The misty late spring always brings drifting mists around Lansi Village, merging with the vast Green Tea fields. The mist is ever-changing; only when it disperses do the Tea fields become clearly visible. The village is embraced by mountains, and to its southwest, a waterfall rushes down from towering dark rocks, scattering like shattered jade. Paths leading up into the highlands seem undeveloped, offering more space for small animals to traverse. For those with a penchant for mountaineering, they can only be confined to one corner, observing the surroundings – and thoughts arise even more when seated calmly than when rushing about. I don't particularly like the state described in Wei Yingwu's line, “Spring tides rise with rain in the evening,” as it portrays an isolated scholar tightly strung at dusk, somewhat agitated. Here, however, everything eases as twilight descends.

I can only sketch the late spring of Lansi Village as if with simple brushstrokes. No scholar can exhaustively describe the seasons through words – this is what I concluded after reading George Gissing's “The Four Seasons.” Gissing himself only captured the changes in his emotions through the seasons. I agree with his question: “How many people in the world can appreciate the beauty of nature so tranquilly and appreciatively? Could there be one in every fifty thousand?” Perhaps I am that fortunate one among the fifty thousand now.

When it's not raining in spring, the tea fields of Lansi Village are bustling with figures whose nimble fingers swiftly pluck the leaves. Everything is done in its proper time – when it rains, they rest quietly. Years of experience allow them to accurately and quickly pick fresh leaves without much thought. In the deft movement of their hands, outsiders see beauty, while they see the truth of daily life. Freshly picked leaves are promptly taken from the open air to the workshop to begin their journey from moist to dry.

The tea makers look weary as dawn breaks after a sleepless night – their hard work begins once the leaves are detached from the mother plant. Many processes follow – I only remember rolling, stir-frying, and baking. It might be the same few masters each year or different ones, but their skills are beyond doubt. Together, they highlight their differences. Even if the same master returns to Lansi Village a year later, he is no longer the same person – his temperament and insight have evolved, making this year's tea distinct from last year's. Tea plants lie in neat rows, seemingly nurtured by nature alone, appearing immobile from afar like countless coiled dragons. However, each plant has its unique characteristics. To me, tea-making is a personalized craft, which is why it retains its historical significance yet remains refreshing.

Among millions of plants, humans have recognized tea as a top choice for drinking, likely after countless experiments. Then, tea mountains were developed, and cultivation began, yielding various flavors. Tea farmers can be considered true connoisseurs, knowing the preferred altitude, orientation, and soil type for tea plants. Those seeking the infinite will not be bound by past experiences but will break away from convention to forge new paths. As Lu Xun said, “In the chain of evolution, everything is intermediate.” He believed that things are not isolated but connected and in a state of development. If we accept this, then everyone and every profession can extend themselves and develop unique characteristics. Tea-making is similar – it does not merely maintain the status quo but pursues innovation. Each master, I believe, aspires to create something extraordinary during the process.

I sit on the balcony atop a building in Lansi Village rather than rush off to some tourist attraction. When traveling, my thoughts differ from usual, often revolving around words like “relaxed,” “leisurely,” “tranquil,” and “vast,” leading to the gesture of “sitting down.” On some days, we are indeed engaged in relentless labor, unable to stop. As Yuan dynasty poet Yang Zai described, “Waves rise and fall, like the waves of the sea, one wave subsiding before another rises.” In this era of increasingly rapid pace, no one can escape, but personal adjustments can bring some freedom, allowing sensory experiences that contrast with “haste.” During my stay in Lansi Village, I didn't accomplish much work-wise – I didn't open the books I brought, and the article I planned to write remained unfinished. I spent much time sitting idly and tasting tea, creating no material wealth, and I cannot yet articulate the spiritual insights gained – they remain submerged, awaiting revelation. Nevertheless, sitting idly with tea does relax one significantly. I used to feel that my writing and calligraphy were too tight structurally, but they have since loosened. I attribute this to the slow refinement of skill.

Ancients believed that mountains abide by the law of stillness. Their weight, solidity, and hardness resemble human existence, both real and true, extending forward. Just as everyone needs to work diligently to sustain life, the spirit of a mountain is often embodied in the mist, which drifts and rises aimlessly, moving freely. Writer Xiao Hong dedicated a section of her novel “Chronicle of a Horse Stable” to the fire clouds. Back then, as a primary school student, I was immersed in Xiao Hong's vivid descriptions of the ever-changing hues and fantastical forms of the fire clouds, which filled the approaching dusk with excitement. The rising mist differs from fire clouds in mood and color, appearing like gossamer, clean and understated. One admires it silently from a distance, unwilling to comment. The atmosphere created by the mist is ineffable, unrepresentable by concrete objects like the white dog, black hen, or lion in Xiao Hong's descriptions. It relies on the indescribable, evoking a sense of vague strangeness and freshness. If a scholar lived long enough in Lansi Village, the sight of the unpredictable mist might imbue his writing with a touch of ethereality.

Awakening in the middle of the night, I felt the room filled with tea aroma. I thought, it was the tea fragrance that woke me up. Every plant has its own scent, and the appeal of tea aroma grew gradually, becoming irreplaceable. From fresh leaves to the pervasive aroma, I believe the process approaches perfection – the tea masters downstairs have spent many sleepless nights, and such tea aroma could be seen as a reward. Upon completing a batch of tea, their moods lighten, much like a butcher who has finished butchering a cow and can take a moment to rest. I hear them discuss tea in their local dialect, with a gentle tone, as if tea is an old acquaintance. To scholars, tea aroma is comparable to the scent of books, both originating from plants. Each infusion of tea has its own aesthetic direction, Dahongpao differing from Baijiguan, and Half-day Witch from Tie Luohan. Each book also carries its own style, old editions differing from new, woodblock printing from laser typesetting. I naturally prefer the former's aroma, ancient and aged. Scholars recline in their studies, flipping through books and sipping tea, then flipping through books again, feeling quite comfortable. The difference is that a book, once read, is placed back on the shelf to await another reading, while a Cup of tea, after offering its fragrance and richness, disappears. I've heard a tea enthusiast recall a particular cup of tea enjoyed at a certain time and place, with a rapt expression – the memory of that cup of tea reappeared.

“Do not think of your homeland in front of old friends, but try the new tea with the new fire” – this is what Su Dongpo said, yet the tea masters don't fully agree, suggesting I drink last year's tea first and wait a bit for the new tea. Their reason is simply “cooling down.” Many principles in the world are interconnected – when I visited a stationery store and selected some Xuan paper to take home, I didn't use it immediately but stored it for later. Once my old Xuan paper is used up, the new paper will have lost its fiery quality and become calm and smooth, making writing feel delightful. Surprisingly, paper washed by time has such effects – time silently works its magic, resolving certain factors, thus elevating quality. Someone gave me some old paper and ink, not quite reaching the level of ancient paper and ink, but I looked forward to using them immensely. I eagerly ground the old ink and laid out the old paper to write a cold and clear Song Dynasty poem, feeling truly different from before – within it lies my reverence for the past, granting the paper and ink the qualification to be called “old.” After new tea is made, it quietly undergoes transformations over time, requiring no human intervention – just like rust forming on bronze artifacts or patina developing on octagonal tables, all are masterpieces of time. Of course, tea doesn't need to be stored for too long; it should be consumed at the right time to best showcase its essence.

After Li Xia (the beginning of summer) had passed, I left Lansi Village