失而復得的夢想

When I was a very young girl， my mother took me to see Swan Lake. I’d never seen ballet before， and afterward， all I could dream of was becoming a ballerina， a prima ballerina.

Though I loved school throughout my early years， and was particularly fond of reading and writing， I was equally inclined toward athletics. I eagerly looked forward to playground recesses when， flying past my playmates in footraces or swinging energetically across the monkey bars， I would imagine myself in tights and leotard， time and space in my grasp as I soared effortlessly through the air in some achingly beautiful “pas de deux.”

My father， a self-made businessman， had enormous faith in what he saw as the unlimited potential of each of his children. He had drilled into my brothers and me from early on the belief that we each had the ability to achieve any and all of our dreams， as long as we kept them firmly in our sights. I believed with all my heart that he was right and spent part of every day seeing the reality of my becoming a ballerina in my mind.

When， in about the fifth grade， I began tripping over my own feet more and more frequently. But as a small child， I didn’t realize that something might be wrong. But when my older brother， who had been experiencing similar problems， was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy， I knew what was wrong with me. Even so， the fact that muscular dystrophy can be a slow-moving disease caused my initial symptoms to be minor enough that， with the ignorance of youth， the possibility that it would completely change my dream never occurred to me.

It wasn’t until my middle school years， when my legs looked undeveloped， different somehow， from other girls in their first stockings， and my first grown-up pumps had to be replaced with orthopedic shoes， followed by leg braces， that I finally became conscious of some hard facts.

At that time in our yard， there was a huge old oak tree in a secluded corner that I’d always loved climbing. One of my most powerful fears， of course， was that the day would soon come when I would no longer be physically able to perform the simple act of climbing a favorite tree—clearly， ballet was out of the question. While I didn’t want to face it， I rarely thought about anything else. On one particularly tough day， I went to my hideout straight off the school bus， backpack on my back. I was especially miserable that day. I’d tripped， again， and had a spectacular fall at school， this time right in front of the boy I’d had a secret crush on during the last year. Though those classmates that witnessed my disgrace had not laughed， had been kind， even， all I could think about was that this was my fate for the rest of my life.

I’d been crying hard， and I wanted a little moment to myself before going into the kitchen and letting Mom see my tear-streaked face. Desperate to calm down， I grabbed my notebook out of my backpack and started writing a poem about the feelings I was experiencing. We’d been studying haiku that semester， and I was taken by the simple purity of words that could bring forth strong images with great economy.

The writing calmed me， setting free the harmful thoughts that had had me in their grip such a short time ago. Having achieved this relatively tranquil state， I decided to try another poem describing my agonizing fears of physical deterioration. Once again， it worked； it was as though the simple act of writing set free the demons that seemed to have taken up permanent residency， allowing me to step outside those thoughts and see them in a different， more detached perspective.

The next afternoon， I went straight to my tree， wanting to see if what had worked once would work again. As soon as I’d climbed to my perch， however， it seemed that all I could focus on was the fact that this hideaway was physically slipping out of my grasp. As if to hang onto the mental imagery of these moments， I began listing every detail I could think of， describing the rough bark against my back， the creaking sound of heavy limbs swaying in the breeze， the dappled afternoon sun splaying across my hands as it worked its way through rustling leaves. I wanted to capture the feel of it. By writing it all down， I felt I’d be able to keep these feelings close to my heart always， regardless of whether my memory or my body failed me.

What began that long-ago afternoon was to become a lifelong love affair with words. I realized， as early as that first time I wrote a poem up on the oak tree， that the power of those words would help me remember the things I’d been lucky enough to experience and keep them safe within me for as long as I needed it. It was much later when I realized that those same words would help me let go， help me put one well-lived experience behind me in order that I might move on to something new and equally important.

Now， I’m well beyond those youthful years and a full-time free- lance writer. It seems that those long-ago afternoons will always stand out in my memory. The act of writing always takes me back to that initial， willful act of faith， a way to look， touch， and savor all life’s moments while they are happening， to make each of them count and not to take any of them for granted. It is a prayer， of sorts， that continues to help me attain and conquer my life without， in the end， being conquered by it. When I put thought on paper today， whether it be for a particularly compelling piece of fiction or a more mundane news piece， there is always the memory of that first thrill of capturing each moment as it happens， of knowing that， no matter how far distant it becomes in memory， the simple act of writing will keep it forever safe， forever authentic.

