My house sits on this side of the hillside, where the fields are lush and green year-round with coffee trees that have deepened in color over the years. Further out, rows of canna lilies and sweet potatoes follow the contours of the land. Surrounding the fields, my mother always leaves a path open for patches of wild sunflowers, Spanish needles, and grass to grow together, season after season. In the early morning, just a gentle push of the gate reveals a fresh, clear, and boundless green space before my eyes. Amidst this harmony of earth and sky, I am reminded of how precious life truly is.
I still remember the day my family moved here, it was during the dry season, with clear blue skies and plenty of wind. For the first time in my life, I felt the wind so distinctly and differently. The wind here is peculiar, as if it had been hiding in some secret place, only to suddenly rush in, carrying with it swirls of dust and withered grass, circling around my feet, lingering and refusing to leave.
The wind brought with it a hint of the sun’s dryness, a touch of the clouds’ gentleness, and the soft rustle of dry leaves falling along the empty road. It whisked away the beads of sweat on my cheek after a long journey by bus, as I stepped out to be greeted by the warm sunlight. The wind also helped conceal the worries and restlessness in my heart—the feelings of someone leaving childhood friends and countless memories behind to come to this highland, even though the farewell was long anticipated.
At noon, under the blazing sun, after unloading our belongings from the car onto the dusty red yard, my mother quickly took a walk around the garden. Spotting someone resting under a tree, she hurried over to ask about the name of the yellow flowers swaying in the wind. Picking one, she brought it to me and softly said, “These are wild sunflowers, my dear. They wilt as soon as they leave the branch. It turns out, some flowers are only beautiful when they cling to their stems and the earth. Perhaps people are the same, if we work hard and stay rooted, life will be just fine”.
As farmers, my parents rarely leave any land idle; every season is vibrant with the colors of crops and fruit. Yet, my mother always reserves a patch at the edge of the field for wild sunflowers, some grass, and clusters of Spanish needles to thrive. She says we should live by observing the plants. The Spanish needles are a reminder of the love for our homeland’s rice fields, while the wild sunflowers and grass embody her life philosophy: to live simply, harmoniously, and always strive to overcome difficulties. After all, aren’t these wild plants the ones that, regardless of sun or rain, drought or biting wind, persistently cling to the earth and rise up day after day?
As my affection for this highland, my second home, has grown, so too has my love for the seasons of dreamy winds. Over the years, I have witnessed the sweeping winds along the hillsides, the breezes passing over the communal house roof with a hint of chilly mist, and the gentle winds that linger through the town. These winds carry my parents’ deep hopes for a life of abundance and peace. They also inspire my own dreams and aspirations to contribute, or simply to do a good deed in life. And so, with each season of wind, I find myself at ease, wandering to the edge of the garden to watch the grass lean into the wild sunflowers, together welcoming the sunlight.
