近日，@祝薪雁的視頻賬號(hào)火了。

這位阿姨的視頻里鏡頭所及，不過(guò)是灶臺(tái)窗邊、街頭巷尾的尋常。但她卻擁有46.7萬(wàn)粉絲，視頻獲贊超948萬(wàn)。

Zhu Xinyan has recently gained widespread attention on social media. Her videos capture nothing extraordinary — just everyday scenes from the kitchen, windows, and streets. Yet, she has attracted 467,000 followers and received over 9.48 million likes.

原來(lái)真正動(dòng)人的不在畫(huà)面里，而是她為每個(gè)視頻配上的文字——寥寥幾句，白描感十足，溫暖而自然，又透著詩(shī)意與哲理。

她的文字歷經(jīng)時(shí)間的沉淀，有著生活本身的質(zhì)地與溫度，輕易便能觸到人心柔軟處。

With a few spare, evocative sentences, Zhu transforms mundane scenes into reflections brimming with warmth, wisdom, and a gentle, philosophical grace. Her words, polished by a lifetime of experience, carry an authenticity that resonates deeply with a vast online audience.

Her writings offer a quiet antidote to modern anxiety. When feeling low, scrolling through her page feels like a moment of gentle solace.

mundane /m?n?de?n/ adj. 單調(diào)的，平凡的，平淡的；世俗的，塵世的

網(wǎng)友紛紛給她留言：“姨，太會(huì)寫(xiě)了，眼淚嘩嘩流”“就好像是我的鄰居，只言片語(yǔ)里全是人間溫暖”“真正的文學(xué)來(lái)自于生活吧”。

當(dāng)你覺(jué)得“心里不得勁兒”時(shí)，也許她的文字能溫柔治愈你。

她寫(xiě)陪伴母親吃面：

我煮了兩碗面，自己的那碗早見(jiàn)了底，便坐在一旁靜靜看著九十歲的媽媽吃。她碗里還剩大半，可每夾起一筷子面條都嚼得噴香，我瞧著這模樣，心里樂(lè)滋滋的。

I cooked two bowls of noodles. Mine was soon empty, so I sat quietly watching my ninety-year-old mother eat. Her bowl was still half full, yet she chewed each bite with such relish. Seeing this filled me with joy.

這份樂(lè)里藏著暖，也悄悄裹著酸，我忽然明白，能這樣看著媽媽好好吃飯，便是我此刻最珍貴的唯一。

That joy held warmth, but also a hint of ache. I suddenly understood: watching mom eat well is the most precious gift I have right now.

她寫(xiě)煎豆腐：

筷子翻豆腐，焦痕漫開(kāi)，像未說(shuō)的話生了斑。

Flipping tofu in the pan, the browning spreads like unspoken words developing spots.

她寫(xiě)參加宴席：

人湊得齊，看著鬧，心里卻空得慌。這飯，是送你的。

Everyone's here, it looks lively, yet my heart feels hollow. This meal is for you.

她寫(xiě)大姐搓“白粑粑”：

大姐搓的“白粑粑”，在鍋里滾著滾著就黃了。她眼里的光沒(méi)滅，只是添了層化不開(kāi)的倦，人生大抵也是這般，熬著熬著就有了顏色。

The "white cakes" my sister rolls turn golden as they simmer in the pot. The light in her eyes hasn't gone out — it's just veiled with a weariness that won't dissolve. Life is much the same: we simmer and simmer until we gain our own color.

她寫(xiě)和同鄉(xiāng)人一起烤火：

舊去新來(lái)，家鄉(xiāng)火旺，挨著坐身暖，突然想起，鼻子一酸，又笑著往里靠。

The old year goes, the new arrives. The hometown fire burns strong.Sitting among my people, warmth finds me. A memory catches in my throat — I smile, and lean into them.

她寫(xiě)大鵝：

雖為家禽身，總跟主人半步遠(yuǎn)，拖車載物不偏倚，慢了等、快了攆，比人還知伴。

Though born as poultry, they follow their owner half a step behind, pulling carts without swaying, waiting if he's slow, hurrying if he's fast — more companionable than some people.

鵝叫得勤，院靜得很，偏偏這生，怎么繞，都出不去。

The geese call often; the courtyard stays quiet. Yet this life, however you turn, never quite finds a way out.

