美文阅读心得体会

下面就是小编给大家带来的美文阅读心得体会，本文共18篇，希望大家喜欢阅读!

篇1：美文阅读心得体会

美文阅读心得体会

在人的一生中，读书与旅游都是人们茶余饭后、津津乐道、老生常谈的话题，都与人的成长成功和快乐享受追随相伴、如影随形。俗话说：“读万卷书，行千里路”;在读书中增长知识和智慧、在旅游好中增添经历阅历。读书与旅游，两者一个是静、一个是动，一个是头脑充实、思想精神层面上的愉悦和满足;一个是支体运动、强身健体，观赏大千世界、阅览各地大好河山、感悟风土人情的视觉感官享受。两者在共性的交叉集合点上又都是通过心与身的体验，追求感官上的愉悦享受，从而不断地提高自己见识和文明修养，增长知识和生活阅历，满足赏心悦目的快乐欲望。特别是读好书能使人物利两忘，精神焕发，得到智慧的养成和思想的升华，滋养浩然正气;旅游则能使人感悟大自然中的山青水秀、人间百态、锦秀美景、风土人情，恢复青春活力，产生美好遐想，获得感官愉悦。人生最惬意之事莫过于在读书中增长知识、在旅游中增长见识，在读书与旅游的互动交换中享受到舒心惬意和无限快乐。

中华民族的炎黄子孙都有热爱读书和酷爱旅游的嗜好，读书和旅游都早已和人们的工作生活结下不舍之缘。书是人类进步的阶梯，是人们学习工作、获取智慧、追求上进的精神食粮，和人的一生荣华富贵朝夕相处、和事业的兴衰成败齿唇相依。“万般皆下品，唯有读书高;书中自有颜如玉，书中自有黄金屋;胸藏文墨虚若谷，腹有诗书气自华”早已成为一代又一代才子佳人的励志格言。宋代诗人尤袤曾赞赏道：“饥读之以当肉，寒读之以当裘，孤寂而读之以当友朋，幽忧而读之以当金石琴瑟”;明代于谦在一诗中也曾写道：“书卷多情似故人，晨昏忧乐每相亲;眼前直下三千字，胸次全无一点尘。”这都是对读书的真实感悟和肺腑颂扬。而旅游却是背上行囊，协同驴友，行走在名山大川、灵山秀水、风景名胜、偏僻山野、静谧乡村间的自由游览，它的无限乐趣是观察身边的景色和事物，体验大自然的无限神奇、旖旎风光、万种风情，感悟上帝造物主赐予人类的视觉盛宴、悦目冲击。唐代诗人陆游、李白在赞扬旅行时写到：“衣上征尘杂酒痕，远游无处不消魂”;“登高壮观天地间，大江茫茫去不还”;朱熹旅游归来挥笔成诗：“胜日寻芳泗水滨，无边光景一时新”……这都是文人墨客对旅游魅力的流连忘返和不尽感慨…

读书是心灵的窗口，可以根据自己平时的喜欢和爱好，选择各种不同种类的书籍。中华民族上下五千年积累下来的经典佳作、优秀藏书种类繁多，分门别类数不胜数。文学能给你带来情操的陶冶，让你体验到生活的苦难与快乐;哲学能敦促你去思辨思考别样的人生，感悟人性的柔弱与伟大;历史能让你穿越千年的时空隧道，去与帝王将相相盘旋，与文人墨客相交识，与平民百姓共感叹。即使是选择一本时尚周刊或新潮杂志，它也会给你带来生活的潮流、季节的流行色。读书可以是经久不衰的名著，可以是名家新作，可以是文坛新秀，可以是报纸副刊上一篇出彩的文字，甚至是小学生的一篇稚嫩作文。不管什么书，只但她触及到你的思想灵魂，跟你的内心世界发生碰撞，你就会有所收获、获取快乐，她便成你贴心知己的知音伴侣。她会带你走进人类文明的精神殿堂，去感受领悟文字散发的温暖光芒，让你驱逐寂寞、增长见识、赶走孤独。

旅游是读书的外在延伸，是自己一个人或一帮人背起行囊，坐上飞快的列车、飞行在湛蓝的天空飞机、走在奔腾的河畔、行在秀美的山川、躺在天然的氧吧、睡在静谧的旅馆、逛在喧嚣的集市……在历史与现实之间寻觅探索，在美景与繁华之间游览观赏……同时，旅游也是在读真实世界这本书，原汁原味地品读锦绣山河、平原丘陵、风土人情、历史变迁、人间万象，用脚、用手、用耳、用眼、用脑去捕捉最好的感官印象，用相机记录那些天然的美好景色，贮藏于自我设定的影像仓库，定格成永恒的瞬间回忆，镌刻成人生成功、获得快乐的踪影轨迹……纵观人的一生，有时也像是一段外出的旅游，充满不定的机遇和变数，在旅游中有时难免也遇到既有感人的，也有伤心的，既有兴奋的，也有灰心的，既有美妙的风景，也会扫兴的劳累。人生就是要在感受美丽的、善良的，艰辛的、劳累的开拓奋进和愉快旅游中度过每一天。

读书和旅游又有许多交集融合的地方，读书可以让人保持思想活力，得到智慧的启发，为你走出困惑迷惘点燃领路的灯塔。英国著名作家沙士比亚也曾说过：“书籍是全世界的营养品，生活里没有书籍，就好像没有阳光;智慧里没有书籍，就好像鸟儿没有翅膀”。旅游却是探索真实的世界，通过跋涉行走捕捉美景、强身健体。两者交集融合开启的都是美好的人生和幸福的生活。读书，是心灵的洗涤;读一点、记一点，写一点、谈一点，一路风景，一路芳香。旅游，却是身心的陶醉;游一处、记一景，看一山、赞一番，一路花香、一番心醉。读书能滋养智慧的精髓，旅行能点燃愉悦的火种;酷爱读书，就等于把生命中的奋斗时间变成培植智慧的快乐时光;喜欢旅游，就等于把生命中的寂寞时间变成锻炼身体、享受愉悦的幸福时光。书籍是智慧的清泉，旅游是助兴的星火;痴迷的旅游家跟有志的书呆子都一样值得我们崇拜尊重，因为爱旅游和爱读书的人都能享受到旅游的乐趣和文字的芬芳。读书的最高境界是领悟!旅行的最高境界是陶醉!人生有时要大彻大悟、控制欲望，有时要玩得开心、乐不思蜀。只有在这种领悟与陶醉的交替之中，人生才能获得解脱烦恼、潇洒豁达、超凡脱俗、享受乐趣的淋漓畅快。

