喃喃心語

One of my earliest childhood memories is of a visit to our doctor， in a village near the farm where I grew up. It was during this visit that I first learned I had a 1）heart murmur.

Like a scene from a 2）Norman Rockwell painting， the old doctor lifted me onto his lap and listened intently to my chest with his 3）stethoscope for what seemed like a very long time. Then he leaned over to me and quietly said： “Did you know your heart talks to you？ It is whispering something and if you listen very carefully， it will always tell you what to do.”

I don’t know that I fully understood what he was saying. But I was sure that my father， whom the doctor had just invited out onto the back porch to have a chat and a cigarette， would understand.

That old country doctor had diagnosed a problem with my 4）aortic valve， and he made his diagnosis without the aid of sophisticated diagnostic tools—no 5）echocardiogram， no 6）MRI， no 7）EKG. Just a finely tuned ear developed over the years spent listening to the hearts of old farmers and old farm wives.

I grew accustomed to the term “murmur” as a child， and for the longest time I was convinced that someone， or some thing， lived in my heart. At the very least， just as the doctor had told me， I believed my heart itself was speaking to me in a murmuring， whispering sort of way， in a language I did not yet comprehend.

Over the course of the next six decades， doctor after doctor would comment on my “defective heart.”But as a kid growing up on the farm， that imperfect heart was my constant companion， my friend.

As I lay in bed at night， I could hear my heart beating through my pillow. Its constant whisper lured my imagination away from fears of savages with 8）tomahawks hiding behind the bedroom door and the unearthly sound of the owls calling in the pine trees outside my window.

My heart’s heavy pounding kept me from following my best friend’s dare to walk across the beams in the 9）hayloft some 30 feet above the wooden floor of the barn.

The quickening of its beat as I took my first draw on a Sweet Caporal cigarette—stolen from under the front seat of my father’s ’59 Pontiac—made that draw my last.

在我最早期的童年記憶當中，有一段是去我成長的農(nóng)場附近的一個村莊，拜訪我們的醫(yī)生。在這一次探訪中，我第一次知道我的心臟有雜音。

就像諾曼·洛克威爾某一幅畫作中的場景一樣，這位老醫(yī)生把我抱到他的大腿上，用聽診器仔細地聽我的胸腔，聽了好像很久很久。然后他靠向我，輕聲說：“你知道你的心在跟你說話嗎？它正在喃喃細語，如果你仔細傾聽，它總會告訴你怎么做。”

我不知道自己是否能完全明白他在說什么。不過我肯定我的父親會清楚知道，醫(yī)生剛剛邀請他到后門的游廊去聊聊天，抽根煙。

那位年老的鄉(xiāng)村醫(yī)生診斷出我的主動脈瓣有問題，他并沒有依靠任何高級的診斷工具就做出了這個診斷——沒有超聲心動圖，沒有核磁共振成像，也沒有心電圖。僅憑一只聽力敏銳的耳朵，那耳朵憑著多年為年邁的農(nóng)夫和農(nóng)婦們診聽心臟的經(jīng)驗而練就。

打小開始，我就慢慢習慣了“喃喃”這個詞，極長一段時間里，我深信有一個人，或者某一樣物體，生活在我的心臟里。至少，就如醫(yī)生對我說的，我相信我的心臟以一種喃喃低語的方式、以某種我還不能理解的語言在對我說話。

在接下來的六十個年頭里，一個又一個醫(yī)生為我那“有缺陷的心臟”給出醫(yī)囑。但是，作為一個在農(nóng)場里長大的孩子，那顆不完美的心臟是我一直以來的伙伴，是我的朋友。

每當夜里我躺在床上，我能透過枕頭聽見心臟跳動的聲音。它不間斷的低語聲，把我的想象力從恐懼中吸引開來，不再害怕那些藏在臥室門后拿著斧頭的野蠻人和窗外松樹上貓頭鷹發(fā)出的可怕叫聲。

我心臟那沉重的跳動，讓我無法跟隨我最好的朋友去冒險，走過干草棚里距谷倉木地板大概三十英尺高的橫梁。

我從父親那輛1959年的龐蒂克汽車前座底下偷來一根香甜卡波爾牌香煙。在我吸上第一口時，我的心臟加速跳動起來，那第一口煙也成了我的最后一口。

And one hot August afternoon when I was 7 or 8， during the 10）threshing time， I learned for the first time that sadness and despair also reside in the heart.