她在路上看見(jiàn)兩個(gè)小孩，寫(xiě)下：

佝僂的肩扛著兩份喧鬧，小腳步踩碎回憶，路邊掉著我撿不回的童年。

Bent shoulders carry two loads of noise. Little footsteps crush memories. By the roadside lies a childhood I can't pick back up.

她寫(xiě)酸湯魚(yú)：

魚(yú)蜷酸湯，涼拌菜涼。滿桌鮮，“喂”了窗。

Fish curled in sour broth, cold dishes chilled. A table full of freshness "fed" to the window.

她寫(xiě)煮雞蛋：

蛋殼碎了不代表雞蛋廢了，反而少了一層束縛，能更快融入湯里、粥里，活出另一種滋味。

A cracked shell doesn't mean the egg is ruined. Instead, it sheds a layer of restraint, blending sooner into the soup or porridge, living a new flavor.

生活里的小意外從不是終點(diǎn)，只要內(nèi)核還在，就總能熬出屬于自己的溫度。

Small accidents in life are never the end. As long as the core remains, we can always simmer into our own warmth.

根據(jù)阿姨寫(xiě)的《黔山的回憶》可知，她是七零年生人，長(zhǎng)在貴州的山里。家里姊妹六個(gè)，母親攥著鋤頭在坡地刨包谷，父親退伍回來(lái)后被分配到公社上班。她回憶山里的“日子裹著山霧的潮，苦是土坎上的苔蘚，浸在日子里，又黏著點(diǎn)柴火的暖。”

后來(lái)她終于走出了大山，“可夢(mèng)里總飄著芭茅草灰的味、煤油燈的光，還有山路上，母親提著飯竹筒走在前頭的影子——這些碎在黔山霧里的細(xì)枝末節(jié)，早成了扎在骨血里的根，順著血管，把山里的暖，牽得很長(zhǎng)，很長(zhǎng)。”

According to her work "Memories of the Guizhou Mountains", Zhu was born in the 1970s and grew up in the hills of Guizhou province. With five siblings, her mother dug corn from the slopes with a hoe, while her father, after returning from the army, was assigned to work for the commune. She recalls, "Those days were wrapped in the damp of mountain mist. Hardship was like moss on the earthen ridges, soaked into daily life, yet clinging to the warmth of the firewood."

She eventually left the mountains, "Yet my dreams still carry the scent of gray cogon grass, the glow of kerosene lamps, and the shadow of my mother walking ahead on the mountain path, carrying a bamboo lunch pail — these fragments, scattered in the Guizhou mist, have long taken root in my bones and blood, stretching the mountain's warmth long, so long through my veins."

她說(shuō)：“半生走過(guò)，如今最盼兩件事：一是把真心待我的人好好疼惜，讓日子滿是安穩(wěn)；二是抱抱曾經(jīng)那個(gè)慌慌張張、沒(méi)被好好照顧的小姑娘，補(bǔ)她一場(chǎng)遲到的溫柔。”

生活贈(zèng)她以粗糲的過(guò)往，她卻回饋以溫柔的凝視與通透的解讀。

阿姨的文字安然地呈現(xiàn)出生活本來(lái)的紋路，讓你看見(jiàn)：每一個(gè)看似微不足道的瞬間，都值得被鄭重其事地銘記與深愛(ài)。

She says, "Having lived half my life, I now hope for two things: first, to truly cherish those who have treated me with sincerity, filling my days with peace; and second, to hold that once frantic, poorly cared-for little girl, and give her the tenderness that arrived too late."

Life handed Zhu a rough past, but she returns its gaze with a poet's gentle eye and a philosopher's clarity. In a noisy digital world, her account stands as a quiet testament to a powerful truth: every ordinary moment holds a hidden depth, worthy of being noticed, remembered, and loved.

你平時(shí)有用文字記錄感受的習(xí)慣嗎？歡迎評(píng)論區(qū)分享。

來(lái)源：新華每日電訊 “CCTV紀(jì)錄”微信公眾號(hào)

跟著China Daily

精讀英語(yǔ)新聞

“無(wú)痛”學(xué)英語(yǔ)，每天20分鐘就夠！