Fastway

窮人是非常了不起的人。一天晚上，我們外出，從街上帶回了四個人，其中一個生命岌岌可危。於是我告訴修女們說：“你們照料其他三個，這個瀕危的人就由我來照顧了。”就這樣，我為她做了我的愛所能做的一切。我將她放在床上，看到她的臉上綻露出如此美麗的微笑。她握著我的手，只說了句“謝謝您”就死了。我情不自禁在她面前審視起自己的良知來。我問自己，如果我是她的話，會說什麽呢？答案很簡單，我會盡量引起旁人對我的關注，我會說我饑餓難忍，冷得發抖，奄奄一息，痛苦不堪，諸如此類的話。但是她給我的卻是更多更多，她給了我她的感激之情。她死時臉上卻帶著微笑。我們從排水道帶回的那個男子也是如此。當時，他幾乎全身都快被蟲子吃掉了，我們把他帶回了家。“在街上，我一直像個動物一樣地活著，但我將像個天使一樣地死去，有人愛，有人關心。“真是太好了，我看到了他的偉磊之處，他竟能說出那樣的話。他那樣地死去不責怪任何人，不詛咒任何人，無欲無求。像天使一樣，這便是我們的人民偉大之所在。因此我們相信耶穌所說的話，我饑腸轆轆，我衣不蔽體，我無家可歸，我不為人所要，不為人所愛，也不為人所關心，然而你卻為我做了這一切。

我想，我們算不上真正的社會工作者。在人們的眼中，或許我們是在做社會工作，但實際上，我們真的只是世界中心的修行者。因為，一天24小時，我們都在觸基督的聖體。我想，在我們的大家庭時，我們不需要槍支和炮彈來破壞和平，或帶來和平，我們只需要團結起來，彼此相愛，將和平、歡樂以及每一個家庭成員靈魂的活力都帶回世界。這樣，我們就能戰勝世界上現存的一切邪惡。

我準備以我所獲得的諾貝爾和平獎獎金為那些無家可歸的人們建立自己的家園。因為我相信，愛源自家庭，如果我們能為窮人建立家園，我想愛便會傳播得更廣。而且，我們將通過這種寬容博大的愛而帶來和平，成為窮人的福音。首先為我們自己家裏的窮人，其次為我們國家，為全世界的窮人。為了做到這一點，姐妹們，我們的生活就必須與禱告緊緊相連，必須同基督結合一體才能互相體諒，共同分享，因為同基督結合一體就意味著互相體諒，共同分享。因為，今天的世界上仍有如此多的苦難存在……當我從街上帶回一個饑腸轆轆的人時，給他一盤飯，一片麵包，我就能使他心滿意足了，我就能軀除他的饑餓。但是，如果一個人露宿街頭，感到不為人所要，不為人所愛，惶恐不安，被社會抛棄—這樣的貧困讓人心痛，如此令人無法忍受。因此，讓我們總是微笑相見，因為微笑就是愛的開端，一旦我們開始彼此自然相愛，我們就會想著為對方做點什麽了。
 

她光彩照人,款款而行,

像無雲的夜空,星星點綴;

最美的黑暗與光明,

在她的面容和眼波中交匯;

幻化成一縷柔光,連上蒼

都不許眩目的白晝與與爭輝。
多一分暗色，少一分明光，

她難以言傳的美都會受到損傷

緩緩地波動在烏黑的發際，

柔柔地輝映在清麗的面龐；

她的情思清幽芬芳，

其寓所必定纖塵不染，令人神往！
面頰上，挂著的笑意無人可擋，

眉梢頭，駐著的清輝散發光芒，

多麽溫婉，多麽安祥，卻又富於力量，

襯托出她平素的溫柔善良；

秀美的外表下，她有著平和的心境

和孕育出純淨愛情的絲絲柔腸！

When I was young, I thought that to love one self was vanity and not a virtuous trait. As I have grown older, that belief has passed away, as have so many others. There is a vast deviation between being vain and loving one self.

We are all in this world together striving for more or less the same things. To contribute and have our lives count for something. To love and be loved, to laugh and…yes, to cry.