在我還是個小女孩的時候，我的母親帶我去看《天鵝湖》。在那之前，我從沒看過芭蕾舞表演，而在那之后，我所有的夢想就是成為一名芭蕾舞演員，一名首席芭蕾舞演員。

我小時候雖然很愛上學，尤其喜歡閱讀和寫作，但是我也同樣喜歡運動。我熱切地盼望著到操場上去玩耍，不管是在與同學們比賽競走的時候從他們身邊疾速超越，還是精力旺盛地爬到猴架上蕩來蕩去，我都會想象自己穿著緊身衣和緊身褲，毫不費力地騰空而起，跳起美麗動人的芭蕾雙人舞。在那一刻，時間和空間盡在我的掌握之中。

我的父親是位白手起家的商人，他認為他的每個孩子身上都具有無限的潛能，并對此堅信不疑。在我們很小的時候，他在我和兄弟們心中深深植入了這樣的信念：只要我們牢牢地把夢想記在心中，我們每一個人就都有能力去實現自己的任何和所有夢想。我對這些話的正確性深信不疑。我每天都會花上一些時間在腦海中想象自己真的成了一名芭蕾舞演員。

大概在我上五年級的時候，我開始越來越頻繁地自己把自己絆倒。可我畢竟還是個小孩子，并沒意識到這可能有什么問題。但后來，當哥哥也遇到了和我相同的麻煩，被診斷為患了肌營養不良時，我才明白了自己是什么毛病。即便如此，由于肌營養不良是一種慢性病，我最初的癥狀并不太明顯，再加上年幼無知，我從未想到過這種病將會有可能徹底改變我的夢想。

上中學后，我的腿看起來沒有發育，和別的第一次穿長筒襪的女孩子有些不一樣。我的第一雙標志成熟的無帶淺口輕便鞋不得不換成矯形鞋，繼之以腿部固定支架。直到那時，我才終于意識到一些殘酷的事實。

那時，在我們家院子一個隱蔽的角落里有棵高大魁梧的老橡樹，我以前一直喜歡爬到樹上去玩。最令我恐懼的事情之一當然就是，我連爬上喜歡的樹這樣的簡單動作都完成不了的日子很快就要到來了——顯然，跳芭蕾舞更是絕不可能了。在我不愿意正視這個事實的時候，我很少考慮其他事情。在一個令人特別難以忍受的日子里，我下了校車就背著書包直奔我的藏身之處。那天我特別難受，因為我又自己絆倒了。我在學校當眾跌了一大跤，而且正好就當著我頭一年一直暗戀的那個男孩的面。雖然那些目睹我出丑的同學都沒有笑我，甚至還對我很友善，但是，我滿腦子想到的卻都是：這就是我余生的命運。

我之前很傷心地哭過，現在就想在走進廚房讓媽媽看見我滿臉的淚痕前先單獨待一會兒。我竭力想讓自己平靜下來，就匆匆從書包里抓出筆記本，開始寫一首詩，寫我正在經歷的這種痛苦。那個學期我們一直在學俳句，我沉醉于其文字的簡單純凈之中，非常簡潔的用詞即可帶來極其生動的描繪。

寫詩使我平靜了下來，將我從那些剛剛還令我深陷其中的有害思想里解放了出來。因為我的心稍微平靜了些，所以我決定再寫一首，寫我對身體每況愈下所產生的極度痛苦的恐懼心理。這再次奏效！好像寫作這種簡單的行為能夠釋放那些似乎想永遠盤踞在我心中的魔鬼，能讓我掙脫那些想法的束縛，用一種不同的、更加超然的角度來看待它們。

第二天下午，我又徑直跑到老橡樹那兒去，想看看昨天在我身上產生那種神奇效果的方法今天還管不管用。但我一爬到樹上，就似乎只能想著一件事，那就是從我的身體條件來說，這個藏身之地已經超出了我的控制之外。似乎是為了緊緊抓住這些瞬間的精神影像，我開始描述我能夠想到的每一個細節：抵在我后背上的那節粗糙的橡樹干，微風搖動粗重的樹干時發出的吱吱聲，以及透過沙沙發響的樹葉在我手上灑落點點斑駁的午后陽光。我想要抓住這種感覺。通過把它全部寫下來，我覺得不管我的記憶或者身體是否令我失望過，我都能把這些感覺一直留在我的心靈深處。

我在許多年前的那個下午開始做的事情，后來發展成了我對文字終生的摯愛。我意識到，早在我第一次在那棵老橡樹上寫下第一首詩的時候，這些詩句的力量就會幫我記住那些我曾經有幸經歷過的事情，并能幫我將它們安全地保存在我的記憶里，我需要保存多久就保存多久。很久以后，我還意識到同樣的這些文字能幫我學會釋懷，幫我將一種深刻體驗過的經歷置于身后，從而能繼續向前去體驗一些新的、同樣重要的事情。

現在，我的健康狀況已比青少年時期大有好轉，我成了一名自由作家，很多年前的那些下午似乎將永遠凸顯在我的記憶中。寫作總會使我回想起最初那個固執的信念之舉——那是一種當生活中的所有關鍵時刻到來時看待、感知和享用它們的方式，讓我認真對待生活中的每一刻，絕不想當然。這是一種祈禱，如果它算得上祈禱的話，繼續幫助我獲得并征服我的生活，要是沒有它，我最終就會被生活征服。如今，當我在紙上寫下我的想法時，不管是寫一篇情節細致、引人入勝的小說還是一條普通的新聞報道，我都記得我捕捉到它發生時的那種最初的激動；我都知道，不管它在我的記憶里變得多遙遠，只要把它寫下來，這個簡單的動作就將使它永遠安全、永遠可信。