反思成长中的惊奇与欢乐

年复一年

八岁生日的头天晚上，我的小女儿Lizzy趴在床上哭，她哽咽着说：“我喜欢七岁，不想变成八岁。”

我把她搂在怀里，告诉她八岁比七岁还要好，我很爱她还会给她举办一个精彩的生日聚会。最后她欣慰地睡着了，也或许是我的话语催她进入梦乡。

我理解她的感受。想着将要长大总是很别扭，即使你并不怎么大。我记得小时候非常渴望长大，但同时又多么希望一切都不要改变。那时的我一直不想成为“成年人”，甚至不想成为青少年。

我不记得是否曾经喜欢七岁，但我确实喜欢过12岁。接近13周岁生日的那段时间，我担心自己一旦13岁就会性格迥异、令人厌恶。不经我同意，13岁生日那天早上醒来时我就已经不再是个小孩子了。

我将成为一个少年，不再爬树摸鸟、到处乱跑，而是扎了马尾，图了口红，抱着电话讲个不停。我的胸部会变大，还不得不穿上胸罩，这是多么烦人事情。读中学的时候，讨厌的七年级男生会透过衬衫看到我的胸罩带，还在走廊里伸手把它扯出来。我见过几个有过类似遭遇的女生。更遭的是，从那些女孩子对这种行为的反应看，如果我也遇到类似事件，我将会失去理智并且傻傻地为男生痴狂。

我当时一点儿都不想13岁！

在孩子的眼里，各个年龄段的成年人都很老。我24岁的时候在佛蒙特州的雷特斯博罗中学（Readsboro）教二年级学生。有一天，一个叫肖恩的男同学问我有没有孩子。我说没有。他同情的说道：“怎么了？他们是不是都已经长大成人，离家出走了？”在他看来，我已经垂垂老矣，我的生活也已经基本接近尾声。

虽然我对此不以为然，但也确实觉得自己有些老了。26岁的时候我觉得自己太接近而立之年；39岁的时候，杰克.班尼“永远39岁”的宣言并未抚慰或启发我；45岁的时候，我在琢磨我怎么就45岁了呢（我只想12岁而已啊）；50岁的时候，我高兴的吹灭生日蜡烛，因为我知道我别无选择，但我还是暗暗叹息了一会儿。

现在，我已经60出头了。有时候我都认不出镜子里自己的面庞。但是我的想法却确确实实改变了。成长的过程越来越让我兴奋，惊奇，烦恼和急躁。有时候我也会感到恐惧，但比起从前，恐惧已经变少了很多。生活也总会点缀着些小乐趣：一天之内眼镜丢了多少次，丢到了哪几个地方？可独自一人的时候，想起去世的朋友和家人，悲伤总会缠绕左右。
比起对姐姐安妮的思念，我对于青春的向往简直不值一提。我多希望安妮能在我身边，笑谈成长和死亡，机智巧妙地抱怨满脸的皱纹，孤僻的脾气和昏花的老眼。多希望我们像以前讨论各自的孩子和狗一样，每天都通电话，抱怨糟糕的记忆，松垂的皮肤和下降的视力。

安妮与多年前死于癌症，直到现在我对她的思念仍不亚于她去世那天。对于变老，我也不再如从前般畏惧，也不再介意。我希望她也跟我一样。这也是我不再像从前那样畏惧变老和死亡的原因之一。

当然也有其他的原因。我希望这些都将促成我的成熟，（也或许导致失忆）。我越来越多地关注着更为现实的问题，而并非总围绕着自我。前几天，我开车去看望我的一个女儿，她最近感到沮丧、压力大。路上一辆大卡车加速从我身边经过，我猛踩刹车才躲了过去。这时附上心头的第一个想法不是“谢天谢地我还活着”，却是“我的老天，专心点。女儿这周最需要的不是死个老妈。”这种心境与以前完全不同，更加的倔强，却少了自私。躲过一场车祸，我决定我还是喜欢活着。

成长中的变化

不知道随着年龄的增长我还会经历或遭遇怎样的变化，但我知道一个问题的答案，那个我30，40和50岁时候问自己的问题：我是如何变老的？

我是幸运的。变老正和我意。不管岁月带来了什么，变老比不变老好多了。或者，用玛雅.安吉拉的话讲：“除了疏松的骨头和不再光滑的肌肤，岁月教给我的就是去做，不惜一切代价地做。”

