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My husband and I recently saw a play about an elderly couple spending their forty-fourth seasons at their summer home in Maine. The underlying theme was the couple’s sense of time running out of their own mortality. We were deeply moved by the terror as well as the courage of the old people. We laughed at their charming eccentricities and wept at their anguish. As the play ended, a woman in front of us beat a hasty retreat saying loudly to her companion, “I can’t stand plays that try to make me cry!”
I felt very sorry for that woman. If she could not bear to look at the dying, she must not have noticed the loving and the living, which were present in equal part.
It is very hard to be fully human. To know the fullest dimensions of ourselves and others, we have to enlarge our capacity to feel deeply—and there is no way to do that without opening up a great deal of pain. A very wise aunt of mine put it very well shortly before she died. During one of our frequent giggle sessions she suddenly looked at me and said, “I’ve loved the sound of your laughter since you were a baby, but even while it gave me pleasure it hurt me. I knew that if you could laugh with such joy, you’d also feel your sorrows very deeply.”
It is possible to skim the surface of life without being profoundly touched by anything, but it’s not very rewarding. Although my aunt was certainly right—when I suffer it is no laughing matter!—I pity those who close themselves off from pain, for in so doing they sacrifice their opportunities for a piercing sense of joy.
I know a woman whose only daughter died at age thirty-five, leaving two young children. The grandmother lives in New York, the two granddaughters in Alaska. Friends urged Grandma to visit her grandchildren after their mother’s death. “No, I can’t,” she said. “Jenny looks just the way Helen did as a child; it would kill me to see her.”
That was ten years ago. Jenny is now eighteen. Last summer she came to New York with money she’d saved from part-time jobs. When she wrote that she was coming, her grandmother wrote back that she was sorry, but it was an inconvenient time—her apartment was about to be painted.
Helen had been a friend of mine, and I knew from Jenny’s letters to me that she was still mourning her mother and had some unfinished business to attend to. She wanted to see the place where her mother was born and had lived for many years. She also needed a sense of connection with her grandmother.
When Jenny’s grandmother told her not to come, I invited Jenny to visit me. When she walked through the door, I began to cry. It was shocking to see an almost perfect replica of Helen. I could understand how painful such a sight would be for Helen’s mother. But in avoiding that pain, she also cheated herself of the pleasure I had—the pleasure of reliving some of the happy times I’d had with Helen, of taking her daughter to some of our favorite places. Jenny’s visit reminded me of my loss and of the tragedy that this lovely young woman could not know her mother. But I felt a sense of thanksgiving—even triumph—that so much of Helen lived on in Jenny. I carried and won; Grandma ran away and lost everything she might have had.
Looking back over my life, it seems to me that I have learned the most when I felt the greatest pain. My mother’s death, for example, made me more profoundly aware of the beauty in nature. My capacity for finding joy in the most ordinary events (watching a flower open, leaves turning red, a bird taking a bath) seems to deepen each time I live through great sorrow. Death makes life more precious; frustration makes success more fulfilling, failure makes the next accomplishment more meaningful.
In order to feel deeply it is necessary to feel everything. It is impossible to choose. You can’t really know how great is your sense of joy at a baby’s birth or your satisfaction at succeeding at a hard job unless you are also deeply aware of the anguish of separation and the pain of failure. It’s through the capacity to feel that we discover ourselves and others and explore the potential for a full, significant life.