读书与旅游，两者虽然有许多互通交集的融合之处，但也有本质上的区别，不能混为一谈而不分青红皂白，不讲数量和质量，一味追求越多越好。读书可以无穷、而旅游却要有度。有道是：“书读百遍，其义自见。”多读书可使人修身养性、洗涤尘埃、净化心灵，获取点亮思想和摆脱困惑的智慧。在书香里跳跃的人生，一定是智慧的人生，在书香里浸泽的生活，一定是美丽的生活。而旅游则要把握适度适量、量体裁衣，根据自己的体力、经济状况，做到适度而不放纵，量力而不透支，超越自己身体健康状况和经济能力的负债旅游，只会给你留下累赘和不爽、后悔和遗憾。因此，让我们像读书一样去旅游，敞开心扉，摆脱羁绊，甩开束缚，不放过有能力观享的一草一木、一山一水，感悟大自然赐予的无限美景;让我们像旅游一样去读书，用坚实的脚步去丈量思考一字一句，体会书中的精彩与睿智，装扮自己多姿多彩的人生。也希望我们在读书与旅游的互动循环中，保持理性、把握适度、掌握平衡、甄别好坏、权衡利弊，在适度的旅游中享受快乐，在无尽的读书中增添智慧，让读书和旅游陪伴我们快乐人生的每一天。

美文阅读心得体会范文

在人的一生中，读书与喝酒都是人们经常谈论的话题，都与人的成长成功和幸福生活追随相伴。读书与喝酒，两者虽然不同，一个是心理上精神的愉悦和满足、一个是生理上腹腔的充填和享受，但两者在最终目的的享受上却有异曲同工之妙。读书能让人物利两忘，如痴如醉，得到智慧的养成和思想的升华;喝酒则能让人填胃充饥、祛困解乏，飘然如仙，得到食欲上的满足和生理上的愉悦。其作用虽然不一、但感觉在一些地方却有着相似之处，令人满足、叫人心驰神往、使人久久回味。一本好书如同一瓶好酒，需要细品慢嚼方能体会处其中的芳香韵味。一瓶好酒如同一部好书，其贮藏经历的时间越漫长，其芳香越清醇甘饴，诱惑迷人。

中华民族有着光辉灿烂的书文化和源远流长的酒文化，书和酒都早已和人们的工作生活结下难舍之缘。书是人类进步的阶梯，是人们学习工作、获取智慧、追求上进的精神食粮，和人的一生相依相伴、和事业的兴衰成败唇齿相依。“万般皆下品、唯有读书高;书中自有颜职玉，书中自有黄金屋”早已成为一代又一代人自勉自励的警世格言。宋代诗人尤袤曾说过：“饥读之以当肉，寒读之以当裘，孤寂而读之以当友朋，幽忧而读之以当金石琴瑟”;

这都是对读书的内心感悟和真谛颂扬。古诗词中也早就有“对酒当歌，人生几何，比如朝露，去日苦多;”“钟鼓馔玉不足贵，但愿长醉不复醒;自古圣贤皆寂寞，惟有饮者留其名;相逢不空归去，洞口桃花也笑人”之千古绝唱。在人们博取成功和遇到喜事的开心时刻，若没有酒的助兴、酒的陶醉，却好像缺少了愉悦的元素和欢欣的韵味。将书的丰厚、书的魅力、书的博大精深放到浅斟慢酌中，在酒的醇香和酒的底蕴中，品味得淋漓尽致，诵读得舒畅愉悦，在成功中收获一份难得的怡然，在平凡中捕捉到一份罕见的陶醉。那才是读书入迷和喝酒尽兴之后所达到的最高境界和情感超越。

读好书尤如品佳酿，都得有好的环境空间和愉悦心情!处在喧嚣浮躁或忧虑不安中，酒难以下咽，书难以入眼，有道是“酒逢知己饮，诗向会人吟;酒逢知己千杯少，话不投机半句多。”只有心无旁骛、宁静淡泊，无烦心事扰心、无嘈杂声乱耳，静心读书、舒心品酒，方才会沉醉其间，获得激情升腾、思想升华、情趣飞翔的乐趣。当你酒趣兴起，当你掩卷沉思，那酒的醇香、书的幽香就像妙龄少女温暖柔软的玉手抚摸你健康光洁的肌肤，激起你热血的沸腾和肌体的快感，让你一切疲劳消失一尽、一切烦恼瞬间腾空，那种畅快淋漓的微妙感觉从你心底喷涌而出、舒爽怡然，有一股梦游海市晨楼、人间仙境的美妙幻觉，令你留连忘返，惬意升腾!

唐代诗人王翰在《凉州词》中写到：“葡萄美酒夜光杯，欲饮琵琶马上吹，醉卧沙场君莫笑，古来征战几人回。”英国著名作家沙士比亚曾说过：“书籍是全世界的营养品，生活里没有书籍，就好像没有阳光;智慧里没有书籍，就好像鸟儿没有翅膀”。喝酒喝出的是人生的滋味，驱逐生活的烦恼和心底的寂寞;而读书收获的则是生活的真理和智慧的种子，为你走出困惑迷惘点燃引领的灯塔。两者共同开启的都是美好的人生和幸福的生活。读书，是心灵的洗涤;读一点、记一点，写一点、谈一点，一路风景，一路芳香。喝酒，是身心的陶醉;喝一口、品一下，抿一点、赞一番，一路醇香、一路陶醉。书能滋养智慧的精髓，酒能储备愉悦的雅兴;酷爱读书，就等于把生命中的奋斗时间变成培植智慧的快乐时光;喜欢喝酒，就等于把生命中的寂寞时间变成享受愉悦的幸福时光。书是智慧的清泉，酒是助兴的星火;高雅的酒徒跟有志的书痴都一样值得我们崇拜尊重，因为会读与会喝的人都能享受到书的芬芳和酒的甘醇。醉书与醉酒，其感觉都是醉而忘返、沉迷其中，在其美妙的意境中得到心里的满足和心灵的抚慰。醉书是由精神而肉体，醉酒是由肉体而精神。因为同是醉，且肉体与精神都乐在其中，都可以使你流泪、令你欢喜，都能找到醉的感觉!读书的最高境界是领悟!喝酒的最高境界是微醉!人生有时要大彻大悟，有时要一醉方休。只有在这微醉与领悟的交替之中，人生才能获得解脱烦恼、豁达洒脱、超凡脱俗、享受乐趣的完美畅快。

读书与喝酒，两者有相似之处，但也有本质上的区别，不能混为一谈而分青红皂白，不讲数量和质量，一味追求越多越好。读书可以无穷、喝酒则要有度。有道是：“书读百遍，其义自见。”多读书可使人修身养性、洗涤尘埃、净化心灵，获取点亮思想和摆脱困惑的智慧。在书香里跳跃的人生，一定是智慧的人生，在书香里浸泽的生活，一定是美丽的生活。而喝酒则要把握适度适量，不能一味烂喝，烂醉如泥、不省人事;在灯红酒绿中放纵自己、借酒消愁，自甘沉沦，淡忘自己的人生追求和理想信念，只能是麻醉自己、荒废事业、贻害无穷。酒爱人也害人，自古以来，也有许多英雄豪杰和志士仁人，由于过于放纵而葬身在小小的酒杯里，让他们一世英名，毁于一旦，丰功伟绩、抹黑蒙羞。因此，愿让我们在读书与喝酒的斟酌中，保持理性、把握适度、甄别好坏、考虑后果，在适度的喝酒中获得快乐，在无尽的读书中增添智慧，让书籍和美酒陪伴我们快乐的人生

