Some books leave readers remembering a specific story or character. Other works, once finished, leave a lasting, unnamed quietness. "Ngan mua hoa" (A Thousand Seasons of Flowers) by author Bang Son, comprising two volumes titled "The Beauty of the Homeland" and "The Beauty of Nature," left such a profound impression on me.

Devoid of major events or dramatic plots, Bang Son's writing connects with readers through the ordinary: a tree branch, a few blossoms, a village roof, a country road, a market, a clear sky, the subtle scent of plants. These seemingly simple elements, viewed through the author's refined perspective, become metaphors for memory and cultural experience.

While reading, I often asked myself: Can the process of educating a child to love life begin by teaching them to observe a flower blossoming in the sun? This simple question became more profound with reflection. We educate children in an increasingly interconnected world, rich with images and information, yet one that risks diminishing their capacity for observation and real-world experience. Through information technology, a child can recognize many things shared on a screen, such as a distant landmark or famous people.

However, do they still notice the changing seasons in the trees outside their school gate? When entering a garden, can they name the flowers growing there? Have they ever paused to observe a leaf, listened to the rain on the eaves, or noticed the shifting sunlight in the schoolyard?

The late author Bang Son dedicated much of his writing to a quiet task: pausing to reflect on life's ordinary aspects that many overlook. He focused on observing seemingly small, everyday things, discovering profound lessons within them.

A flower, at times, offers more than just a name; it presents color, fragrance, bloom time, growing environment, and experiences linked to a community. A homeland landscape is not merely scenery; it embodies a way of life, customs, thoughts, and personal experiences. This is what education should awaken in students. Dao Hanh Chi, a renowned Chinese educator, once stated, "The essence of teaching myriad things is to teach children to become authentic and multifaceted human beings."

I reflect on my own school days. At times, teachers become too preoccupied with ensuring students memorize concepts, content, and pass tests. We might feel satisfied if students answer questions correctly, write with precision, and achieve high scores.

Yet, another question arises: Does a student become more discerning after such a lesson? From the knowledge acquired, do they learn to be moved by beauty? Do they empathize with a laborer or feel ashamed when littering the schoolyard? Do they know to pick up a beautiful leaf? Or recognize their mother has aged? Do they realize that 'homeland' is not just a place in a lesson, but also where loved ones reside?

If the answer is yes, that lesson extends far beyond a mere 45-minute class. Ultimately, the educational journey aims not just to create knowledgeable students, but also empathetic, thoughtful, and aware individuals. 'Ngan mua hoa' instilled in me the belief that literature can achieve this.

The publication 'Ngan mua hoa' was released by Vietnam Women's Publishing House in 6/2024. *Photo: Vietnam Women's Publishing House*

Specifically, the term "homeland" (que huong) in Bang Son's work prompts much reflection on contemporary education. We often instill a love for homeland in students through broad concepts: history, traditions, famous figures, victories, and cultural values. These aspects are undoubtedly important. However, for a child to truly love their homeland, they must first possess personal memories of that place.

Homeland love does not originate from grand notions. It can stem from simple images: the phoenix tree outside the school gate, the path walked to school each morning, the areca palms behind grandmother's house, the scent of straw from harvest season, or a cake bought by mother one afternoon. These elements are not found on tests, but they can become the deepest part of character education.

Therefore, instead of confining lessons within four walls, take students outside the schoolyard. Give them time to observe a row of trees, or record the sky's changes over a week. We can also encourage them to ask grandparents about a traditional dish, or meticulously research the name of a river or a road they traverse daily but have never truly noticed. From these small things, let them answer the overarching question: "What does my homeland mean to me?"

I discovered a thought-provoking idea in 'Ngan mua hoa': beauty resides not in the distant, but right beside us. Yet, to discover and recognize it, one must learn to live slowly. This lesson is essential for children today, who grow up in a fast-paced world filled with short videos, overwhelming information, and fragmented attention. In this context, the ability to sit still and observe something for a few minutes, seemingly simple, becomes a special skill. A student cannot appreciate a poem's beauty without the ability to read slowly. They cannot understand a character's inner world if they are only focused on finding "the answer." Nor can they love nature by merely viewing trees on a screen.

From these seasons of flowers, I consider a broader lesson: educating for love must accompany educating for responsibility. We cannot teach students to love nature while allowing them to litter carelessly. We cannot teach them to love their homeland without helping them understand their responsibility to preserve the living environment. And, of course, we cannot speak of fields, flower seasons, or rows of trees if, in daily life, we treat nature as something to exploit and discard at will. True love always leads to action. A student who values their homeland will begin to care about what is happening around them.

Thus, a literary book can open education to lessons about the environment, culture, lifestyle, and civic responsibility. This is when reading transcends "reading to know" and progresses to changing one's way of life. Perhaps the most beautiful thing a teacher can do is not to make students remember their name, but to equip them with eyes that see, hearts that feel, souls that grieve over ugliness, appreciate beauty, and humble themselves before the small things.

Closing 'Ngan mua hoa,' I think of my students. I do not know who they will become, which city they will go to, or what work they will do. Perhaps they will travel far and achieve much success. Regardless of life's path, I always hope that amidst their adult years, they will sometimes rejoice in a sudden rain shower, wistfully experience a season of flowers passing by their window, or simply feel the scent of plants touching their memory, fondly recalling a row of trees, a road, a schoolyard corner, or merely an old lesson.

At that moment, perhaps they will realize that some lessons extend beyond grades, some values cannot be measured solely by achievements. And some seasons of flowers, long past, continue to bloom silently within a person's soul. That, perhaps, is when the educational journey completes its most beautiful part: not just teaching a child more knowledge, but helping them become a person who loves more deeply.

Tran Huynh Tuyet Nhu

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