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英语美文:美丽的她

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我在一个小镇上长大,那里的小学离我家只有十分钟的步行路程。在那个年代,不久以前,孩子们可以回家吃午饭,而他们的母亲却在等着他们。
 
 
当时,我并不认为这是一种奢侈,尽管今天肯定会是。我想当然地认为,母亲是做三明治的人,是指画鉴赏家,是作业监控器。我从未怀疑过,这个雄心勃勃、聪明伶俐的女人,在我出生前就有了事业,并最终重返职场,在我上小学的时候,几乎每一个午餐时间都和我在一起。
 
 
我只知道中午铃声一响,我就会气喘吁吁地跑回家。我的母亲会站在楼梯顶上,朝我微笑,她的眼神告诉我,我是她心中唯一重要的东西。为此,我永远心存感激。
 
 
一些声音把一切都带了回来:我母亲茶壶的尖锐尖叫声,地下室洗衣机的隆隆声,我的狗狗在下楼迎接我的时候,牌照的叮当声。我们在一起的时间,似乎没有了现在充斥着我生活的种种安排。
 
 
在我三年级的时候,有一次午餐时间,我会一直陪在我身边。我被选为学校话剧里的公主,几个星期来,我妈妈不辞辛苦地和我排练台词。但是,不管我在家里多么容易地把它们送出去,只要我一上台,每一个字都从我的脑海里消失了。
 
 
最后,老师把我叫到一边。她解释说她为这部戏写了一个叙述者的角色,并让我互换角色。她的话语,和蔼可亲的话语,仍然刺痛着我,尤其是当我看到我扮演的角色去找另一个女孩的时候。
 
 
那天我回家吃午饭时没有告诉妈妈发生了什么事。但她感觉到了我的不安,她没有建议我们练习台词,而是问我是否愿意在院子里散步。
 
 
那是一个美丽的春日,棚架上的玫瑰藤正在变绿。在巨大的榆树下,我们可以看到一簇簇黄色的蒲公英从草丛中探出头来,就好像一个画家用金色的斑点触摸了我们的风景。
 
 
我看着母亲漫不经心地弯下腰去,我想我要把所有的杂草都挖出来,她说着,把一朵花的根拔了起来。从现在起,我们的花园里就只有玫瑰了。
 
 
但我喜欢蒲公英,我抗议道。所有的花都是美丽的,即使是蒲公英。
 
 
妈妈严肃地看着我。是的,每朵花都以自己的方式给人带来快乐,不是吗?她若有所思地问。我点了点头,很高兴我说服了她。她补充说,人们也是如此。不是每个人都能成为公主,但这并不可耻。
 
 
当我告诉她发生了什么事时,我开始哭了起来,因为她已经猜到了我的痛苦。她听着,安慰地微笑着。
 
 
但你会是一个美丽的叙述者,她说,让我想起我是多么喜欢给她大声朗读故事,叙述者的角色和公主的角色一样重要。
 
 
在接下来的几周里,在她的不断鼓励下,我学会了为这个角色感到骄傲。午餐时间,我读着台词,谈论着我要穿什么。
 
 
演出的那天晚上,我感到很紧张。演出前几分钟,老师向我走来。“你妈妈让我把这个给你,”她说,递给我一朵蒲公英。它的边缘已经开始卷曲,懒洋洋地从茎上耷拉下来。但看着它,知道妈妈在外面,想起我们午餐时的谈话,我感到很自豪。
 
 
演出结束后,我把塞在围裙里的花带回家。我母亲把它夹在两张用字典裹着的纸巾里,边说边笑着说,我们可能是唯一会把这种看起来很悲伤的草压下去的人。
 
 
我经常回想我们一起沐浴在柔和的正午阳光下的午餐时光。它们是我童年时的逗号,这些停顿告诉我,生活不是以预先衡量的增量来品味的,而是我们与所爱的人不经意间分享的日常仪式和小乐趣的总和。在享用花生酱、三明治和巧克力脆片饼干的过程中,我懂得了爱,首先也是最重要的是,爱意味着为了一些小事情而存在。
 
 
几个月前,我妈妈来看我。我请了一天假,请她吃午饭。中午,餐馆里熙熙攘攘,商人们忙着做生意,一边看表一边讨价还价。在这一切的中间坐着我和我的母亲,她现在已经退休了,从她的脸上我可以看出她很享受工作的节奏。
 
 
“妈妈,当我还是个孩子的时候,你一定很烦呆在家里,”我说。
 
 
无聊?做家务很无聊。但你从不无聊。
 
 
我不相信她,所以我催促她。当然,孩子们没有事业那么刺激。
 
 
她说,事业是令人兴奋的。我很高兴我有一个。但事业就像一个开放的气球。只要你不停地抽气,它就会保持充气状态。孩子是种子。

I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an age, not so long ago, when children could go home for lunch and find their mothers waiting.
 
At the time, I did not consider this a luxury , although today it certainly would be. I took it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and the homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had had a career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour throughout my elementary school years just with me.
 
I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing she had on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful.
 
Some sounds bring it all back: the high-pitched squeal of my mother’s teakettle, the rumble of the washing machine in the basement, the jangle of my dog’s license tags as she bounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid of the gerrymandered schedules that now pervade my life.
 
One lunchtime when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly rehearsed my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head.
 
Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator’s part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her words, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.
 
I didn’t tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard.
 
It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the huge elm trees, we could see yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with dabs of gold.
 
I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the clumps, I think I’m going to dig up all these weeds, she said, yanking a blossom up by its roots. From now on, we’ll have only roses in this garden.
 
But I like dandelions, I protested. All flowers are beautifuleven dandelions.
 
My mother looked at me seriously. Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesn’t it? She asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over . And that is true of people too, she added. Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.
 
Relieved that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled reassuringly .
 
But you will be a beautiful narrator, she said, reminding me of how much I loved to read stories aloud to her, The narrator’s part is every bit as important as the part of the princess.
 
Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in the role. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking about what I would wear.
 
Backstage the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, my teacher came over to me. Your mother asked me to give this to you, she said, handing me a dandelion. Its edges were already beginning to curl and it flopped lazily from its stem. But just looking at it, knowing my mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made me proud.
 
After the play, I took home the flower I had stuffed in the apron of my costume. My mother pressed it between two sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary, laughing as she did it that we were perhaps the only people who would press such a sorry-looking weed.
 
I often look back on our lunchtimes together, bathed in the soft midday light. They were the commas in my childhood, the pauses that told me life is not savored in pre-measured increments , but in the sum of daily rituals and small pleasures we casually share with loved ones. Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies, I learned that love, first and foremost, means being there for the little things.
 
A few months ago, my mother came to visit. I took off a day from work and treated her to lunch. The restaurant bustled with noontime activity as businesspeople made deals and glanced at their watches. In the middle of all this sat my mother, now retired, and I. From her face I could see that she relished the pace of the work world.
 
Mom, you must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child, I said.
 
Bored? Housework is boring. But you were never boring.
 
I didn’t believe her so I pressed. Surely children are not as stimulating as a career.
 
A career is stimulating, she said. I’m glad I had one. But a career is like an open balloon. It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping. A child is a seed. You water it. You care for it the best you can. And then it grows all by itself into a beautiful flower.

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宁波哪里有成人英语培训

如果宁波哪里有成人英语培训,那么一般来说,我们来宁波是为了宁波爱英语。宁波爱英语...[详细]

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