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女儿在公园里举着一粒芽跑过来
三月初一个周六，女儿在幼儿园学了首关于春天的诗，回家就宣布要去公园找春天。我牵着她去，心里其实不太信春天来了——树上的枝子还是光的，草还是黄的。可她说要去找，那就去。
公园第一圈，她什么也没找到，踢着一颗松果走。第二圈，在玉兰树底下，她自己蹲下去了。她仰着头看了很久，忽然喊，爸爸你快看，树上挂了小毛毛。是玉兰花苞，外头一层灰绿的绒毛，确实像毛毛。她伸手想摸，又缩回来，回头看我，眼睛亮得厉害。我又蹲下来陪她看，那一树毛毛在光底下发白，风一过，轻轻晃。我天天路过这棵树，从没抬头看过。
更惊喜的还在后头。她在树下的落叶里捡到一粒脱落的芽苞，举起来跑过来，跑得摇摇晃晃，像举着什么宝贝。她说，这个掉了，我捡到了，它归我。她把它放进外套口袋，走一路摸一路。后来她在别处又发现柳树条上鼓着的芽、石头缝里冒头的一撮绿，每发现一样都跑过来报告，像给我发信号。
回家我们做了一件小事：找春天记录。我给她一个巴掌大的本子，她画，我写字。玉兰的毛毛她画成一树小毛笔头，我在旁边写日期和地点。她口述，我照写：今天找到六个春天。第一个是玉兰毛毛，第二个是捡到的芽，第三个是柳条鼓包……写到第六个，是小区门口保安亭边上的迎春花，她说是她先闻见的，不是先看见的。
那一晚她睡前检查口袋里的芽还在不在，确认了才睡。我坐在门外想，大人过春天是看日历，孩子过春天是蹲下来找。我以为是我陪她找春天，其实是她领着我，把那个我很多年没抬过头看见的春天，重新领回我眼前。芽年年都有，看见的人一年比一年少，直到家里来了一个五岁的，她替你把它找回来。
My Daughter Came Running Across the Park Holding a Bud
One Saturday in early March, my daughter learned a poem about spring at kindergarten, and the moment she got home she announced that we must go to the park to look for spring. I went with her, holding her hand, though inwardly I doubted that spring had arrived—the branches were still bare, the grass still yellow. But she wanted to go looking, so we went.
On the first loop through the park she found nothing, and she walked along kicking a pine cone. On the second loop, under a magnolia tree, she squatted down by herself. She tilted her head up and looked for a long time, then suddenly called out, Papa, come quick, the tree is hung with little fuzzy things. They were magnolia buds, wrapped in a fuzz of gray-green, fuzzy indeed. She reached out to touch one, then pulled her hand back and turned to look at me, her eyes shining brightly. I squatted down to look with her. The fuzz all over the tree glowed pale in the light, and when the wind passed it swayed gently. I had walked past this tree every day and had never once looked up.
The bigger surprise came after. In the fallen leaves under the tree she picked up a detached bud, held it up, and ran to me, running all wobbly, as if carrying a treasure. She said, this one fell, I found it, it belongs to me. She put it in the pocket of her coat and touched it the whole way home. Later she also found the swollen buds on willow twigs and a tuft of green pushing out of a crack between stones, and each discovery she ran to report to me, like sending me a signal.
When we got home we did a small thing: a spring-finding record. I gave her a notebook the size of my palm; she drew and I wrote. She drew the fuzzy magnolia buds as a tree full of little brush tips, and beside them I wrote the date and the place. She dictated and I wrote as told: today we found six springs. The first was the fuzzy magnolia, the second the bud I picked up, the third the swollen willow... By the sixth she was at the winter jasmine beside the guard booth at the gate of our neighborhood, and she said she smelled it first, not saw it first.
That night before bed she checked whether the bud in her pocket was still there, and only went to sleep once she had confirmed it. I sat outside her door thinking: grown-ups spend spring by reading the calendar, while children spend spring by squatting down and looking. I thought I was accompanying her to find spring; in fact she was leading me, leading back before my eyes the spring I had not looked up at for years. Buds exist every year, and fewer and fewer people see them each year—until a five-year-old comes into your family, and she finds it back for you.
