The Amazing Transformation of Rice

“Weeding in the heat of noon, sweat dripping onto the soil beneath the plants.” Just after learning the poem “Sympathy for the Farmers,” I looked at the pure white rice in my bowl and thought to myself: If only I could become a grain of rice and experience its growth journey firsthand, then I might truly understand the hardships of farmers. How wonderful that would be! As I was pondering this, suddenly, a thunderclap sounded from the sky, and a golden beam cut through the night sky. With a gentle twist, I transformed into a tiny rice seed and fell into the soft soil.

In the darkness, I struggled to stretch my body, as if dancing within the earth. Finally, with a “pop,” I poked out my little head! The sunlight shone down on me, warm and comforting, like my mother’s hand caressing me. Looking down, I saw that my “arms” had turned into two tender green leaves, swaying gently in the breeze. “Wow, I really became a little rice seedling!” I was overjoyed.
The spring rain drizzled down, and the summer sun scorched the earth; I grew taller day by day in the fields. The wind blew, and I danced; the rain fell, and I drank its nourishment. Gradually, a heavy cluster of rice ears sprouted from my top, like a small golden crown, containing many little grains as precious as pearls.
One day, a rumbling sound came from afar, and an old farmer with a wrinkled face and dark skin arrived in his harvester. He looked at us with a smile in his eyes: “This year will be another good harvest!” But then I was cut down, packed into a sack, and taken to the dark barn. I trembled with fear. At that moment, an older rice grain beside me whispered, “Don’t be afraid; our journey is not over yet. We are going to become fragrant rice to warm people’s stomachs and hearts.”
Later, we were transported to a processing plant by large trucks, where we went through various steps like shelling and polishing. Although it hurt a bit, I gritted my teeth, feeling a sweet sense of fulfillment: It turned out that being eaten was not the end, but the beginning of a new journey.
The moment I was about to be swallowed, I suddenly opened my eyes—only to find myself back at the dining table, still looking at that bowl of white rice, with tears in my eyes. It was all a dream. But I knew that every grain of rice had traveled an extraordinary path, carrying within it the sunshine, the rain, and the sweat of the farmers.
From then on, I never picky about food again, for I understood that food is a miracle born from the union of the earth and hard work, a hymn to life that declares, “Who knows the hardship behind every grain on our plate?”