美文阅读心得感悟

读书钻研学问，当然得下苦功夫。为应考试、为写论文、为求学位，大概都得苦读。陶渊明好读书，如果他生于当今之世，要去考大学，或考研究院，或考什么“托福”，难免会有些困难吧?我只愁他政治经济学不能及格呢，这还不是因为他“不求甚解”。

我曾挨过几下“棍子”，说我读书“追求精神享受”。我当时只好低头认罪。我也承认自己确实不是苦读。不过，“乐在其中”不等于追求享受。这话可为知者言，不足为外人道也。

我觉得读书好比串门儿——“隐身”的串门儿。要参见钦佩的老师或拜谒有名的学者，不必事前打招呼求见，也不怕搅扰主人。翻开书面就闯进大门，翻过几页就升堂入室;而且可以经常去，时刻去，如果不得要领，还可以不辞而别，或者干脆另找高明，和他对质。不问我们要拜见的主人住在国内国外，不问他属于现代古代，不问他什么专业，不问他讲正经大道理或是聊天说笑，都可以挨近前去听个足够。我们可以恭恭敬敬旁听孔门弟子追述夫子的遗言，也不妨淘气地笑问“言必称‘亦曰仁义而已矣’的孟夫子”，他如果生在和我们同一个时代，会不会又是一位马列主义老先生呀?我们可以在苏格拉底临刑前守在他身边，听他和一位朋友谈话;也可以对斯多葛派伊匹克悌忒斯(Epictetus)的《金玉良言》产生怀疑。 我们可以倾听前朝列代的种.种遗闻逸事，也可以领教当代最奥妙的创新理论或有意惊人的故作高论。反正只要话不投机或言不入耳，不妨及早抽身退场，甚至砰一下推上大门——就是说，拍地合上书面——谁也不会嗔怪。这是书以外的世界里难得的自由!

壶公悬挂的一把壶里，别有天地日月。每本书——不论小说、戏剧、传记、游记、日记，以至散文诗词，都别有天地，别有日月星辰，而且还有生存其间的多个人物。我们很不必巴巴地赶赴某地，花钱买门票去看些仿造的赝品或“栩栩如生”的替身，只要翻开一页书，走入真境，遇见真人，就可以亲亲切切地观赏一番，别说些什么“欲穷千里目，更上一层楼”!我们连脚底下地球的那一面都看得见，而且顷刻可到。尽管古人把书说成“浩如烟海”，但书的世界却是真正的“天涯若比邻”，这话绝不是唯心的比拟。世界再大也没有阻隔。佛说“三千大千世界”，可算大极了。书的境地呢，“现在界”还加上“过去界”，也带上“未来界”，实在可以算是包罗万象，贯通三界。而我们却可以足不出户，在这里随意阅历，随时拜师求教。是谁说读书人目光短浅，不通人情，不关心世事呢!这里可得到丰富的经历，可认识各时各地、各种各样的人。经常在书里“串门儿”，至少也可以脱去几分愚昧，多长几个心眼儿吧?我们看到道貌岸然、满口豪言壮语的大人先生，不必气馁胆怯，因为他们本人家里尽管没开放门户，没让人闯入，他们的亲友家我们总到过，自会认识他们虚架子后面的真嘴脸。一次，我乘汽车驰过巴黎赛纳河上宏伟的大桥，看到了栖息在大桥底下那群捡垃圾为生、盖报纸取暖的穷苦人。不是我的眼睛还能拐弯儿，只因为我曾到那个地带去串过门儿啊。可惜我们“串门”时“隐”而犹存“身”，毕竟只是凡胎俗骨。我们没有如来的慧眼，把人世间几千年积累的智慧一览无余，只好时刻记住庄子“生也有涯而知也无涯”的名言。我们只是朝生暮死的虫豸(还不是孙大圣毫毛变成的虫儿)，钻入书中世界，这边爬爬，那边停停，有时遇到心仪的人，听到惬意的话，或者对心上悬挂的问题偶有所得，就好比开了心窍，乐以忘言。这了“乐”和“追求享受”该不是一回事吧?

篇2：阅读美文心得体会

阅读美文心得体会

到青少年中去测问：你心中最为向往也最为恐惧的是什么?回答得最多的是：我将来干什么?做人难，首难在安身立命。这么大的世界，这么小的个人;大世界人太多，这么多的人与人既互相联系又互相排挤。时空莫逆，来路莫测。人生在世，要吃要喝要穿要住要建功立业要养家……千难万难，第一难确实就是如何给自己在这个拥挤的世界上找到属于自己的一席之地。难怪青少年最向往的是它，最怕的也是它——我将来干什么?若将这题目前拿来问我，我的回答也一样：我将来干什么?20年过去，向往已成昨日黄花，恐惧也灰飞烟灭，人生座标上，我的双脚迂回曲折了那么久那么久终于立定了，我摸索得太久，付出得太多，从懂得发问“我将来干什么”到我“干”了“什么”，花去了将近20年的时间。20年的生命代价教给我一点诀窍，我愿将它诚告现在的青少年朋友，即：读懂一本书，精于一件事。

18岁或许早一些，你差不多已经高中毕业，在人类高容量的知识库里，你算扫了盲。这个时候，如果你上了大学，很好;没上成，也没关系，因为你已经具备了从各类书架上去挑选适合你胃口的某一类带专业性的书籍来阅读，也具备了寻师问友的能耐。花上三四年时间，只要真下功夫，你完全可以把某类专业修学完毕。这时候，你的脚下已经有了一片坚实的土地。就在你自行修学的同时，你可能已经随机而定地找到了一件谋生的事做，只是你也许不满意，你心中的“将来”不是现在这个样子。你当然可以对你的现状不满意，完全可以，也应该，因为你还年轻。但你千万别太着急，也不要怨天尤人。你记住你已有一块坚实的土地，因此，你一边随遇而安一边在你拥有的土地上“打井”——你将你已有的知识整理一下，选定其中一本最有代表性的最好的书来学。这回你不是记忆性的学了，是钻研!当你把它完全给“看透”了，你一定会豁然开朗，智慧跃升到一个崭新的高度。你甚至可以找出这本书的谬误与纰漏。这时，你在某个学问领域，还具备了讨论、探索、发挥、创造的能力。你可以干点什么了!不必把专家学者看得太神秘，他们就是这么走过来的。有的青年会说，我不爱读书，不想做学问，不想做任何一个领域的哪个“家”，那我该怎么办?怎么办?去学做一件事。真学。修汽车、煎大饼、画画、养花……可做的事太多了。你选一样你喜爱又有相应条件的事一心一意做了去，哪怕诸如刻印章之类的“雕虫小技”，你学会了，做精了，世界的某个位置就属于你的了。