In those days， neighbours helped neighbours with the harvest. That whole day our farm was a beehive of activity； tractors roared down the laneway 11）spewing 12）diesel fumes as they strained to pull wagons loaded with 13）sheaves of wheat， men shouting “14）Gee” and “15）Haw” to teams of tired horses over the constant 16）chug of the threshing machine.

Suddenly the noise stopped， and I watched in horror as our neighbours pulled my father， dazed and barely conscious， out of the straw stack where he had collapsed from exhaustion in the August heat.

Thirty years later， that same sadness enveloped my heart and filled my chest the night I learned that my father’s heart had contracted， this time violently， and for the very last time.

We have developed a 17）lexicon of heart terms： a cold heart， a warm heart， follow your heart， listen to your heart， without a heart， a big heart， even a broken heart. And now， after 60 years， my heart was telling me that it was indeed broken， tired.

What had started out as a quiet， guiding， almost inaudible whisper had become a call for help. It was indeed time to “fix that defect.”

在我七歲或者八歲那年一個炎熱的八月下午，在打谷的時候，我第一次認識到，悲傷和絕望也住在我的心里。

在那個年代，鄰居們會互相幫忙收割。那一整天，我們的農(nóng)場像一個熙熙攘攘的蜂窩；拖拉機轟鳴著駛過通道，在奮力拖著裝滿小麥捆的推車時噴出柴油煙霧，男人們大聲朝著一隊隊疲倦的馬匹喊著“向右”和“向左”，好讓馬匹拉動不時軋軋作響的打谷機。

突然間，所有吵雜聲都停止了，我驚恐地看著我們的鄰居把我的父親從麥草垛里拉出來。他暈倒了，毫無意識，因為八月的炎熱而衰竭昏倒。

三十年后的那個晚上，父親再次心臟病發(fā)，這回很是猛烈，也是最后的一次，那股悲傷裹住了我的心，填滿了我的胸腔。

我們創(chuàng)造了一系列關(guān)于“心”的詞匯，比如：鐵石心腸、熱心腸、隨心所欲、傾聽心聲、沒心沒肺、心胸開闊，甚至是破碎的心。而現(xiàn)在，在六十年之后，我的心告訴我，它真的碎了，很疲憊。

起初那個安靜的、引導性的、幾乎聽不見的低語聲已經(jīng)變成了一個求救聲。真的是時候“修復缺陷”了。

I worried that the surgery required to replace the diseased valve would silence the voice in my heart， but a few nights after the operation， when the daytime busyness of the hospital ward had finally died down， I turned my ear once again to my pillow to hear what， if anything， my heart had to say.

The hum of the murmur that had been with me since childhood had been replaced with a strong， steady， solid， 18）metronome-like beat.

And as I listened to the new sound coming from my chest， I came to realize that what our hearts offer us is not so much a message as it is an invitation； to move away from the noise in our heads， to quiet the mind， and to connect with the grace that is life and all that is sacred.

Lying in that hospital bed I understood for the first time the gift that old country doctor had given me.

He had blessed me with what would become a life-long opportunity to embrace that which others had labeled deficient， and to accept it as whole.

He had bestowed upon me the capacity to recognize my heart as a portal to being present. He had taught me to listen to my heart.

我擔心這個需要替換掉那片不健全心臟瓣膜的手術(shù)會消除掉我心中的聲音，然而手術(shù)幾天后的晚上，當白天醫(yī)院病房里的繁忙最終褪去時，我把耳朵再次貼近枕頭，聽一聽我的心臟是否還會說些什么。

從孩提起便一直與我相伴的喃喃哼唱，被一聲聲強壯、穩(wěn)健、結(jié)實、像節(jié)拍器一樣的心跳聲所替代。

我聽著來自我胸腔的全新聲音，領(lǐng)悟到我們的心給我們帶來的遠不止是一個信息，更是一個邀請；邀請我們挪去頭腦中的吵雜聲，平靜心智，與生命的恩澤以及各種神圣的恩賜連通起來。

躺在那張病床上，我首次明白到那位鄉(xiāng)村醫(yī)生贈與我的是一份怎樣的禮物。

他施予我一個畢生的機會，去擁抱別人定義為缺陷的東西，并且完全地接納它。

他授予我一種能力，去認可自己的心是一個讓我活在當下的門戶。他教會了我聽從自己的心聲。