We seek shelter, nourishment, a mate, warmth, clothing, family, friends; we seek approval, love and self. Esteem. We are all imperfect. Often during our search we forget to simply enjoy what life is. We become so caught up in what could have been, what should be, what might be, that many of our days are lost. Let yesterday rest, live for today, hope and dream for your tomorrows.

If there is some part of you that lesson your self-image, some part of you that prevents you from loving yourself, change it, for only you can. Life is filled with things we have no control over, but ourselves, we can control. You are the clay, you are the sculptor and you have the ability to create a masterpiece. The shape and form are there. You have only refine the work.

Is the task an easy one? No. There will be sips and flaws and you will be required to work and rework just as a sculptor must rework the clay before the piece is completed. Should the sculptor throw out the piece condemning it as worthless because of a blemish of nick? Of course not, where then would all the world’s treasured art be? I doubt we would have any. How many masterpieces do you think have been created in one fell swoop, a first effort completely successful without change? Is it possible we fail to see that mankind is the most marvelous of all works of at? A living, continuous, developing work of art.

How often have you heart the question “what is the human race coming to?” The answer, in my mind at least, is whatever we make it, for we are the weavers of tomorrow. You are treasure, beyond price, one of a kind, irreplaceable. Not perfect but well on your way to be a masterpiece. Do not let your yesterdays hinder tomorrow’s achievements.

Again, I say to you that these words are merely feelings and thoughts, one person’s outlook and subject to change with tomorrows setting sun, as I too continue to sculpt the lump of clay given to me at birth, call self.
 

Les Brown and his twin brother were adopted by Mamie Brown, a kitchen worker and maid, shortly after their birth in a poverty-stricken Miami neighborhood.

Because of his hyperactivity and nonstop jabber, Les was placed in special education classes for the learning disabled in grade school and throughout high school. Upon graduation, he became a city sanitation worker in Miami Beach. But he had a dream of being a disc jockey.

At night he would take a transistor radio to bed where he listened to the local jive talking deejays. He created an imaginary radio station in his tiny room with its torn vinyl flooring. A hairbrush served as his microphone as he practiced his patter, introducing records to his ghost listeners.

His mother and brother could hear him through the thin walls and would shout at him to quit flapping his jaws and go to sleep. But Les didn’t listen to them. He was wrapped up in his own world, living a dream.

One day Les boldly went to the local radio station during his lunch break from mowing grass for the city. He got into the station manager’s office and told him he wanted to be a disc jockey.

The manager eyed this disheveled young man in overalls and a straw hat and inquired, Do you have any background in broadcasting?

Les replied, No sir, I don’t.

Well, son, I’m afraid we don’t have a job for you then.

Les thanked him politely and left. The station manager assumed that he had seen the last of this young man. But he underestimated the depth of Les Brown’s commitment to his goal. You see, Les had a higher purpose than simply wanting to be a disc jockey. He wanted to buy a nicer house for his adoptive mother, whom he loved deeply. The disc jockey job was merely a step toward his goal.

Mamie Brown had taught Les to pursue his dreams, so he felt sure that he would get a job at that radio station in spite of what the station manager had said.
 
And so Les returned to the station every day for a week, asking if there were any job openings. Finally the station manager gave in and took him on as an errand boyat no pay. At first, he fetched coffee or picked up lunches and dinner for the deejays who could not leave the studio. Eventually his enthusiasm for their work won him the confidence of the disc jockeys who would send him in their Cadillacs to pick up visiting celebrities such as the Temptations and Diana Ross and the Supremes. Little did any of them know that young Les did not have a driver’s license.

Les did whatever was asked of him at the station and more. While hanging out with the deejays, he taught himself their hand movements on the control panel. He stayed in the control rooms and soaked up whatever he could until they asked him to leave. Then, back in his bedroom at night, he practiced and prepared himself for the opportunity that he knew would present itself.

One Saturday afternoon while Les was at the station, a deejay named Rock was drinking while on the air. Les was the only other person in the building, and he realized that Rock was drinking himself toward trouble. Les stayed close. He walked back and forth in front of the window in Rock’s booth. As he prowled, he said to himself. Drink, Rock, drink!

Les was hungry, and he was ready. He would have run down the street for more booze if Rock had asked. When the phone rang, Les pounced on it. It was the station manager, as he knew it would be.

Les, this is Mr. Klein.

Yes, said Les. I know.