老话说，“三十而立”。30岁时立功立业可谓早，至于通常的安身立命，三十才立就嫌晚了一点。年轻人，在二十五六岁时如果还没拥有相对稳定的职业，会急的。所以，务必在你刚刚成为公民的那个年龄就得着眼于未来。不要荒废时光，毋贪眼前之乐，年少尽量多学点文化，打开眼界，拓宽思路，培训智慧，年稍长后才有在生活的夹缝里游刃的资本。不要自卑自贱，也不要好高骛远。人活在世，懂透了一部书抑或精于一件事，就不用心慌，就是有挫折，也是暂时的。社会机制本身必然为学有所专技有所长的人提供机会。要相信这个，因为社会的运转需要这样的人。

阅读美文心得范文

读适合你的书如果你的专业不是文学，你大可不必去读那些被称之为名著的书。对一个普通的爱书者，他不必认为读某部书是“必要的”。许多名著对于普通人来说是沉闷而拖泥带水的，如果你看十八世纪的书，其中会有大段大段的道德说教，而十九世纪的名著里充斥着毫我意义的景物描写，你尽可以跳读，甚至因为这些原因干脆不去读整部书。不要由于看不进去这类书而怀疑自己，大多数时候这都不是你的错。有些作品是由于它的作者出了大名，被胡乱选进了文集，如果读雪莱的《猫》，你是无法从“一只猫咪真痛苦，确确实实不舒服”这样的劣句中感受到诗之美的，那不如忘掉它!

总之，你和适合你的作品应该是一见钟情，这种钟情不要受社会意见的左右。

许多名人和名著是社会的、历史的产物，但不必是你个人必须欣赏的。你个人的原则应该是率性而读，你的阅读应该带给你最大的快乐，让你看了第一段，如果不看第二段就会当场憋死。

此外，人的年龄与接纳性有着极大的关系，这就像河水的发展，在上游它是涓涓细流，而它的中下游会越来越易于囊括更为广大的东西;也像树的枝头，每一时刻它都在寻找高于现在的高度。所以如果你的年龄刚好适合琼瑶，那就坦然地读她。等你长大了，你自然会得到更为高级的东西。

读书如饮酒读书不要以功利为目的，比如通过读书成为作家和有名的学者，或者通过读书能在聊天的时候力压群儒，或对女朋友交谈时口若悬河。读书只要使你笑了，哭了，使你思索了，就完全达到了目的。它就像饮酒一样，只是陶醉足矣，根本不必作出诗来。而且你(不能)像酒鬼一样，对酒产生崇拜，这恰恰是读书人的大敌。一个读书人能否做出伟大成就，取决于他与书的正确关系。他必须是爱书的，但又不能溺死于书海。

1856年4月11日，马克思写给女儿劳拉一封家书，他说：“书是我的奴隶，应该服从我的意旨。”

你不要把读书变成苦读，当成艰苦的任务，否则难免做出些头悬梁、锥刺股之类的傻束，这种作法不要说是为了欣赏，即使为了赶考，也再蠢不过。试想，困到了必须靠头发的牵痛和铁针刺皮肉才能不倒下去的程度，你的阅读还有什么愉快可言?何不先去大睡一觉，然后悠闲自得地读上几页。

一岁读一部书不要认为一岁读一部书这个目标太低了。如果你能活70岁，你将读70部书!你可以随便找一位朋友，让他开一个读书清单，你会发现，他列不出70部。

10岁以前，你不可能一年读一部书，那时损失的10部要在中学或大学时代补上，这意味着，学生时代你将每年多读2至3本书。这并不算多，因为这恰是你读书的季节。困难的是，30岁以后，当你从事与书关系不大的工作时，你还能不能一岁读一部书?如果不能，你将是一个因精神世界贫乏而未老先衰的人。

对于少数爱书如命的人，一年只读一部书又是一个忠告，在信息时代，一年读许多书的人，无疑将会显得呆头呆脑，因为他在这个时代必须应付的许多事，都由于滥读而贻误了。在今天，读书破万卷的人，下笔定无神。这个时代有更多的方法带给我们欢乐，读书已从求知和娱乐的主导地位，降低到与影视、广播、磁带、唱盘、报刊、旅游同等的地位。青年时期读书不必贪多，以求得更广泛地融入生活之中。中年以后不要放弃读书，它可以保持浪漫、天真、年轻、清醒。

保持你的书橱英国作家阿斯查姆在《校长》一书中，记述了他最后一次拜访简·格雷夫人的情景。那天，格雷夫人坐在窗子旁，正在阅读苏格拉底关于死亡的精采 篇章。当时，她的父母正在远处花园里游猎，犬声相吠，喊声越窗而入。作家见她不随家人出猎而独自倚窗读书，便惊讶不已，但格雷夫人说：“他们在花园里得到的全部快乐，远远不及我在柏拉图的书中得到的多。”(苏格拉底的言行全部记载于他的学生柏拉图的书中。)书籍就是这样一种奇幻的东西，如果你能在印刷品时代日渐远去的时候，在你的房间保持一套书橱，你将把持住明洁的性情，因为读书比任何一种愉悦的方式更需要心智的宁静，也更能带给你安详。在越来越躁动的世界里，书籍会给你一个栖息地，它是另一个世界，收藏着许多人、许多时代、许多地域的传奇。它所赋予你的思想远比现实生活赋予你的更为生动，正如湖水里反射的湖光山色总是比真实的湖光山色更加美丽迷人一样。

阅读美文心得感悟

窗台的棱子在十月的风里依旧冷艳静谧，清霜一般的颜色和灯影摇曳的时光匆匆无度。梦的内容不可名状，诗的意境不能回想，江湖的烟雨自此平静无香。听到一段故事的离愁是与孤寂的人在一起，离念心动，斑驳讲述，旧时荒凉。

那一年的清宵别梦如此深刻，以至于在三十里外的荷花香榭处还留有缭绕时光。记得窗台边上的诗书与灯光一样彷徨，无论人怎么点拨，书卷气息与油灯气味都融在一起。宣纸手抄书，自叹皆不如，远处的风影与花香味道肆面而来，人从灯光处走过，花在人影间闪烁，秋天的午夜自此欢笑坎坷。

有一种离愁在诗人的眼里回荡了很久，是需要一个人诉说，还是任由另一个人点破;有一种寂寞在旅人的脚下沉淀了很久，是任由一群人将之淹没，还是需要另一群人挥手沉默。长路如此漫漫，诗人和旅人面面相觑，相互唱着，恍恍惚惚的清歌。