我带一年级孩子去校园找春天
三月中旬，我在班上布置了一个作业：找春天。不是写作文，是每人找到三样春天，带回来给我看。第二天孩子们炸开了锅，有孩子说老师春天在哪儿，我说校园这么大，自己找。第三节课，我带一年级那班去小花园，实地找。
小花园不大，十几棵树，一圈冬青。孩子们散开以后，我听见的最多的词是「老师快来」。先是一个男孩在迎春丛里发现的，金黄的一小朵，他不敢摘，两只手捧着叶子举给我看，像捧着一碗水。接着一个女孩在草地边沿找到一撮冒头的绿，她趴下去看，回头喊其他女生过来，几个脑袋挤在一起。然后是一阵欢呼，起因是杨树上一片刚展开的叶子，背面是银白的，风翻过来，一闪一闪。他们为一片叶子欢呼，声音惊动了围墙上的麻雀。
我站在中间，忽然有点惭愧。这些树我看了十来年，竟不知道迎春先开花后长叶，不知道杨叶背面是银白的，不知道墙根那丛草是去年就有的。孩子们不是找到了春天，他们是把春天指给我看。
回教室，我们一起做记录。每人发一张纸条，画自己找到的那一样，写上在哪找的。不会写的字，我帮忙写，他们口述：小花园东边的迎春，一朵。草坪边上的一撮草，绿的。杨树顶上的叶子，反面是白的。纸条贴在后墙，贴成一面自然笔记墙，底下写一行字：我们找到的春天。有孩子补了一句，还有麻雀，在墙上。我们就把麻雀也算进去了。
后来每天放学，都有孩子在笔记墙前看一遍。那面墙贴了一个多月，纸边卷了，没人撕。我教的是语文，可那天下午我学到的东西比孩子们多：春天不在课本的课文里，它在孩子蹲下去的高度上。当老师这些年，我总以为是我把世界讲给孩子听；那天我才明白，是孩子们年年把世界重新递到我手上，我得肯接。
I Took the First Graders to Look for Spring on Campus
In mid-March I gave my class an assignment: look for spring. Not to write an essay, but each child was to find three signs of spring and bring them back to show me. The next day the class buzzed like a pot boiling over, and one child asked, teacher, where is spring. I said the campus is big, go find it yourselves. During the third period, I took the first-grade class to the small garden and we looked in person.
The small garden is not large: a dozen trees and a ring of wintergreen. Once the children scattered, the phrase I heard most was teacher, come quick. The first discovery was made by a boy in the winter jasmine shrubs: a single small golden flower. He did not dare pick it; he held the leaf up to me with both hands, like holding a bowl of water. Then a girl found a tuft of green pushing up at the edge of the lawn. She lay down to look, then called the other girls over, and several heads pressed together. Then came a cheer, caused by a newly unfolded leaf high on a poplar tree, silvery white on its underside, flashing as the wind turned it over. They cheered for a single leaf, and the noise startled the sparrows on the wall.
Standing in the middle of them, I suddenly felt a little ashamed. I had looked at these trees for over ten years, yet I did not know that winter jasmine flowers before it leafs out, that the underside of poplar leaves is silver-white, or that that tuft of grass by the wall had been there since last year. The children had not found spring; they were pointing spring out to me.
Back in the classroom, we made a record together. Each child got a slip of paper to draw the thing found and write where it was found. For characters they could not write, I helped, taking their dictation: the winter jasmine on the east side of the garden, one flower. A tuft of grass at the lawn edge, green. The leaf at the top of the poplar, white on its back. The slips went up on the back wall, arranged into a nature-note wall, with one line beneath: the spring we found. One child added a line, and the sparrows too, on the wall. So we counted the sparrows in.
After that, every day at dismissal some child would stand and read the note wall once. The wall stayed up for over a month, the paper edges curling, and no one tore anything down. I teach Chinese, yet that afternoon I learned more than the children did: spring is not inside the reading texts of the textbook; it lives at the height where a child squats down. In all these years of teaching, I always believed I was the one explaining the world to the children; that day I finally understood that it is the children who hand the world back to me afresh every year, and I must be willing to receive it.
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