To be rich is to give up

Once my old friend showed up at my door dressed like this: in a gray, pocketed waistcoat, an army jug slung around his neck, a large backpack and a pair of muddy liberation shoes dangling from the straps.

He is an experienced traveler who has traveled far and wide. He called overcrowding, over-commercialized scenic spots and over-developed urban scenic spots "death". In recent years, he has been wandering alone in remote places we have never heard of.

That time, he stayed in the mountains of Shennongjia for a few days and stopped by my house to visit.

After washing, he hung his towel over the stove. A relative who was visiting my house saw the old, silky towel and asked me in a whisper, Does he have time to roam around like that?

Which is he? I asked. "Just like that!" the relative pointed to a friend who was making a clanging noise as he pulled an aluminum lunch box out of his backpack.

I wanted to tell him that this friend was a very rich man, but then I felt that my relatives did not understand this kind of wealth, so I kept silent.

I used to talk to my old friends about being rich. He said that when he was young, his family was poor, with six or seven brothers and sisters. His parents were busy making a living. When it is dark every day, parents come home from work, count the number of children there are so many on the line, what interest ah, expertise ah, heart and so on, are ignored.

Under such conditions, the whole family had no hunger, which was good enough. One year, the father said happily: "the day is getting better and better, we are also rich family!" It turned out that February and March had been the time when the harvest was not in season, and that year my father found bowls of corn at the bottom of his cloth pocket.

Life was tight, obviously not rich, but there was something left, and it could be said to be surplus.

My friend continued, "After that, an old beggar lady came by our house with a broken earthenware bowl and a begging look at my mother. He was a poor ragged creature, ready to fall in the wind. After a long struggle, my mother poured half a bowl of corn into the lap of the old lady's coat. That's rich.

He talked again of his journey. He said he took a lunch box, a spoon, a pair of chopsticks, a canteen, and a piece of soap for washing clothes, washing faces and bathing, so as not to create garbage. If there is, be sure to pack it. He didn't write about travel, and some places were very pristine, and he didn't want to influence them because of him, and he tried to do it as if he had hardly been there.

On the dinner table, the bacon at home was very good, and he ate it full of praise. My mother suggested that he take some home. I could see that he was moved and said that he really wanted to take some home for his mother and wife to taste. In big cities, you can't eat such delicious preserved meat in restaurants. After a long time, he said that he had better forget it, and there was still a journey ahead. He said that he would always meet many good things on the road, and no amount of pockets could hold them all. In order to pack light, he had to give up these things.

In the evening, we drink tea in the courtyard. The moon rose, we said little, sat half the night. The next day he took his leave and later texted me, saying that cangshan was quiet that night and the moonlight was clear, which moved him very much...

It is often said that a mountain, a water, a flower and a shadow are all ordinary scenes in the eyes of ordinary people, but for some people, they are a thrill of the soul. I suppose it takes traveling light and being mentally rich to have these moments regularly.