我记得自己迎接60岁所做的准备跟迎接30，40，和50岁没多少差别。我甚至感到些许期盼，就像车子的里程器累计到999英里，所要做得就是转个弯让计数跳到1000英里这个重要的数字。我想，不久之后，我的年龄就是用一个六和一个零表示了。这个数字多么重要。

我也曾偷偷地寻求过指导。我翻了些名字古怪的书，比如《现在我们60岁》，《突然间60岁》，最终还是没买。还记得我母亲75岁的时候说过“60岁是老年人的青春期”。当时我还翻白眼，现在却为还记得母亲这句话而感激和欣慰。现在我也认为60岁是老年人的青春期。在变老的过程中，我还只是个孩子。我可以读书却不必亲历亲为。

还不到时候。非常好，因为虽然已经到达那个阶段可我还没准备好。我知道这旅程无法避免，我的整个人生都是按部就班地过来的。从出生到死亡，我可能为赏心悦目的景色而留连忘返，我可能是这个旅程的游客，又或是前进中的车辆本身，但我绝对不是司机。我在场，但我无法主宰。
以前我把生活看成一个永不停息的自我改善的大工程。无论何时，生活都不会完美无暇，而是难以把握而捉摸不定的。但我希望有足够的时间将粗糙的棱角模平。

有时候我希望自己可以再高一点，再漂亮老练一点，对一些事情（鸡尾酒会，大黄蜂，给陌生人打电话等等）少点畏惧；某天我会读完亨利.詹姆斯的所有作品以及威廉的部分作品；我会游览希腊，罗马和中国；我会比现在知道的更多，我会进步很大。

可实际上我并没有长得更高，变得更美，威廉和亨利的作品也仅读了一部分，我还没去过希腊、罗马和中国。我确实比以前所知略多，却远远不如预期的多。对于鸡尾酒会和电话我已经练就了一种免疫力，但是我更喜欢写信交流或呆在家里看书。我现在可能已经是个“成年人”了，但作为一个人，我并不认为自己比12岁时有所进步。现在的我和当年一样，只不过年纪大了些。

随着年龄的增长，我越来越习惯了每个人都要面临死亡的观点。但对于我，死亡将在非常遥远的未来。我希望，在那个时刻到来的时候，我已经老到可以自然的死去。也许不会这样，但我想我可以做到。希望死亡来的晚些，没有必要着急啊。

人生路上，我怀揣着对失去的亲人的回忆：我的母亲、姐姐以及其他人。我懂得了即使失去了，爱依然存在。爱不是虚无缥缈的，爱环绕在左右而且将会永存不朽。生活还让我懂得失去不可避免，但是失去和爱一样，永远存在。

对于生活中可能的快乐和灾难，我总保持着警觉。如果能够在心底从对的视角看待一切，就会发现快乐无处不在。而灾难也可能会出现。当快乐的一天一如往常地结束，你回到家时，却听到一个如此震惊和痛苦的消息，以致在接下来的几年里它仍然刺痛着所爱的人们的心。这些经历告诉我，正如英国国教的祈祷书所言，“我们在死亡里生存”。

令我自己感到惊奇和触动的是我现在仍然为快乐准备着。我可以沿着乡下小路的转角开车，欣赏一只蓝色的苍鹭从偏僻的沼泽地飞向傍晚的天空。苍鹭向天堂缓慢摆动着翅膀，与我的呼吸同步，随着肺和心灵的舒展，到达最向往的地方。

最近我走进了一栋建筑。一群八九十岁的老妇人做完运动后聚在这里。他们有的拄着拐杖，有的下楼梯貌似非常吃力。

走近她们时，我情不自禁地轻手轻脚，想起了我去世的母亲和逝去的她那一代，那一代经历了两次世界大战和美国经济大萧条。她们勇敢地面对那个时代的动荡不安，并带领她们的女儿走进另一个更加美好的时代。我非常敬佩，感激和喜爱她们，同时也感到悲伤。是的，她们正在逝去，我只能一个人面对变老和死亡。没有她们，我该如何是好？我满怀敬意地走过她们身旁。

但当听到一串沙哑的笑声传来时，我立马站稳了脚跟。三个女孩在大笑，头转向后面的一个女孩。不知道他们在说什么，但那引来了放肆的欢乐。我也笑了起来。

世事难料，有些事情糟糕透顶。我们知道这是事实，因为事实就是事实。但是还有些事实，它们无法解释，有些甚至疯狂荒唐，但同样不容忽视。那就是，日复一日年复一年，生活总有快乐相伴。

As Time Goes By

Reflections on the surprises and joys of growing older.