那一年，万千的仕子纵马而过，在帝国的长安城内环水河边，尽情挥斥笔墨;也正是那一年，即便是在城内很小的一家客栈里，也聚集着四方云游的隐士过客。那一年的大城风景，秋水丹池，福禄双全，秋意无边无垠，连店家小二也会跟着呢喃起“秋水宾客长安聚，丹池福禄国双全”的诗句来。客栈的阁楼雅间，书画琴棋茶，一一堆彻在窗台的风声细雨中，变得如诗如画。

诗人的脚步也是随即而来，仿佛不需要多少指引归宿，风霜雪雨，他就能自然而然卸去沉重风尘。天下都知晓，太平盛世之下，自来品长安之茶;豪杰不相识，也不算英雄之家。所以无论庙堂以内还是乡野之外，流传的都是一句“天子真长策，赚白英雄头!”的话语。

诗人的书房开在临河上的阁楼边，秋天的斜阳里，光芒强烈，明暗对比下的光阴中，露出的是轻恍的水色和悠悠的客船。有一种心情牵连万水千山，诗人自己镌刻于心，所以即便面对着的是花花世界，他依然有一种淡定的心境，有和远处龙泉寺中的僧人如出一辙的恬静修为。

旧书的研磨颇费光景，诗人对此兢兢业业，他没有银两换取一年一度的考题，只能从四书五经里汲取某些经典。距离科考的时间还算宽松，四书五经的研磨，自然颇费周章，所谓经典书籍，也应该有它的独到和其他人不易发现的精髓。诗人自言自语，好像已经看透了某些哲理，只等挥毫一蹴而就，就会留下名传千古的文章。

一城的秋景是因为城外某些农民的欢呼声才倍显亲切的，推着小车的百姓进城出城莫不笑逐颜开，夜不闭户的乡村生活让各地的县治特别清明安稳。农民们在忙着一年四季的劳作生产，似乎有使不完的劲头;野史小家们则奋发图强，像是寻到了什么特殊的话题，纷纷伏案小抄，歌功颂德。所有书籍法典上的落款，皆停留在“贞观年间”几个词语之下，苍劲有力，熠熠生辉。

“子夜听水声，洛河急渡人。长安不见月，朱墙染红尘。”

诗人是在夜半时分远望长安城下的洛河之时才有了诗句的感悟，对于城市的喧闹他本无意介入，只是觉得这天下的生灵突然像是有了什么跃动的活力般，充满了向上的张力，动力。诗人略懂风水哲学，知道这是民遇圣主的启示;天降圣主，怀才有门，此行科考，当是值得。

子夜的亭台楼阁，清凉空荡的让人发慌，有晚归的衙役退了服饰，走在空旷的街道中，还是一副神清气爽的样子。诗人也在阳台上跺起了步子，回首方向，眉宇间英气毕现，他手握的一张纸，飘摇而去。

旧的书在夜色中被风吹的胡乱翻动，哗哗作响，诗人赶紧弯身去整理，在抬头斜望桌角的时候，他好像突然想起了什么。其实，一年前，诗人不正是在这样的一个子夜匆匆离开老家的吗?没有与家人作别的行程，满是唐突和不安，也不知道此一刻的家人们到底在做什么。

诗人的老家是在太原，当地都说，那是一块很有风气的地方，从那走出去的人都会飞黄腾达。其实真正的李家天下，何尝不是由此发源，所以，但凡是太原府出来的人，也应该更加自信些!

一夜风雨，秋霜意浓，书籍和文字，天色和客人皆是络绎不绝，游走长安。诗人随机而去，由城北走向城南，拜访人的名字他不知道，只是读过他的几句诗，深有惺惺相惜之感。为了一个可能的相识机会，诗人费劲心机，只是想一睹为快，能与知己朋友大谈三天江湖之道庙堂之理才叫过瘾呢!

诗人的拜访很一般，同是天涯沦落人，相逢本就不用刻意，何况诗书无涯，经文道义也没有方向，能够畅谈几句废话也是好的。秋意浓浓渐深，两个人走在一起，心有报国之愿，倒是意气相投，从这个层面讲，所谓的相逢也是迟早的事情。诗人与故人相逢的及时，与任何一位走在长安城里的读书人也招呼的正合适宜，漫漫世间，志同道合的人总会相见。

长安城里的气候，在秋日里变幻莫测，诗人孑然一身返回客栈之中;朝问道上，行人如织，车水马龙的流转里，诗人皆是不屑一顾，他只对那一个角落里贩卖旧书的小童感兴趣。诗人的盘缠本就不多，为了一本经典的古籍，他又咬咬牙，狠心买下。秋天的气候正是读书的好时节，多准备几本，总是没错。

天青色，云青色，残柳依旧青色，行人粗旧衣裳来往，乘船的老者更上斗笠，一场秋雨来势明显。诗人卷起衣袖挡住额头，也融入到了无边奔跑的人群中。料想大雨倾盆，而行走的人还是不见喜色，江湖烟雨繁多，诗书到底太平凡。

诗人回到客栈阁楼间的时候，雨已经停歇，云层好像是被风吹破了一个个漏洞，阳光就是从那些破漏的地方照射而出。诗人一阵狼狈，清醒异常，抬头望向那一阵阵闪烁的光，内心空明的一阵欢喜，大概长安城里的热闹已经恢复吧!

诗人又抓起一张稿纸，速速挥毫，几个大字跃然而出。诗人抓起了纸张，抛向远方。

篇3：阅读美文心得体会

在人的一生中，读书与旅行都是人们茶余饭后、津津乐道、老生常谈的话题，都与人的成长成功和快乐享受追随相伴、如影随形。俗话说：“读万卷书，行千里路”;在读书中增长智慧知识、在旅行中增添经历阅历。读书与旅行，两者一个是静、一个是动，一个是头脑充实、思想精神层面上的愉悦和满足;一个是支体运动、强身健体，观赏大千世界、阅览大好河山、感悟风土人情的视觉感官享受。两者在共性的交叉集合点上又都是通过心与身的体验，追求感官上的愉悦享受，从而不断地提高自己见识和文明修养，增长知识和生活阅历，满足赏心悦目的快乐欲望。读书能使人物利两忘，精神焕发，得到智慧的养成和思想的升华，滋养浩然正气;旅行则能使人感悟大自然中的山山水水、人间百态、锦秀美景、风土人情，恢复青春活力，产生美好遐想，获得感官愉悦。人生最惬意之事莫过于在读书中增长知识、在旅行中增长见识，在读书与旅行的互动交换中享受到舒心惬意和无限快乐。

