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Coyote Goes Round the Bend试译2

(2010-05-31 00:12:10)
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杂谈

分类: 翻译

The ritual reading of the Sunday newspaper, now two of them, can take all morning, still beginning with the funnies. I am also the chef for the family’s traditional Sunday breakfast. For twenty years I have prepared a steady supply of Dad’s special Sunday pancakes topped with melted butter and yogurt and fruit and pure grade A amber maple syrup, not ersatz. Plus thick-sliced, home-smoked bacon. Plus freshly squeezed orange juice and fresh ground coffee. The family’s mouths water every Sunday morning like Pavolv’s dogs. So does mine. How can I stop now?

I can. These days the little Coyotes are now quire big, and love to sleep late. For them, Saturday night has eclipsed Sunday morning in ritual importance. Breakfast is now brunch. Great. I can sneak out.

I almost made it two weeks ago. Having read the paper and brewed the coffee while the family slept, I tiptoed out the back door toward the 10:30 a.m. service. In the garage, the sight of my daughter’s bicycle reminded me that today was the annual neighborhood festival, started by my wife years before. The parade begins at noon! Aiee!! I dashed back inside and woke up everybody up. Quick, we need to decorate bicycles and prepare for the parade!

Last Sunday looked free for sure. Then the phone rang. My friend bill. What? You mean you have two extra tickets to the Packers-Vikings game on Sunday? My home town team against my adopted Vikings? My son, a Viking zealot who normally can’t get out of bed till noon, will leap for this one! My sons and I have a powerful bounding experience through the rich ritual of fall football, despite our divided football loyalties.

So my attempted forays past the existing obligatory rings are mostly unsuccessful. Something always seems to come up. These are the facts of this stage of my life.

But as I contemplate the long slow fall of a stone through deep water, I am gaining some perspective. Clearly a life, however complicated and joyful, I sonly a ripple in a pool.

And I want to reach deeper into it. At least drag my fingers in the water. Feel the coolness. Taste the quiet. Do so without giving my yearning a name that will kill it, yet giving it enough of a vocabulary to recognize where in the quiet I am, where we all may be.

Where should I reach? I am fascinated by the Hopi of the American Southwest with their carefully balanced ceremonial cycles and the Cheyenne of the Northern Plains with their medicine wheel understanding and enlightened vision quests. I think those who dance round the moon to Wiccan goddesses have tapped a profound and liberating tradition. Judaism, with its passage of the Torah from generation to generation in an unbroken line across two millennia, fills me with awe and admiration. Zen Buddhism, with its discipline of meditation and its perplexing koan riddles, seems powerfully enlightening. On and on go the alternatives, certainly as good as the old Congregationalist one, maybe better. But I am not envious of any of them. One has to learn it in the bones. Which means the quietness I find in my old childhood church.

I badly want my children to join me there, even if they have to sulk up off the floor to discover the stillness. I do force them to attend, over their increasingly less bitter complaints, three times a year: Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. I know they will thank me for that at least when they are older.

As for the weekly ritual, my renewed commitment is too late for them, or too early. They will have to find their own still place. Perhaps they can do so without the Sunday morning bouncing ball memories I have. Perhaps they will find a fulfilling way to dance by the light of the moon. Or perhaps the Sunday morning rustle of newspapers and smell of maple syrup and frying bacon and family and neighborhood festivities will be enough. But I don’t think so.

When I sensed that these textures and tastes weren’t enough for me, when I wanted to find that still place inside me, I knew where to look. I went to the one place where I knew in my bones when to sit quietly, and when to stand and sing.

 

礼拜天早上要读两份周日新闻报,得花去一个早上的时间,依旧还是先从笑话开始读。我是周日早上家庭传统早饭的掌勺。二十年来,我一直为大家准备父亲做过的那种周日薄烤饼,上面抹着黄油和酸奶,放着水果,淋着优质的琥珀状的枫树原汁,加上切成大块儿的自制培根面包。还有新鲜压榨的橙汁和现磨的咖啡。每个周日早上,全家人就像巴甫洛夫的实验小狗一样条件反射地流着口水。我也是。所以现在怎么能停呢?

能停。现如今幼狼们都长大了,喜欢赖床。对他们来说,周六晚上远比周日早上重要。早饭现在成了早午饭。很好,我可以自己悄悄出去。

我是两周前这么做的。读完报纸并冲好咖啡之后,家人们还在睡觉。我踮着脚从后门出去,准备开始进行十点半检修。在车库里,我看见了女儿的自行车。这让我想起了今天是一年一度的社区节日,这是几年前我妻子发起的。节日游行中午就要开始!哎呀!我冲回屋里,叫醒每一个人。快点,我们要为大游行装扮自行车。

上周日似乎是没什么安排,然后电话响了。是我的朋友贝尔。什么?你说你额外有两张周日派克队迎战海盗队的票?我家乡的队伍对决我现居的海盗队。我儿子是一个狂热的海盗队球迷,平时太阳晒屁股了都不起来,这次定会从床上跳起来!经历了秋日足球联赛之后,我儿子和我建立起了非同寻常的关系,尽管我们喜欢不同的球队。

所以我试图跳过这些必要的圆圈,但基本都没成功。总是有事情发生。这些就是我的生命中这个时期的元素。

但当我像块儿石头一样,慢慢地下落到深水中时,我领悟到一些东西。很显然,不管生活如何复杂,充满多少欢乐,都仅仅只是水池中的一团涟漪。

我想要更加深入,至少把躯体浸入其中,感受那份清凉,体会那份宁静。不为这份渴求去命名,以免破坏了那感觉。仅仅用一个词得以区分出我身在静地何处,我们都将去哪里。

我们都将去哪里?美洲西南处的霍皮族人那考虑周全的循环仪式以及北部大草原下安人对于医药轮回的理解和那些启迪事业的诘问都深深地吸引着我。我觉得那些围着月亮对威堪众神起舞的人拍打着的是深邃而自由的传统。两千年来,摩西五经在犹太教中代代相传,从未中断,这让我觉得即敬畏又钦佩。佛教禅宗的打坐戒律和其令人费解的禅理似乎很有启发性。一个个都可供选择,都和公理会差不多,甚至更佳。但是我并不羡慕他们,因为要去全身心的投入。对我来说,像是少年时代那个老旧教堂里的静寂一般。

我十分想让我的孩子与我去那儿,哪怕他们会生气地赖在地板上。我一定会带他们去,不顾他们那数量趋多而痛苦渐少的抱怨,一年三次:圣诞节,复活节与感恩节。我知道当他们长大些后,至少会因此而感激我的。

作为每周的必做之事,我那更新的任务对他们来说太迟了,或者是太早了。他们会找到他们的安静之处。或许他们能找到,而不需要拥有我那种周日早上从床上弹起来看球的回忆。也许他们会找到一个月光下跳舞的欣然方式。或者是周日早上沙沙作响的新闻报纸,香飘四溢的枫树汁,烘烤的培根面包以及家庭与社区节日就完全足够了。但我不是这么认为的。

当我感到这些质感和口味对我来说不够的时候,当我想要寻找内心的静土的时候,我知道去哪里。我去那个我十分熟悉的地方,我知道什么时候该安静地坐着,什么时候该站起来吟唱。

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