在每一次朗读的呼吸、停顿、转折，琢磨...之中，感到欣喜。 这就足够。 2021年2月5日开始，收录这张专辑的第一篇文章，来自全民朗读。 做自己喜欢并且擅长的事，是一种愉悦， 很多很多篇文章的朗读过程并不顺利，甚至无数次反复。 却不觉得厌烦，只是凭借直觉与执着完成最后一个字，满意就停。 每一篇作品都是第一时间在直觉、情绪的参与下完成的，瑕疵与缺憾都不必介意，那是自然而然的一部分。有它们，才完整。 简单。自然。喜悦。这样的...
As the night was fast falling, and as the moon, being past the full, would not rise early, we held a little council: a short one, for clearly our course was to lie by at the first lonely tavern we could find. So, they plied their oars once more, and I looked out for anything like a house. Thus we held on, speaking little, for four or five dull miles. It was very cold, and, a collier coming by us, with her gallery-fire smoking and flaring, looked like a comfortable home. The night was as dark by this time as it would be until morning; and what light we had, seemed to come more from the river than the sky, as the oars in their dipping stuck at a few reflected stars.
The Doer of Deeds
It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumphs of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.
Thoughts in a grave yard
When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, even inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents of themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow: when I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I consider that great when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance together.
One windy spring day, I observed young people having fun using the wind to fly their kites. Multicolored creations of varying shapes and sizes filled the skies like beautiful birds darting and dancing. As the strong winds gusted against the kites, a string kept them in check.
Instead of blowing away with the wind, they arose against it to achieve great heights. They shook and pulled, but the restraining string and the cumbersome tail kept them in tow, facing upward and against the wind. As the kites struggled and trembled against the string, they seemed to say, "Let me go! Let me go! I want to be free!" They soared beautifully even as they fought the restriction of the string. Finally, one of the kites succeeded in breaking loose. "Free at last," it seemed to say. "Free to fly with the wind.”
Yet freedom from restraint simply put it at the mercy of an unsympathetic breeze. It fluttered ungracefully to the ground and landed in a tangle mass of weeds and string against a dead bush. "Free at last" —— free to lie powerless in the dirt, to be blown helplessly along the ground, and to lodge lifeless against the first obstruction.
How much like kites we sometimes are. The Heaven gives us adversity and restrictions, rules to follow from which we can grow and gain strength. Restraint is a necessary counterpart to the winds of opposition. Some of us tug at the rules so hard that we never soar to reach the heights we might have obtained. We keep part of the commandment and never rise high enough to get our tails off the ground.
Let us each rise to the great heights, recognizing that some of the restraints that we may chafe under are actually the steadying force that helps us ascend and achieve.
From the golden-tipped fields of mid-west America to the ancient kingdoms of verdant Palestine, there is a happy truth to be shared with all who would take heed. In more recent times, this truth has been expressed as: April showers bring May flowers. This is a truth that promises light bursting from darkness, strength born from weakness and, if one dares to believe, life emerging from death.
Farmers all over the world know the importance and immutability of the seasons. They know that there is a season to plant and a season to harvest; everything must be done in its own time. Although the rain pours down with the utmost relentlessness, ceasing all outdoor activities, the man of the field lifts his face to the heavens and smiles. Despite the inconvenience, he knows that the rain provides the nourishment his crops need to grow and flourish. The torrential rains in the month of April, give rise to the glorious flowers in the month of May.
But this ancient truth applies to more than the crops of the fields; it is an invaluable message of hope to all who experience tragedy in life. A dashed relationship with one can open up the door to a brand new friendship with another. A lost job here can provide the opportunity for a better job there. A broken dream can become the foundation of a wonderful future. Everything has its place.
Remember this: overwhelming darkness may endure for a night, but it will never overcome the radiant light of the morning. When you are in a season of sorrow, hang in there, because a season of joy may be just around the corner…
I've got a deep secret few people understand and even fewer will admit to sharing. It's time to tell the truth: I love the rain, deeply and passionately and more than the Sun. At least I live in the right place, famous for its damp weather and spawning its own genuine rainforest. I can't imagine living anywhere else than the Pacific Northwest. The sun shines so infrequently that my friends forget where they put their sunglasses. Gloomy clouds cause many people around here to suffer from seasonal affective disorder. Yet I welcome the rain.
Seattleites will say they like how rain keeps the city green, how clean the air tastes afterwards. My real reason for enjoying the rain is steeped in pure selfishness when it's mucky outside, I don't have to do anything. I can spend the afternoon curled up reading, build a fire and make a big pot of spiced tea. I can sleep in late, waking up occasionally to hear soothing patter on the roof, water racing down the gutter. Nobody expects me to leave my house or do anything overly productive. Maybe I'll invite a few friends over to watch an old movie or play a board game. Friends' expectations are low and easy to meet.
Summer in Seattle is beautiful but exhausting. The sunny, gorgeous weather and blue skies draw Seattleites from their cozy little homes, ready to dry out and have fun. People go hiking, biking, canoeing. Folks work in their gardens, wash their cars and attend outdoor concerts in the park all in the same day! The effort involved to throw a party ratchets up several notches, as people host barbecues and picnics and water-skiing parties.