March, returning to the ancestral land.

In the third lunar month, I returned to Phu Tho, my ancestral land, on a dry afternoon, when the wind from the palm-covered hills carried the scent of dry leaves and the fading sunlight. Unlike the bustling festivities of the first lunar month, the ancestral land in March had a gentle melancholy, like an ancient melody, rising and then fading into the air, leaving a profound aftertaste.

The ceremony of offering incense to commemorate the Hung Kings at Hung Temple. Photo: LA ANH

In the third lunar month, the palm forests are lush and vibrant, gradually turning a tan hue under the scorching summer sun. It is this very color that makes the ancestral land appear solemn and steadfast. The March sun fades, casting a thin layer of gold over the tea plantations and the silver hair of the old man walking by with his cane. Everything seems to move slowly, allowing one to look deep into their own heart.

I stopped by the gate of Trung Temple. Mist rose from the valley below, blurring the landscape like a thin veil separating the present and the past. These days, the ancestral land possesses a profound sacredness, as if ancestors from millennia ago were softly watching their descendants return after a long journey. People often say that the transition from spring to summer is when people are most easily moved. Perhaps that's why my heart softened as I watched young people place their hands on the moss-covered stones, their eyes closed as if seeking ancient reassurance. Many middle-aged people stood silently for a long time before the altar of King Hung, perhaps wanting to share their personal thoughts. The ancestral land has its own way of listening, silent, yet it soothes the sadness in people's hearts to some extent.

At the top of the Upper Temple, the wind blew stronger. A group of students were climbing up with their teacher. They chattered excitedly all the way, but when they reached the temple courtyard, they suddenly fell silent, as if understanding that this place required solemnity. A little girl gently touched her friend's hand and whispered, "I think the Hung Kings are listening to us." Her innocent words made me smile, but also left me momentarily speechless. It turns out that belief in one's roots always has a place, never disappearing, no matter how many generations pass.

Late in the afternoon, I sat on the stone steps, watching the last rays of sunlight slide through the palm trees. A few tall palm trunks leaned against each other, like old soldiers recounting stories of the past. In the distance, the sound of a bronze drum, simulated from a loudspeaker, blared out for a cultural event commemorating the Ancestor's Day. The sound faded in the wind, yet possessed a strange weight, as if stirring something deep within the veins of every Vietnamese person.

In the third lunar month in the ancestral land, people gather the quiet moments of their lives. Everyone carries a little weariness, a little regret, a little hope, a little anxiety… Then, as they descend the mountain, amidst the lingering mist, these things are suddenly swept away by the wind. People leave the ancestral land more lightly, having left behind the heavy burdens and received peace in their hearts.

Phu Tho , the third lunar month, a season of quiet contemplation. A season of heartfelt reflection before ancestors. A season of gently passing through palm forests, reminding us that no matter how far we travel, we remain children of our roots.

BAMBOO

Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/thang-ba-ve-dat-to-post848758.html