By Reeve Lindbergh

Year by Year

The night before her eighth birthday, I found my daughter Lizzy weeping in her bed. "I love being seven," she sobbed. "I don't want to be eight!"
I held her in my arms and explained that being eight was going to be even better than being seven. I told her how much I loved her and what a wonderful birthday she was going to have. Eventually she was comforted, or maybe I just talked her to sleep.
I understood her feelings. It's always strange to imagine getting older, even when you aren't very old. I know that my own intense "when I grow up" yearnings throughout childhood were locked in combat with an equally intense wish that nothing would ever change. I never wanted to be a "grown-up" or even an adolescent.
I don't remember whether I loved being 7, but I loved being 12. Toward the end of being 12, I was afraid that I'd become a different and detestable person on my 13th birthday. On that day, without my permission, I would wake up and not be a kid anymore.
I would be a "teenager." Instead of climbing trees and spending my days outdoors, I would wear my hair in a ponytail, put on lipstick, and talk on the phone constantly. I would grow breasts, which looked to me like a real nuisance at the time, and have to wear a bra. Obnoxious seventh-grade boys would see the bra strap through my shirt and would reach out and snap it in the hallway in junior high. I had seen this happen to other girls. Worst of all, I could tell from their responses to this cruel and annoying behavior that I would lose my senses and become brainlessly boy-crazy.
I definitely did not want to be 13.
When you are a child, adults, of any age, are ancient. When I was 24 years old and teaching second grade in Readsboro, Vermont, one of my kindest students was a boy named Shawn who asked me one day whether I had any children. After I confessed that I did not, he responded with sympathy, "What happened? Did they all grow up and leave home?" In his eyes, I was trembling on the brink of decrepitude, with most of my life already over.
I didn't see myself quite in that way, but I did already think I was pretty old. At 26, I felt perilously close to 30. At 39, I was not comforted or inspired by Jack Benny's claim to be forever "39 and holding." At 45, I wondered how I'd ever arrived at such an age. (All I'd asked to be was 12!) At 50, I blew out the candles with good humor because I had to-but I gulped inside.

Now I'm in my early 60s, and though I don't always recognize the face in the mirror, something has changed in the way I think. The process of aging increasingly interests and amazes me, annoys and irritates me, and sometimes still frightens me, too, but much, much less than it used to. I find that there is also amusement -- how often and in how many places can I lose my glasses in a day?-and that in place of fear for my own survival, there is an ongoing sadness at the absence of the friends and family members who have died before me.

I don't miss my youth even a tiny fraction as much as I miss my sister, Anne. How I wish she were here. She would make age and death seem so funny! She would complain eloquently and wittily about getting wrinkled and cranky and myopic. We would talk on the phone every day about our bad memory and our sagging skin and our poor eyesight, the way we used to talk about our children and our dogs.
Anne died many years ago of cancer, but I miss her as much as I did the day she died. I worry less, not more, about getting old myself. I don't mind if I do. I wish she could too. That's one reason I don't have the same age-and-death dreads that I used to.

There are other reasons, and I hope they all add up to maturity. (Or maybe it's just memory loss.) My concerns are more practical, less egocentric. The other day, while driving to see one of my daughters at a time when she felt stress and distress, I had to brake suddenly to avoid a large, speeding truck. My first thought after the truck thundered past was not for myself-Thank God I'm alive! -- but for my daughter: For heaven's sake, pay attention! All she needs this week is a dead mother. This was a whole different emotional tone, more peevish but less selfish. Once I could breathe normally again, I decided I preferred it.

Changes With Age

I don't know what further changes I will enjoy or endure as I age, but I do know the answer to the question I asked myself at 30, at 40, and at 50: How did I get to be this old?