中华民族的炎黄子孙都有热爱读书和酷爱旅行的嗜好，读书和旅行都早已和人们的工作生活结下难舍之缘。书是人类进步的阶梯，是人们学习工作、获取智慧、追求上进的精神食粮，和人的一生荣华富贵朝夕相处、和事业的兴衰成败齿唇相依。“万般皆下品，唯有读书高;书中自有颜职玉，书中自有黄金屋;胸藏文墨虚若谷，腹有诗书气自华”早已成为一代又一代才子佳人的励志格言。宋代诗人尤袤曾赞赏道：“饥读之以当肉，寒读之以当裘，孤寂而读之以当友朋，幽忧而读之以当金石琴瑟”;

明代于谦在一诗中也曾写道：“书卷多情似故人，晨昏忧乐每相亲;眼前直下三千字，胸次全无一点尘。”这都是对读书的真实感悟和肺腑颂扬。而旅行却是背上行囊，协同驴友，行走在名山大川、灵山秀水、风景名胜、偏僻山野、静谧乡村间的自由游览，它的无限乐趣是观察身边的景色和事物，体验大自然的无限神奇、旖旎风光、万种风情，感悟上帝造物主赐予人类的视觉盛宴、悦目冲击。唐代诗人陆游、李白在赞扬旅行时写到：“衣上征尘杂酒痕，远游无处不消魂”：“登高壮观天地间，大江茫茫去不还”;朱熹旅行归来挥笔成诗：“胜日寻芳泗水滨，无边光景一时新”……这都是文人墨客对旅行魅力的流连忘返和不尽感慨……

读书是心灵的旅行，可以根据自己平时的喜欢和爱好，选择各种不同种类的书籍。中华民族上下五千年积累下来的经典佳作、优秀藏书种类繁多，分门别类数不胜数。文学能给你带来情操的陶冶，让你体验到生活的苦难与快乐;哲学能敦促你去思辨思考别样的人生，感悟人性的柔弱与伟大;历史能让你穿越千年的时空隧道，去与帝王将相相盘旋，与文人墨客相交识，与平民百姓共感叹。即使是选择一本时尚周刊或新潮杂志，它也会给你带来生活的潮流、季节的流行色。读书可以是经久不衰的名著，可以是名家新作，可以是文坛新秀，可以是报纸副刊上一篇出彩的文字，甚至是小学生的一篇稚嫩作文。不管什么书，只但她触及到你的思想灵魂，跟你的内心世界发生碰撞，你就会有所收获、获取快乐，她便成你贴心知已的知音伴侣。她会带你走进人类文明的精神殿堂，去感受领悟文字散发的温暖光芒，让你驱逐寂寞、增长见识、赶走孤独。

篇4：美文阅读

当时间抹平起伏过的爱恨

再收到他信息

心里只剩下一种难以言说的空寂

只有自己知道

那些汹涌过的波涛从未停止

它们压抑在心底逆流成河

我不知道我一直惦念着的是我的构想

还是他原本的真实

在分别的时间里他是否改变了

或许我一直在望着他的背影

而当这个背影转过身来

却又这样陌生…

每当遇到他想到他

我就变的不像我自己

这样无法自主的情绪不是我所需要的

它阻碍了我的镇定和冷静

所以我需要一个决定…

关于呐人我只能等待

我的爱人

我

手背轻轻搭在眼睛上

遮住了视线和阳光

心里某个地方狠狠的疼起来

仿若无法呼吸

曾经那么用力爱过的人…

回忆如春草、复苏在彼岸

从细微末节处传来的是什么

让人心颤…

过往如锋利的玻璃

尖锐的折射着记忆里的曾经

物是人非…

那么用力伤了她心的人

为什么还留在心里不去

惶然惊醒眼角有泪

原来___________

历经沧桑的不只是感情

还有心…

忽而开始不知所措________

当一切都回不去了

我还在原地

写着你不曾看见的曾经

呵___________

那些欲言又止的爱情…

被撕扯的好疼！

爱过痛过哭过才知道

不是我的我就不该要

她在你的情话中妖娆

而我只能在回忆里奔跑

以前的我不可一世

以前的我毫无畏惧

以前的我死在不成熟梦幻般的爱恋里

现在不敢爱、因为曾深爱

现在很淡然，因为要看开

现在的我不吵不闹、不悲不喜也不计较

看着镜中的脸庞陌生了嘴角

这是我吗 这不是我 我不是这样

最后我坦然接受

接受这样的动荡不安

原来那些感动，只是情绪的波动

我终被遗忘在遗忘的角落

我无心、回忆蚀心

辗转反侧决定封心

我失心、情愫葬心

失魂落魄终究着了魔

我弃心、往事绕心

千言无语诉不尽沉迷

我封心、爱恋死心

曾几何时

我也任性的像个孩子

曾几何时

我不再允许自己任性

篇5：美文阅读

阅读和写作，不是为了给出答案，它们其实没有这样的力量，只是我们，可以在寻找中获得力量。如同认真走路的时候，会忘记真正的目标在哪里，持续而投入的行走本身，就带来了抵达。

劳作也好，旅行也好，体会也好；由此形成的文学艺术，历史地理，数学物理，哲学宗教也好；活着这过程本身，都应该不断让我们的生存和生活变得更简单和自然，而不是远离简单和自然。

自然的时机，总是刚刚好。所以，我们总是轻轻哼唱：我就是喜欢你现在的样子。你大概不会喜欢前的我，如同我可能也不会爱10年前的你。只是这玄机，有点难读懂，有点难甘心。

自然的搭配，总是刚刚好。所以，随手放的衣服，刻意摆的杯子，都会在合适的地方。磨合和适应，要有先天的相似作基础，应该是一点点痛楚伴随着更多喜悦的新生和成长，不是硬生生地割裂和植入。生长的喜悦和力量有多强大，排异的痛苦和力量就有多强大。

自然的力道，总是刚刚好。所以，辛苦建造的那些原则，防线，心境，一次相遇，一个夜晚，一个眼神，或者一句话，轻易就崩塌了。没有什么不好，因为，这颗心本来就这样简单的柔软着……

篇6：美文阅读

人生一世，消逝的是岁月；谈指间，隐隐欢语，渐渐散去；我曾遥望，希望可以寻找，我们曾经欢笑的日子；我似乎可以闻到杜鹃的香气浓郁，悠远；没有一丝俗气。这片蓝蓝的晴空下，我们笑、我们哭、我们累，痛并快乐着；即将分离的我们，天涯各一方，离开回中的大门，我们也许一生也没机会再次重逢。同胞，记住我们的高三，别让她从记忆的指尖轻轻滑落…

全体高三学子，也许是因为缘分，就这样聚在了一起。没有过多的语言去形容，然后开始了我们记忆深处的波澜历历，往事情怀。你可以去忘记，可以去不屑。但，我们是如此深刻地经历了这段水木年华，这段青涩时光；操场上有我们的影子，是踢球、是漫步；是三三两两的谈天论地；当然，也有孤独的身影面对远方群山的迷惘与不知所措；当我们心怀梦想，却奈何不了现实的残酷而整日消沉；当我们为了未来而努力拼搏，却忽视了身边的一花一木、一水一草。我们似有所失，似有所得。但也是自己踏过的步子，怜影若思…