Les,  I  don’t  think Rock can finish his program. Yes sir, I know.Would  you  call  one  of  the  other deejays to come in and take over?

Yes, sir. I sure will.

But when Les hung up the telephone, he said to himself, Now, he must think I’m crazy.

Les did dial the telephone, but it wasn’t to call in another deejay. He called his mother first, and then his girlfriend. You all go out on the front porch and turn up the radio because I’m about to come on the air! he said.

He waited about 15 minutes before he called the general manager. Mr. Klein, I can find nobody, Les said.

Mr. Klein then asked, Young man, do you know how to work the controls in the studio?

Oh my love is like a red, red rose.

That’s newly sprung in June.

Oh my love is like the melodie.    

That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair are though, my bonnie lass.

So deep in love am I.

And I will love the still, my dear.

Till the seas go dry.

Till the seas go dry, my dear

And the rocks met with the sun

And I will love these still, my dear.   

While the sands of life run.

And fare thee well, my only love.

And fare the well a while!

And I will come again, my live!

Though it were ten thousand mile!

The young Mother set her foot on the path of life. “Is this the long way?” she asked. And her guide said, “Yes and the ways are hard. And you will be old before you reach the end of it. But the end will better than the beginning.”

But the young Mother was happy, and she would not believe that anything could be better than these years. So she played with her children, and gathered flowers for them along the way, and bathed them in the clear streams, and the sun shone on them.

Then the night came, and the storm. The path was dark. And the children shook with fear and cold, the Mother drew them close and covered them with her mantle, the children said, “Mother, we are not afraid, for you are nears and no them.

Then the night came, and the storm. The path was dark. And the children shook with fear and cold, the Mother drew then close and covered them with her mantle, the children said, “Mother, we are not afraid, for you are nears and no harm can come.’

Then the morning came, there was a hill ahead. The children climbed and grew weary, the Mother was weary, too. But at all times she said to the children, “A little patience and we are there.” So the children climbed, when they reached the top they said, “Mother, we would not have done it without you.” The mother, when she lay down at night looked up at the stars and said, “This is a better day than the last, for my children have learned fortitude in the face of hardness. Yesterday I gave them courage. Today I have given them strength.”

The next day came strange clouds which darkened the earth-clouds of war, hate and evil, and the children groped and stumbled, the Mother said, “Look up. Lift your eyes to the light.” The children looked and saw above the clouds an everlasting glory, it guided them beyond the darkness. That night the Mother said, “This is the best day of all, for I have shown my children God.”

The days went on, and the weeks and the months and the years, the Mother grew old…she was little and bent. But her children were tall and strong, walked with courage. When the way was rough, they lifted her, for she was as light as a feather, and at last they came to a hill, and beyond they could see a shining road and golden gates flung wide.

The Mother said, “I have reached the end of my journey. Now I know the end is better than the beginning, for my children can walk alone, and their children after them.” The children said, “You will always walk with us, Mother, even when you have gone through the gates.”

They stood and watched her as she went on alone, and the gates closed after her. They said, “We cannot see her, but she is with us still. A Mother like ours is more than a memory. She is living presence.”

Your Mother is always with you. She’s the smell of bleach in your freshly laundered socks, and she’s the cool hand on your brow when you’re not well. Your Mother lives inside your laughter and your tear drops. She’s the place you came from, your first home; and she’s the map you follow with every step you take. She’s your first love and your first heartbreak, and nothing on earth can separate you.

我想說，家中無氣節。這話，肯定不堪一擊。中國人餓死事小，失節事大，哪裏敢辱沒氣節的丰姿呢？但我指的只是家中的瑣碎，不過借用一下此詞的英名。

世上舉案齊眉的家庭一定是有的，不能以我等瓢勺相碰的日子，揣測人家的和睦是虛僞。但也一定不多，因為矛盾的普遍性制約著我們。

大多數家庭都時常爆發爭執，像界碑不清的小國，邊境衝突不斷。要是演變成正式宣戰，乾脆離婚罷了，也不在範疇之內。那些先是苦戀苦愛，既爭執不斷，又處於冷戰狀態家庭，似有氣節的餘地。