前几天我和丈夫一起看了一出戏，戏剧表现一对老年夫妻在缅因州避暑别墅庆贺他们共度四十四周年的故事，其潜在主题在于揭示老人切肤的感受： 时光飞逝，人生尽头隐隐在即矣。我们为两位老人的深切恐惧及他们因此而表现出的非凡勇气深深打动，为他们可爱的偏执而笑，为他们极度的痛苦而泣。演出结束时，我们前排一位妇女匆匆退场，边走边对她的同伴大声说：“我最受不了这些叫人哭的戏了！”
我很为那女人惋惜，假如她不能承受直面死亡之痛，她一定就没有留意与死同在的生的可爱。
人生难以终生乐善不疲，要想全面了解自己和别人，就必须扩大深切感受人生的能力——不经历大量痛苦就无法做到这一点。我的一位极有见识的姨母临死前深刻地阐述过这个问题。在一次我们总是吃吃傻笑的聚会期间，姨母突然看着我说：“从你婴儿时，我就喜欢你的笑声，那笑声既令我愉快，也让我心痛。因为，你能那么欢快地笑，就一定会深切地痛。”
趟过生命的河而不被任何东西碰触是可能的，但那就一无收益了。虽然姨母说得对——痛苦绝不是一件好玩的事！——可我还是怜悯那些把痛苦拒之门外的人，因为他们在这样做的同时，也失去了刻骨铭心感受愉快的机会。
我认识一个女人，她的女儿三十五岁时离开人世，留下两个年幼的孩子。这位外祖母住在纽约，两个外孙女住在阿拉斯加，朋友们都劝外祖母去看看两个失去母亲的孩子。“我不能去，”她说，“詹妮和她妈妈海伦小时候长得太像，见到她会勾起我无限痛苦。”
那是十年前的事，现在詹妮已经十八岁了。去年夏天她带着打零工攒的钱来到纽约，写信告诉外祖母她要来，可外祖母回信说她来的不是时候——因为他们的居室正要粉刷。
海伦曾是我的朋友，我从詹妮的来信看出，孩子依然深深怀念自己的母亲，试图完成某些未做完的事情：她想看看她母亲出生并生活过多年的地方，她需要与外祖母建立一种联系。
詹妮遭外祖母拒绝后，我邀请她来我这儿。她进门的一刹那，我情不自禁地惊叫起来，太像了，简直就是海伦的翻版。我理解这情景会给海伦母亲带来什么样的痛苦，可她在拒绝痛苦的同时，也失去了我现在正享受的快乐——回忆当初海伦带着女儿和我一起游玩我们喜欢的地方的美好时光。詹妮的来访引起我对过逝的挚友的回忆，体味到眼前这位年轻姑娘甚至连母亲的印象都隐约模糊的悲哀，但我亦存一丝感激，甚至是喜悦；海伦在詹妮身上活脱脱再现了。我悲痛可我也因此而有所收获；外祖母躲避痛苦，可她却也因此失去了她本该获得的快乐。
回首往事，最痛苦的经历似乎给人最深切的启迪，比如，母亲的去世让我格外体会到大自然的美好。每经受一次痛苦，在平凡之中发现愉悦的能力（比如观赏花儿吐艳，叶儿变红，鸟儿淋浴）就增加一分。死亡令生命格外珍贵，挫折使成功更加完满，失败使来日的成就更有意蕴。
要想深切感受，就须感受一切，选择感受是不可能的。没有分娩的阵痛，哪会体味创造生命的喜悦？没有艰苦的努力，何来成功之后的满足？我们在感受中发现自己和他人，发掘完满而有意义的生命潜能。
I felt very sorry for that woman. If she could not bear to look at the dying, she must not have noticed the loving and the living, which were present in equal part.
It is very hard to be fully human. To know the fullest dimensions of ourselves and others, we have to enlarge our capacity to feel deeply—and there is no way to do that without opening up a great deal of pain. A very wise aunt of mine put it very well shortly before she died. During one of our frequent giggle sessions she suddenly looked at me and said, “I’ve loved the sound of your laughter since you were a baby, but even while it gave me pleasure it hurt me. I knew that if you could laugh with such joy, you’d also feel your sorrows very deeply.”
It is possible to skim the surface of life without being profoundly touched by anything, but it’s not very rewarding. Although my aunt was certainly right—when I suffer it is no laughing matter!—I pity those who close themselves off from pain, for in so doing they sacrifice their opportunities for a piercing sense of joy.
I know a woman whose only daughter died at age thirty-five, leaving two young children. The grandmother lives in New York, the two granddaughters in Alaska. Friends urged Grandma to visit her grandchildren after their mother’s death. “No, I can’t,” she said. “Jenny looks just the way Helen did as a child; it would kill me to see her.”
That was ten years ago. Jenny is now eighteen. Last summer she came to New York with money she’d saved from part-time jobs. When she wrote that she was coming, her grandmother wrote back that she was sorry, but it was an inconvenient time—her apartment was about to be painted.
Helen had been a friend of mine, and I knew from Jenny’s letters to me that she was still mourning her mother and had some unfinished business to attend to. She wanted to see the place where her mother was born and had lived for many years. She also needed a sense of connection with her grandmother.
When Jenny’s grandmother told her not to come, I invited Jenny to visit me. When she walked through the door, I began to cry. It was shocking to see an almost perfect replica of Helen. I could understand how painful such a sight would be for Helen’s mother. But in avoiding that pain, she also cheated herself of the pleasure I had—the pleasure of reliving some of the happy times I’d had with Helen, of taking her daughter to some of our favorite places. Jenny’s visit reminded me of my loss and of the tragedy that this lovely young woman could not know her mother. But I felt a sense of thanksgiving—even triumph—that so much of Helen lived on in Jenny. I carried and won; Grandma ran away and lost everything she might have had.