曾记得，三年前的我们怀揣一份希望，来到这个陌生的地方。梦想有一天可以走出这儿，创造自己的辉煌。那一年，骄阳艳艳、柳色青青；一刻一刻的年轮，承载了我们心中的豪言壮语；那一年，我们从相识到相知，注定了三年的嘻笑时光、恨哭爽朗…

不经易间，岁月的双手推着我们匆匆而往。来到高三，一起想想过去的日子，似乎没有留下什么…记忆中，我们总是成群逃课，网吧常有我们的身影。然后编着一个个哭笑不得的理由给老班发短信；我们总是成群在下课铃还沉睡中冲往食堂，打上饭得意洋洋地望着后面蜂拥而至的同胞偷偷坏笑。然后数落着同伴极不雅的吃相欢笑如常，却不知自己领上哪来的饭汤…我们总在课堂上公然睡觉，让周公给我们诉诉衷肠。老师在讲台上练嗓子依旧神情激昂，底下的我们却不争气的鼾声雷响…我们是爱玩的孩子。课间的我们比什么时候的精神都好，我们在群殴中肆意欢笑；眼瞅着同学的头发被弄成爆米花也不肯罢抄那些笑，纯真的笑，多年之后，能否在耳旁回荡…

后黑板的倒计时一天一个模样。我们…紧张了！为了那炎炎夏日中的四张考卷，我们再也不能如此地疯、如此地闹了。总听得笔在簌簌作响，一个个为命运奔忙。我们累了，就告诉自己：时间不多了，熬出来就轻松了。轻松地笑笑，继续匆忙。但，有些我们，放弃了，力不从心了！总会望着同胞努力的背影迷茫。每天轻松地活着好似潇洒，关灯后的被窝里泪水沱滂；因为我们放弃的不是自己，而是所有爱我们的人们的希望！于是，似笑非笑，常也如常。开到凌晨的灯，纤弱的身影，掩藏了心中的些许悲伤…高三，你，让我奢望！一年一年春草嫩、夏叶娇、秋果硕、冬雪寒。我们一起经历了这段纯真的时光。毫无功利，毫无凄凉。对班级的爱，好似一杯清香龙井，终究不散那浓浓郁香…记忆的洪荒中，她是我们的家，我们的珍藏…

步入红尘中染色的我们，追逐太多，心亦太累；栖息的港湾，希望可以进驻我们这些永远的朋友！别管以后有多灿烂的黄昏晚霞，倘若我们可以重逢，我们都要记得，高三，你、我都来过…

篇7：美文阅读

春很温柔的笑了

一种淡淡的甜甜的'味道

微风细雨的扶着柳絮

寒冬总算灰溜溜的离开了

尽管心里有点委屈

可是时间到了，该散了

最终用默默的眼神祝福着

夹杂着瞬间流泪的幸福

随着时间淡忘着一切

忘记了曾经的执着感

忘记了心跳的那份动力

春天的气息渐行渐近

初春的嫩绿，莫愁的心境

慢慢的习惯了这个季节

喜欢上了这个季节的夜晚

不免有时仰头看看星空的闪烁

惬意的跟星星说些调皮话

原来这里的夜空很晴朗

晴暖的没有风动的噪美

明朗的纯洁中隔着透亮

透视远方的尽头你会发现

隔壁的阁楼在这样的夜晚

竟舍不得停留在飘渺的梦里

我悄悄地趴在窗台

尽情的呼吸着纯净的气息

渴望着那片晴朗的夜空

忧郁的眼神在空中寻觅着

那片夜的鬼魅和迷惑

那条银河系中最璀璨的星子

而那颗永远为你守候的心

在这片星空下

化作一位晴空万里的守望者

然后用我的勇气

拾起遗失在你那里的星空晴朗

篇8：美文阅读

我觉得我的户主

将会是一个很幸福的人

天天有我这种红颜贤妻

给他助攻

帮他泡妞

不要问何至纵容他此步

他毕竟泡到了我

作者何绿荷的文集

寞叹悲歌凉凄雪

此情到是须问天，永恒的记忆，红色蒲公英的情牵，莫失莫忘，千年缘。我道逍遥叹，此生不换，终于明白，君莫悲，凉凄雪，三个人都电影，我却始终不能有姓名，忘记时间，云荒只如初见，淌血的心，玉水明沙。六月的雨，一直很安静。寂难永劫，魔与道，花与剑。铁锁镇妖，水水龙吟，余情幽梦。

篇9：经典美文阅读

经典美文阅读

经典美文阅读【1】

美文欣赏:你可以选择自己想过的生活

Occasionally, life can be undeniably, impossibly difficult. We are faced with challenges and events that can seem overwhelming, life-destroying to the point where it may be hard to decide whether to keep going. But you always have a choice. Jessica Heslop shares her powerful, inspiring journey from the worst times in her life to the new life she has created for herself:

生活有时候困难得难以置信，但又不容置疑。我们面临的挑战与困境似乎无法抵御，试图毁灭我们生活，甚至使你犹疑是否继续走下去。但是你总有选择的余地。从人生低谷走向新生活的杰西卡·赫斯乐普，在这里与我们分享她启迪心灵、充满震撼力的生活之旅。

In 201x I had the worst year of my life.

201x年是我生活中最艰难的一年。

I worked in a finance job that I hated and I lived in a concrete jungle city with little greenery. I occupied my time with meaningless relationships and spent copious quantities of money on superficialities. I was searching for happiness and had no idea where to find it.

我做着讨厌的财务工作，住在难寻绿色的高楼林立的城市。我忙于无意义的交往，在一些肤浅表面的东西上大笔开销。我寻找快乐，却又不知道它在哪里。

Then I fell ill with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) and became virtually bed bound. I had to quit my job and subsequently was left with no income. I lived with my boyfriend of then only 3 months who financially supported me and our relationship was put under great pressure. I eventually regained my physical health, but not long after that I got a call from my family at home to say that my father’s cancer had fiercely progressed and that he had been admitted to a hospice.

然后我患上了慢性疲劳综合症，几乎到了卧床不起的地步。我不得不辞掉工作，同时也就断了财源。我和那时仅相处了3个月的男友住在一起，经济上完全依赖于他，我们的关系承受着巨大压力。终于我恢复健康，但不久，我接到家里的电话，父亲的癌症急剧恶化，已经住进了临终关怀中心。

I left the city and I went home to be with him.

我离开了城市，回家陪父亲。

He died 6 months later.

6个月之后，他去世了。

My father was a complete inspiration to me. He was always so strong that, for a minute after he drew his last breath, I honestly thought he would come back to life. I couldn’t believe I would never again cuddle into his big warm chest and feel safe no matter what.

