從恩師到密友：你令“愛”了不起

During my first year in college， I was silent. I never skipped class and read every page assigned to me， but I didn’t speak. My curiosity was 1）insatiable， and I spent many quiet hours in the library， reading and thinking， but I was so afraid of failing， so wary of my physical presence in the world that I sat mutely in lectures， scribbling in my notebook and marveling at how 2）articulate everyone else seemed to be.

During my sophomore year I declared a religion major and took a class from Barbara， a young 3）theologian. As my mind was split open by a range of new thinkers and writers， and by the quality of Barbara’s questions， I finally had something to say. I started talking， and then I couldn’t stop. I was a frequent visitor during Barbara’s office hours， a rocket of words. She listened， calmly responded and helped me organize my 4）erratic thoughts.

I spent my junior year in Dublin， and that spring Barbara sent me an email announcing the birth of her daughter. I quickly typed a note of congratulations and wandered to a nearby coffee shop， feeling strangely weepy. I realized that I loved Barbara for the ways in which she reflected an ideal version of who I wanted to be. What did I know， if anything， about her life？

Gradually， I learned more. During my senior year， when Barbara was my thesis advisor， I was her daughter’s babysitter. That year， when I was awarded a 5）Fulbright scholarship， I 6）sprinted to Barbara’s office in the basement of the school chapel. We 7）whooped loudly， our voices echoing 8）scandalously out of tune with the school choir practicing upstairs.

Over the 9）intervening years I visited Barbara’s family home in Palo Alto， California， when she and her husband took teaching jobs at Stanford， watched her much older girl fall in love with sharks and Disney and later， 10）Dance Revolution. Barbara wrote me countless letters of recommendation as I skipped around the country， first for social service jobs and later for graduate school in theology and writing.

Our relationship gradually deepened， but I was always conscious of a teacher-student 11）dynamic. We were always slightly cautious，both a bit guarded. This changed fundamentally when I became a parent.

When I had my son in March 2010， Barbara was one of the first to congratulate me. When my child was diagnosed with 12）Tay-Sachs disease nine months later， she wrote me a letter—handwritten， on a white 13）legal pad. My son died before he turned 3， and Barbara wrote me regular letters for the two and half years of his illness； remarkable letters that are revealing， loving and kind. Honest. Full of rage and searching.

When I began writing about my son and my grief experience in a very public blog format， 14）beavering away on essays long into the night， Barbara responded to each one. Her husband was worried， she wrote， that reading my posts and peering so deeply into another’s despair would upset her.

Each week Barbara responded to the workings of an inner life of which she had been one of the primary architects. I posted essays nearly every day in 2011， and I waited for Barbara’s letters， the familiar handwriting and Palo Alto address， with the same anticipation of decades before when I had eagerly skipped to the back page to read her notes on a theology paper.

Barbara’s letters were not just about my work and what was happening with my son， but about her life as well. At first she worried about discussing the family vacation and the events of her daily life because she didn’t want to bore me， or hurt me， or make me feel rage. But I wanted to know， I wrote back. I wanted to peer into the life of someone whose family and children weren’t falling apart.

In one letter written with visibly shaky handwriting during a 15）turbulent plane ride， I began to realize that I hadn’t really known her at all—not until now—when she revealed more about herself than she ever had. Last summer she wrote， “I’m sending you lots of love and positive thoughts. Hope you feel it.” I did， and I do.

Yes， we had decades of shared history behind us， but now we had truly gotten to know and love one another as women， thinkers， mothers； in a word， equals. This switch from youthful adoration to a more 16）nuanced relationship included an element of loss. I was no longer young， foolishly believing that possibilities were endless. Our correspondence signaled an adult awareness of mortality， that death is always closer than we think. Our relationship had evolved， grown up.

The most recent letter was the most personal， and perhaps the most profound. She told me the story about her daughter’s birth， one that would never have been included in an email announcement. After her daughter was born， she was taken away and a nurse arrived to take care of Barbara， to wash and comfort her. “Time seemed to stop，” she wrote， “and this moment in which the flow of time seemed to be completely suspended， my thought was this： this is a 17）baptism， and this is the moment when I become a parent， this is the 18）anointing.” She went on to say that she believed my experience of parenting a terminally ill child had made me a better person， not in a superficial， 19）moralistic sense， but “I think he’s made you better by opening up the great fire of your love” with his “small but magnificent existence.” I have never in my life read a more deeply comforting sentence， one that spoke to my grandest hopes， my deepest fears， and the only faith that remains to me， which is a belief in chaos. Our love had bloomed and deepened； from a guarded mutual respect to a richer， deeper friendship.

In this letter， written almost exactly two years after the first， Barbara writes， “Be strong， be weak—whatever you need. It is a holy and frightening time， but you are not alone.” I felt connected to another person by a long line of knowing， and understood that this watchful observation， this witness， is the only way to 20）mitigate the vast loneliness of grief. I realized with relief and gratitude that on those cool autumn nights 20 years ago as I marched across campus after class， my head down， stomach grinding， heart pounding， feeling so 21）singular， so lonely， so silent and terrified and contained and yet also， brimming， I was not—and never have been—alone.

在念大學(xué)的第一年，我沉默寡言。我從不逃課，認(rèn)真閱讀課業(yè)布置給我的每一頁書，但我不說話。我的好奇心從不滿足，我在圖書館里度過了許多安靜時(shí)光，讀書和思考，但我極害怕失敗，對(duì)于在世人面前展現(xiàn)自己的實(shí)體存在極為謹(jǐn)慎，因此總是一言不發(fā)地坐在課堂上，在我的筆記本上寫寫劃劃，同時(shí)為其他每個(gè)人看起來如此能言善辯而驚嘆不已。

在大二那年，我申請(qǐng)主修宗教，并選了一門芭芭拉的課，她是一位年輕的神學(xué)家。一大串新思想家和作家的書作，還有芭芭拉的精辟提問，給我的頭腦帶來深深的震撼，我終于覺得有話可說了。我開始發(fā)言，然后就一發(fā)不可收拾。在芭芭拉的辦公時(shí)間，我常去造訪，成了個(gè)滔滔不絕的“話癆”。她傾聽著，平靜地回答，幫我組織凌亂的思路。

我在都柏林度過了大三時(shí)光，那年春天，芭芭拉給我發(fā)了一封郵件，告訴我她的女兒出生了。我很快打出了一封祝賀信，并溜達(dá)到附近的一間咖啡店，心里卻莫名地難過。我意識(shí)到自己很愛芭芭拉為人處世的方式，她就是一個(gè)理想典范，代表我想成為的那個(gè)樣子。可是我對(duì)她的生活哪有什么了解呢？

漸漸地，我知道了更多事情。在我大四那年，芭芭拉是我的論文導(dǎo)師，我則是她女兒的保姆。那一年，當(dāng)我被授予富布萊特獎(jiǎng)學(xué)金時(shí)，我飛奔到芭芭拉位于學(xué)校教堂地下室的辦公室。我們高聲大叫著，那刺耳的回聲與當(dāng)時(shí)在樓上練習(xí)的學(xué)校唱詩班的歌聲完全不協(xié)調(diào)。……