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.

在念大學的第一年，我沉默寡言。我從不逃課，認真閱讀課業(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光，讀書和思考，但我極害怕失敗，對于在世人面前展現(xiàn)自己的實體存在極為謹慎，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，同時為其他每個人看起來如此能言善辯而驚嘆不已。

在大二那年，我申請主修宗教，并選了一門芭芭拉的課，她是一位年輕的神學家。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。在芭芭拉的辦公時間，我常去造訪，成了個滔滔不絕的“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，并溜達到附近的一間咖啡店，心里卻莫名地難過。我意識到自己很愛芭芭拉為人處世的方式，她就是一個理想典范，代表我想成為的那個樣子?？墒俏覍λ纳钅挠惺裁戳私饽?？

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師，我則是她女兒的保姆。那一年，當我被授予富布萊特獎學金時，我飛奔到芭芭拉位于學校教堂地下室的辦公室。我們高聲大叫著，那刺耳的回聲與當時在樓上練習的學校唱詩班的歌聲完全不協(xié)調(diào)。

其后的幾年，我拜訪了芭芭拉位于加利福尼亞州帕羅奧圖市的家，那時她和丈夫在斯坦福大學教書，看著她那已經(jīng)長大不少的女兒愛上鯊魚、迪士尼，之后還有“舞蹈革命”。當我于全國各地游歷時，芭芭拉為我寫了不計其數(shù)的推薦信，起初是社會服務方面的工作，其后是研究生院的神學和寫作工作。

我們的感情日益加深，但我總覺得那是一種師生關(guān)系。我們總是略帶小心，兩個人都有所保留。而當我為人母親之時，這一關(guān)系發(fā)生了根本性的改變。

我的兒子于2010年3月出生，芭芭拉是最先向我道賀的人之一。九個月后，我的孩子被診斷出患有泰—薩克斯癥，當時，她給我寫了一封信——手寫的，在一個白色的拍紙簿上。我兒子在不到三歲時就去世了，而芭芭拉在他生病的這兩年半里定期和我通信；這些非同尋常的信件充滿了啟迪、愛心和友善。真誠。充滿了憤怒和求索。

當我開始在公開的博客上寫下兒子的情況和我的悲痛經(jīng)歷，潛心撰文直至夜深時，她對我的每篇文章一一回復。她寫道，讀我的帖子，并且如此深入地窺視他人的絕望，這會讓她傷心難過，而她的丈夫?qū)Υ烁械胶軗鷳n。

每個星期，芭芭拉都會對一個人內(nèi)心世界的作品作出回復，而她正是這個世界最初的建筑師之一。在2011年，我?guī)缀趺刻於紩l(fā)帖，同時等待芭芭拉的來信，等待那熟悉的筆跡和帕羅奧圖的地址，這份期待，如同數(shù)十年前我迫不及待地翻跳至一篇神學論文的最后一頁，去閱讀她的評語時的感受一般。

芭芭拉的來信不僅只與我的工作和我兒子的情況相關(guān)，她也會講述自己的生活。最初，她對討論她家的假日生活和她的日常生活小事感到有所顧慮，因為她不想煩擾我，或傷害我，或讓我感到憤怒。但我想知道，我回信說。我也想窺探他人的生活，一個家庭和子女并未分崩離析的人的生活。

在某封寫于遭遇氣流的飛機上、字跡明顯歪歪扭扭的回信中，我開始意識到，我其實并未真正了解她——在此之前——在她前所未有地更多地展現(xiàn)自己之前。去年夏天，她寫道：“我將給你寄去許許多多的愛和積極思想。希望你能感受得到?！蔽腋惺艿搅?，現(xiàn)在亦如是。

不錯，我們認識了數(shù)十年，但如今我們真真正正地開始以女人、思想者和母親的身份去愛對方；簡單地說，平等互愛。這種從年輕時的敬愛到一種更為微妙關(guān)系的轉(zhuǎn)變包涵了一種失去。我已不再年輕，不再傻傻地相信機會無限。我們的來往信件象征了一種成人對死亡的認知，即死亡總是比我們所想的更近。我們的關(guān)系已然進化，并業(yè)已成熟。

最近收到的一封信，其內(nèi)容是最為私密的，或許也是最為意義深遠的。她告訴我關(guān)于她女兒出生的故事，這個故事永遠不會在一封宣布孩子出生的喜訊郵件里出現(xiàn)。在她女兒出生并被抱離后，一名護士前來照顧芭芭拉，為她洗浴，舒緩疼痛?！皶r間似乎停止了，”她寫道，“而在那一刻，時間的流逝似乎完全停滯，我的想法如下：這是一場洗禮，而在這一刻我變成了一位家長，這便是受膏儀式?！彼^續(xù)說，她相信我養(yǎng)育絕癥患兒的經(jīng)歷已讓我成為了一個更高尚的人，不是在膚淺和說教的層面上，而是“我認為他用其微小卻壯麗的存在”為你“開啟了愛的熊熊烈火從而讓你變得更好”。我這一輩子從未讀過一句更能帶來深層安慰的句子，一句話道盡了我最大的希望，我最深的恐懼，還有殘留給我的唯一信仰，那是一種混沌中的信念。我們的愛噴薄而出并深入心靈，從一種有所保留的互相尊重發(fā)展成一種更豐富、更深刻的友誼。

寫這封信的時間距離第一封差不多剛好兩年，芭芭拉在信中寫道：“要堅強，也要軟弱——你需要怎樣便怎樣。這是個神圣而且讓人恐懼的時刻，但你并不孤單?！蔽腋械阶约号c另一個人因長期了解而緊密相連，并明白這種審慎的觀察、這種智慧是唯一減緩悲傷中那巨大孤獨感的方法。我滿心寬慰且感激地意識到，在20年前那些清涼的秋夜里，當我課后獨自行走于校園時，我腦袋低垂，腹中翻攪，心跳急遽，感覺如此怪異，如此孤獨，如此沉默和恐懼，克制自己，同時又情感滿溢，但我并不——也從不——孤單。