有多少原則問題呢？真正的國計民生，大概並不構成分歧的核心。甚至對家庭的大政方針，比如孩子要上大學，父母要延年益壽，工作要努力，住房要增加……雙方也是高度和諧統一的。問題往往出在一些很小的分工或是態度的優劣上，比如你是做飯還是洗衣？你為什麽不和顔悅色而是頤指氣使……有時，簡直就不知是為什麽，雙方把外界的怒氣直接打包帶回家，單刀直入地進入了對峙階段，除了不扔原子彈，家庭陰冷的氣氛同大戰無異。

為了對付這種莫名其妙的僵持，時新雜志上登出了許多馭夫或是馭妻的“訣竅”，教你如何化幹戈為玉帛，這些供人莞爾一笑的小訣竅，不知靈不靈，我看這其中的死結—就是如何對待家中的氣節。

家是什麽呢？是一對男女的永不畢業的大學，是適宜孩子居住的聖殿。是靈魂的廣闊海灘，精神的太陽浴場。我們在塵世奔波，會見他人時的種種面膜，需在家中清洗復原。意志的疲軟頓挫，需在親情中柔軟著陸。人們以為家中的人多溫柔和藹，真是錯了。在渦輪般旋轉的今天，家居的人也許比街市的人更脆弱，更敏感，更易激惹。

常常聽到因小事爭吵的女人說，我從此不理丈夫，等他來同我說第一句話。男人就更是不肯低下高昂的頭，好像家是寧死不屈的刑場。

冷漠後恢復交談的第一句話真是那麽重要嗎？重於我們曾經有過一生一世的尋找？第二句話真就那麽卑嗎？低賤到後發制人，喪失了品格和尊嚴？第三句話真就那麽平淡嗎？淡到它如同抛棄我們以前擁有過的萬語千言？

什麽是家中的氣節？既然我們相愛，愛就是我們共同的氣節。你的失態，在我看來，是你的思緒潰敗了。在這一個瞬間，我是你的強者。原諒，寬恕，包容和鼓勵，就是家庭永遠長青的氣節。

有些人以沉默對待冷漠，消極地把繮繩交給時間。時間通常是一個中性的調解員，會使人們漸漸恢復冷靜。但孤寂中顧自家意氣的男女不要忘了，時間也會跟我們開居心叵測的玩笑呢。當你緘默著不肯諒解時，家的瓶頸便出現第一道裂紋。繼續對抗下去錘子無聊地敲擊著婚姻之瓶，隨著時間的疊加，瓶子也許訇然破碎。

太看重一已氣節的人，其實是一種枯燥的自卑。你以為在親人面前掙得了面子，失去的卻是尊重與寬容。片刻的滿足帶來長久的隱患，聰明的男人和女人，千萬別因小失大。

分歧時，不必拍案而起。爭執起，義正辭可不嚴。有失誤，莫要聲色俱厲。災臨頭，攜手共赴家難。如果一定要有家中氣節，我想這幾條該在其中。

He Stood upon the steps and looked out over the wind-chopped swells marching their arc from the distant horizon to the nearby shore.

“The eternal ocean,” he said aloud though the wind whipped the sound away. “Eternal”, he wiped his hand across his brow. “unlike me.”

The sun glinted off the whitecaps, magnified as from a million mirrors. Though it blinded, he gazed into the glare, hoping with all his might that as the reflections washed over him, the great ocean too was somehow looking upon him.

“See me,” he said. “Take that part of me you see and remember. Remember so I might be eternal too.”

He listened, yet the ocean gave no answer – save the constant thrust of breakers rolling along the beach. Soon, a cloud extended its reach and blocked the sun, dissolving the glimmering reflections and breaking the spell they held over him.

He turned his back upon the waters. Eager to be away from this place, he leapt his way upward, clearing three, sometimes our steps at a time. He overtook a little girl, and she stared awestruck, watching him crest the stairwell and disappear.

“Mommy!” she cried. “Did you see that man? He jumped over all these steps!” She tried to mimic his action, but was too small to make it over more than one step.

Her mother took her hand. Following after, the girl dreamed about the man who could leap over stairs, imagining that someday, maybe, she would be able to do so as well.

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideal which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for an unreal life.

They must discover for themselves that all they have read and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger than himself.

First of all, love is joint experience between two persons—but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which has lain quiet within the lover for long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new in world—a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring—this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the street one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else—but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit, A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.