I was lucky. Getting old is what I want to do. Getting old, whatever the years bring, is far better than not getting old. Or, in the words of Maya Angelou, "Mostly, what I have learned so far about aging, despite the creakiness of one's bones and cragginess of one's once-silken skin, is this: Do it. By all means, do it."
I watched myself preparing to turn 60 the way I prepared for turning 30, 40, and 50. I felt a certain amount of excited anticipation, the same feeling I'd get when the odometer on my car was at 999 miles and all its little inner workings were just about to turn and reveal 1000, a really important number. Before long, I thought, my numbers would turn and my age would be represented by the numeral six and a zero, a very important number.
I also sought guidance, but unobtrusively. I looked at, but didn't buy, books with cheerily whimsical titles like Now We Are Sixty and Suddenly Sixty. I still recall my mother saying "Sixty is the youth of old age" when she was about 75. Instead of rolling my eyes, as I did when she said these things, I am grateful for the memory, and I am relieved. Sixty is the youth of old age, I think. I'm just a child in this "aging" business. I can read the books, but I don't have to enter the country.

Not yet. That's good, because I'm not quite ready, though I'm getting there. I understand that this journey is inevitable and that it's been going on steadily my whole life. I might as well enjoy the view as I travel along from my birth to my death. I may be a passenger on the journey, or I may be the vehicle itself, but I'm definitely not the driver. I'm here, but I'm not in charge.
I used to see my life as an enormous self-improvement project, a work perpetually in progress. At any given time, it was flawed, imperfect, awkward, and approximate, but I'd hoped there was plenty of time to polish up the rough spots.
Someday, I thought, maybe I will be taller, more beautiful, more sophisticated, and less timid about things (cocktail parties, hornets, phone calls to people I don't know). Someday, maybe, I will have read all of Henry James and even some of William. Maybe I'll have visited Greece, Rome, and China. Maybe I will know, if not everything, much more than the little I know now. Maybe I will improve.
I never did get to be tall or gorgeous, William and Henry remain incompletely read, I have yet to visit Greece, Rome, or China, and I know more than I used to but a lot less than I'd hoped I would at this age. I have developed a kind of stamina for phone calls and cocktail parties, but I would still rather write a letter, on the one hand, or stay home and read, on the other. I may be a "grown-up" now, but I don't think I've improved as a human being since I was 12. Whatever I was then, I am now, only older.

As I grew older and older, I got more used to the idea that death would happen to everybody, including me, but that in my case, it would not happen for a very, very, very long time. By the time it happened, I hoped, I would be so old that it wouldn't bother me. This is not quite true yet-but again, I think I may be getting there. I hope it takes me a while longer. There's no need to rush.
As I journey on, I carry my lost loved ones with me: my sister, my mother, all the others. I have learned that love continues beyond loss. It continues not abstractly but intimately; it continues forever. My experience has also made me understand that loss is inevitable and that loss, too, continues forever, along with love.
Always, I am awake to the possibilities of delight and of disaster. Delight is inherent in each instant, if one can take that perspective and hold it, gently, to heart. Delight is ever present, and disaster may not ever come. But then again, it might. I know that it is possible to come home at the end of a normal, happy day and hear news so shocking and painful that it will reverberate with hurt in the lives of people I love for many years to come. I know from experience, in fact, that "in the midst of life we are in death," as the Book of Common Prayer says.
What surprises and touches me is that I am still, all the same, prepared for delight. I can drive around a corner on a country road and witness a great blue heron rising up out of a lonely marsh and into the evening sky. The slow ascent of its wings toward heaven matches a deep inhalation of my own breath, an expansion of my lungs and spirit, into a place of satisfaction.
I recently entered a building where a group of women in their 80s and 90s had gathered after a physical exercise program. These women carried canes, and some of them moved with obvious difficulty down the stairs from the room where they had been working.
I was walking on emotional tiptoes as I approached them, thinking of my late mother and of the fading and falling away of her whole generation, those wonderful women who had survived two world wars and the Depression. These women had made their way gallantly through the turmoil of their century and had led their daughters forward into another, better time for women. I thought of them with pride and gratitude, and with affection, and with sadness. Yes, they were passing on, leaving me unprotected against the harsh winds of my own aging and my own dying to come. How would I manage without them? I walked past the group respectfully.

But I was thrown off my tiptoes and solidly onto my feet again by a raucous burst of laughter. Three of these women were in stitches, heads thrown back, laughing at something a fourth had said. Whatever it was had inspired unbridled merriment. I laughed too.
Everything happens in life. Some of what happens is terrible. We know this is true because it's always been true. But there is another truth available, an inexplicable and sometimes crazy truth that is no less compelling. The living of a life, day by day and moment by moment, is also wild with joy.