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Nobody knew where he found the strength to get up from his death…bed。 He surprised them all as he entered the room； where his wife was nursing the new…born。
He took the baby in his arms； and for a short while they were together； the three of them； united by a sheer； ephemeral joy。
“Will you call her Ann？” he said； handing her back。 “Ann Margareta Maria。” He knew he would never see his daughter again。 This was the moment he’d been holding on for。
The baptism took place the day after his funeral。 They gave her the names he had requested。
Such was my entry to life； the heritage I carry。 He was my father。 And I was his last…born child。
I found my neighbour in tears by her cattle…shed。 She looked tired and dishevelled； her clothes were stained with mud and blood。
“We lost the calf；” she wept in answer to my question。 “A fine bull calf。 Everything was perfect。 The little hooves； tail； ears； teeth and all。”
Are calves born with teeth？ I asked myself but I didn’t say so。 I sympathised with her sadness； having once shed a few tears myself over a Charolais calf still…born for no better reason than the vet being out of reach。 I remember the sight of the strong muscular body in its golden hide。 The unprehending look of the mother as she licked him； expecting life。
Birth 出生（3）
My neighbour was convulsed by a sob。 “Such a beautiful creature – and only fit to be buried。”
I thought of her forebears： generations of women in rural Ireland； some of them still living； who gave birth to still…born children because they didn’t have access to the medical services they required。 Their babies were taken away in the dead of night to be buried by the men in unconsecrated ground： secret little graves； soon overgrown and forgotten。
I imagined the depth of those mothers’ grief； the searing pain of loss； a nameless tragedy shared by no one。 “Such beautiful creatures – and only fit to be buried。”
And I wondered； would those women have wept over a calf？
The closest I have ever e to the mystery of life： a Premature Baby Unit。 Watching a tiny scrap of life in intensive care struggling in agony for each breath。
Twice already he has given up and had to be resuscitated。 The staff say they can do no more。 The rest is up to him。
Twelve hours ago he was safe from harm。 fortable； secure； in the warm embrace of his mother’s womb。 This is what he got instead。 He is alone。 A sign says ‘No Touching’。 Each part of him is either punctured by a needle or attached to an instrument。 Only his suffering cannot be treated。
“Why would he want to live？” I say to the nurse。 “What attraction could life hold out to him？” She smiles。 “He’s getting the best possible start。 From his point of view； things can only get better。”
At that moment； the sun rises： a big orange on the winter horizon。 A ray of hope falls on my newborn son； and suddenly； his breathing seems less laboured。
By the end of the day； he is out of danger； sleeping for the first time peacefully。 Dreaming； it appears – of what？ Laughing out loud – why？
In the short time he’s been with us； he’s known nothing but pain。 Yet some secret memory is keeping him amused； giving him the courage to take on this life； knowing the suffering it contains。
So – life is a journey； a hazardous voyage of discovery； and we must negotiate our passage past adversity and trauma； undaunted like a stream rippled by jagged rocks on its steady descent to the sea。
But it’s easy to lose heart； especially when you are caught in the bewildering limbo between the death of the old and the birth of the new。
That’s when we have to remember Phoenix； who rose； time and again； from the ashes of the past。 Take fort from the knowledge that we have bypassed the greatest peril of all： that of stagnation。
The ancients looked on each crisis as a blessing： a liberation； the enforced breaking of new ground。 Favourable to them was anything that helped our progress from darkness to light。
There are even those who claim that extraordinary afflictions are not the punishment for extraordinary sins but the trial of extraordinary graces bestowed on a favoured few。
Looking back； you may well agree that some of your worst experiences did in fact carry within them the seed of something good。
Relish the shadows you leave behind。 They add depth and definition。 For expansion； though； look forward： into the dazzling new dimension of the unknown。
You’ll see that there are no endings in life。 Only beginnings。
Childhood 童年（1）
还记得儿时的你是一个怎样的人吗：严肃、有责任感的？随遇而安的？贴心温柔的？极其活泼、喜欢疯跑的？还是一个时常爱拽着妈妈衣角的胆小的小家伙呢？
我的童年，就像是一只趴在墙上的苍蝇：观察着、聆听着、审视着周围的世界——有些人很好，让人舒服，他们温暖而友善，总是带给人纯净的快乐；而有些人则让人不安、迷惑，他们虚伪做作，充满敌意和轻蔑。
由于无法确知生活的本来面目，我始终就这样一个人观察和思索着，从未与任何人分享。
如今，较之当年，尽管自己少了些困惑，学会了同情和体谅、宽容和容忍，但我仍旧是墙上的那只苍蝇。
不同的是，经过多年的体验，我已经有了足够的自信来将我的想法表达出来，并且鼓足勇气以这种方式与大家分享。
随着成长，我们总是会不断变化，以应付成年人不得不去面对的压力，不管是在个人生活中还是在工作上，都扮演着一个被世人期望的角色。这是社会设定的标准，它迎合了人类本性中对发展和成熟的渴望。
然而，我们最初的天性仍旧没有褪去。与其与童年时的自己保持距离，我们不如好好珍视自己儿时显现出来的那些本性。
只要运用恰当，即使是在成人的世界中，仍旧会有它们的一席之地。
早年的记忆由于过于诱人，往往都是带有欺骗性的。就好像在一个孩子的整个情感经历中，快乐总是占据了主导地位。
这种只愿意承认童年时光美好的天真幼稚的倾向，或许是人类一种自我保护的机制，人们用它来建起一道壁垒，防御未来道路上的种种困难。
又或者，这是由我们自己创造出来的童话的一部分，它更多的是关于我们自己而非童年。
即使如此，童年的记忆还是会从某些地方冒出来。
我记得——或者说是我认为我记得——自己躺在婴儿车中，被推着穿过森林，我抬头看着高耸入云的杉树，那茂密的绿叶伸向湛蓝的天空，穿过棉絮一样的白云。鸟儿在歌唱，小溪在低吟，空气中充满着泥土和松子的芬芳。
回忆的近处，是妈妈的脸，她的眼中