Looking back over my life, it seems to me that I have learned the most when I felt the greatest pain. My mother’s death, for example, made me more profoundly aware of the beauty in nature. My capacity for finding joy in the most ordinary events (watching a flower open, leaves turning red, a bird taking a bath) seems to deepen each time I live through great sorrow. Death makes life more precious; frustration makes success more fulfilling, failure makes the next accomplishment more meaningful.
In order to feel deeply it is necessary to feel everything. It is impossible to choose. You can’t really know how great is your sense of joy at a baby’s birth or your satisfaction at succeeding at a hard job unless you are also deeply aware of the anguish of separation and the pain of failure. It’s through the capacity to feel that we discover ourselves and others and explore the potential for a full, significant life.
前几天我和丈夫一起看了一出戏，戏剧表现一对老年夫妻在缅因州避暑别墅庆贺他们共度四十四周年的故事，其潜在主题在于揭示老人切肤的感受： 时光飞逝，人生尽头隐隐在即矣。我们为两位老人的深切恐惧及他们因此而表现出的非凡勇气深深打动，为他们可爱的偏执而笑，为他们极度的痛苦而泣。演出结束时，我们前排一位妇女匆匆退场，边走边对她的同伴大声说：“我最受不了这些叫人哭的戏了！”
我很为那女人惋惜，假如她不能承受直面死亡之痛，她一定就没有留意与死同在的生的可爱。
人生难以终生乐善不疲，要想全面了解自己和别人，就必须扩大深切感受人生的能力——不经历大量痛苦就无法做到这一点。我的一位极有见识的姨母临死前深刻地阐述过这个问题。在一次我们总是吃吃傻笑的聚会期间，姨母突然看着我说：“从你婴儿时，我就喜欢你的笑声，那笑声既令我愉快，也让我心痛。因为，你能那么欢快地笑，就一定会深切地痛。”
趟过生命的河而不被任何东西碰触是可能的，但那就一无收益了。虽然姨母说得对——痛苦绝不是一件好玩的事！——可我还是怜悯那些把痛苦拒之门外的人，因为他们在这样做的同时，也失去了刻骨铭心感受愉快的机会。
我认识一个女人，她的女儿三十五岁时离开人世，留下两个年幼的孩子。这位外祖母住在纽约，两个外孙女住在阿拉斯加，朋友们都劝外祖母去看看两个失去母亲的孩子。“我不能去，”她说，“詹妮和她妈妈海伦小时候长得太像，见到她会勾起我无限痛苦。”
那是十年前的事，现在詹妮已经十八岁了。去年夏天她带着打零工攒的钱来到纽约，写信告诉外祖母她要来，可外祖母回信说她来的不是时候——因为他们的居室正要粉刷。
海伦曾是我的朋友，我从詹妮的来信看出，孩子依然深深怀念自己的母亲，试图完成某些未做完的事情：她想看看她母亲出生并生活过多年的地方，她需要与外祖母建立一种联系。
詹妮遭外祖母拒绝后，我邀请她来我这儿。她进门的一刹那，我情不自禁地惊叫起来，太像了，简直就是海伦的翻版。我理解这情景会给海伦母亲带来什么样的痛苦，可她在拒绝痛苦的同时，也失去了我现在正享受的快乐——回忆当初海伦带着女儿和我一起游玩我们喜欢的地方的美好时光。詹妮的来访引起我对过逝的挚友的回忆，体味到眼前这位年轻姑娘甚至连母亲的印象都隐约模糊的悲哀，但我亦存一丝感激，甚至是喜悦；海伦在詹妮身上活脱脱再现了。我悲痛可我也因此而有所收获；外祖母躲避痛苦，可她却也因此失去了她本该获得的快乐。
回首往事，最痛苦的经历似乎给人最深切的启迪，比如，母亲的去世让我格外体会到大自然的美好。每经受一次痛苦，在平凡之中发现愉悦的能力（比如观赏花儿吐艳，叶儿变红，鸟儿淋浴）就增加一分。死亡令生命格外珍贵，挫折使成功更加完满，失败使来日的成就更有意蕴。
要想深切感受，就须感受一切，选择感受是不可能的。没有分娩的阵痛，哪会体味创造生命的喜悦？没有艰苦的努力，何来成功之后的满足？我们在感受中发现自己和他人，发掘完满而有意义的生命潜能。