate aroma of tea wafts through the air, the night outside the window also begins to exude its fragrance. In a daze, I recall a distant place, a person who often drank tea late into the night, a book and a cup of tea before them, sometimes frowning, sometimes gazing intently, the lamp extinguished until dawn, their shadow stretching endlessly, watching the stars shift and the green leaves change on the other side of the river.

　　The night deepens, and the tea in the cup gradually settles, the tea leaves sinking to the bottom. In truth, each tea leaf holds a moving story, offering inspiration. Does the tea speak of sorrow, nurture passion, or enact romance? At this moment, memories grow cold, verses crumble, and how can one truly understand the taste of a cup of tea? Is it the vastness of autumn waters and the endless flow of life? Is it the desolation of "the tea grows cold when the person leaves," or the enduring warmth of "a gentleman's friendship is as light as water"?

　　A cup of tea evokes countless thoughts, yet at this moment I only wish to be with the aroma of tea, accompanied by the fragrance of books, and at peace with my own heart. But with what brushstrokes can I capture the vastness of the night, the allure of the moon, the profundity of the tea, and the tranquility of my heart on paper? I stood quietly by the window, a few spring breezes scattering my thoughts and softening my heart's secrets; the tea in my cup was as it had been the first time, waiting quietly as if dancing, like a shy smile on a small bridge in the drizzle of Jiangnan.

　　The tea gradually cooled, and suddenly, my memories tore apart, the soft melody dissipated, and my heart felt utterly empty. All the world's clamor, praise or condemnation, is vanity. The aroma of tea lingered in my eyes through the mist, the flowing water in the cup merely a memory. At this moment, isn't it also a transformation of the world, a fleeting dream? Perhaps when I turn around and look back with endless longing, all I see is a desolate field of weeds and the vastness of the mortal world, with no one behind me. Under the passage of time, what is truly eternal?

　　Actually, I don't understand tea appreciation, yet I drink it every day, feeling a sense of emptiness and unease without it. Now I can't remember when it started, but I stubbornly began drinking the stale tea in the refrigerator, listening day after day to the stories of tea and water meeting. When silence traverses time, many past joys become wounds, like bitter tea in the mouth, lingering and persistent, known only to oneself, unspeakable to others…

　　It turns out, every beginning will end or depart, like tea in a cup, which eventually cools. Though fresh water is added, the tea has gone bad; reunion is merely a chance encounter, each finding their own quiet joy. Life is like tea; among ordinary people, it is ultimately nothing more than a fleeting warmth.

　　Sitting quietly by the window, repeatedly listening to celestial music, its boundless compassion deeply moving, one's heart is filled with reverence. The music comes from nothingness and returns to nothingness, lingering and penetrating the heart, repeating itself endlessly. The heart, like a clear mirror, reflects all things, a state of perfect clarity. The color of the tea before me and the ethereal steam seem to converge, a harmonious blend of yin and yang, a worldly heart finding peace and tranquility through tea.

　　In this life, I only wish to drink natural tea, with a heart of serene indifference.