父亲的事让我彻底清醒。他一直很强壮，在他咽气之后一分钟里，我真的认为，他会活过来。我不能相信，我再也不能依偎在他温暖的怀抱里，享受他宽大的胸怀带给我的安全感。

The grief that followed was intense for all of us 5 children and our mother, but we had each other.

母亲和我们5个兄弟姐妹极为难过，但至少我们还拥有彼此。

But my oldest sister at that time complained of a bad back. It got so bad after 2 months that she too was admitted to hospital.

但是，那时我大姐开始抱怨着背痛，2个月后，因疼痛加剧也住进了医院。

They discovered that she had highly advanced cancer in her bones and that there was nothing that they could do.

医生们检查发现，她已是骨癌晚期，对此他们已无能为力。

She died 1 month later.

1个月之后，她也走了。

I could never put into words the loss of my sister in my life.

大姐的逝去让我陷入难以形容的痛苦之中。

She was a walking, talking angel and my favourite person in the whole world. If someone could have asked me the worst thing that could ever happen, it would have been losing her.

在这个世界上，她是一个能走路、会说话的天使，我最喜欢的人。如果有人问我，世界上发生的最坏的事情是什么，那就是失去她。

She was my soul-mate and I never thought I would journey this lifetime without her.

她是我的灵魂伴侣，我从来没有想过，我会走过没有她陪伴的生命旅程。

The Moment Of Deliberate Choice

抉择时刻

The shock and extreme heart break brought me to my knees. The pain was so great and my world just looked desolate. I had no real home, no money, no job, and no friends that cared. Not one person had even sent me a sympathy card for my loss.

我被打击和极度的心痛击挎了。强烈的痛苦使世界在我眼中变得如此凄凉。我没有真正意义上的家，没有钱，没有工作，也没有关心我的朋友。没有一个人因我失去亲人而寄给我慰问卡。

I made an attempt of my own life and I ended up in hospital.

我尝试着活下去，结果住进了医院。

I remember lying in the hospital bed, looking up at the ceiling and seeing my sister’s beautiful face. She stayed with me all night long.

我记得，躺在病床上，看着天花板，看到姐姐美丽的面庞。她整夜守候着我。

I realised during that night that I had a choice. I could choose to end my life or I could choose to live it.

那天晚上，我意识到我可以选择。要么结束生命，要么活下去。

I looked in my sister’s eyes and I made a decision not to go with her just yet. That I would stay and complete my journey here.

望着姐姐的眼睛，我决定不跟她走。我要留下来，走完我的生命旅程。

I also made the decision that, I wouldn’t just live any life. I would live the life that I absolutely LOVE and nothing less.

同时，我还决定，不只为生活而生活，我要完全以自己想要的方式生活。

In that moment, the clarity that descended around me was like a light shining in a dark room for the first time. As if the earth’s plates had shifted under my feet and everything suddenly looked real for the first time.

在那一刻，这一想法第一次清晰得如同一盏在黑暗闪烁的明灯。好像脚下的地球版块变换了，每一样东西在我眼前都真实得前所未有。

美文赏析:打开心门拥抱生活【2】

We often close ourselves off when traumatic events happen in our lives; instead of letting the world soften us, we let it drive us deeper into ourselves. We try to deflect the hurt and pain by pretending it doesn’t exist, but although we can try this all we want, in the end, we can’t hide from ourselves. We need to learn to open our hearts to the potentials of life and let the world soften us.

生活发生不幸时，我们常常会关上心门;世界不仅没能慰藉我们，反倒使我们更加消沉。我们假装一切仿佛都不曾发生，以此试图忘却伤痛，可就算隐藏得再好，最终也还是骗不了自己。既然如此，何不尝试打开心门，拥抱生活中的各种可能，让世界感化我们呢?

Whenever we start to let our fears and seriousness get the best of us, we should take a step back and re-evaluate our behavior. The items listed below are six ways you can open your heart more fully and completely.

当恐惧与焦虑来袭时，我们应该退后一步，重新反思自己的言行。下面六个方法有助于你更完满透彻地敞开心扉。

1. Breathe into pain

直面痛苦

Whenever a painful situation arises in your life, try to embrace it instead of running away or trying to mask the hurt. When the sadness strikes, take a deep breath and lean into it. When we run away from sadness that’s unfolding in our lives, it gets stronger and more real. We take an emotion that’s fleeting and make it a solid event, instead of something that passes through us.

当生活中出现痛苦的事情时，别再逃跑或隐藏痛苦，试着拥抱它吧;当悲伤来袭时，试着深呼吸，然后直面它。如果我们一味逃避生活中的悲伤，悲伤只会变得更强烈更真实——悲伤原本只是稍纵即逝的'情绪，我们却固执地耿耿于怀。

By utilizing our breath we soften our experiences. If we dam them up, our lives will stagnate, but when we keep them flowing, we allow more newness and greater experiences to blossom.

深呼吸能减缓我们的感受。屏住呼吸，生活停滞;呼出呼吸，更多新奇与经历又将拉开序幕。

2. Embrace the uncomfortable

拥抱不安

We all know what that twinge of anxiety feels like. We know how fear feels in our bodies: the tension in our necks, the tightness in our stomachs, etc. We can practice leaning into these feelings of discomfort and let them show us where we need to go.

我们都经历过焦灼的煎熬感，也都感受过恐惧造成的生理反应：脖子僵硬、胃酸翻腾。其实，我们有能力面对这些痛苦的感受，从中领悟到出路。

The initial impulse is to run away — to try and suppress these feelings by not acknowledging them. When we do this, we close ourselves off to the parts of our lives that we need to experience most. The next time you have this feeling of being truly uncomfortable, do yourself a favor and lean into the feeling. Act in spite of the fear.

我们的第一反应总是逃避——以为否认不安情绪的存在就能万事大吉，可这也恰好妨碍了我们经历最需要的生活体验。下次感到不安时，不管有多害怕，也请试着勇敢面对吧。

3. Ask your heart what it wants

倾听内心

We’re often confused at the next step to take, making pros and cons lists until our eyes bleed and our brains are sore. Instead of always taking this approach, what if we engaged a new part of ourselves that isn’t usually involved in the decision making process?

我们常对未来犹疑不定，反复考虑利弊直到身心俱疲。与其一味顾虑重重，不如从局外人的角度看待决策之事。

I know we’ve all felt decisions or actions that we had to take simply due to our “gut” impulses: when asked, we can’t explain the reasons behind doing so — just a deep knowing that it had to get done. This instinct is the part of ourselves we’re approaching for answers.

其实很多决定或行动都是我们一念之间的结果：要是追问原因的话，恐怕我们自己也道不清说不明，只是感到直觉如此罢了。而这种直觉恰好是我们探索结果的潜在自我。

To start this process, take few deep breaths then ask, “Heart, what decision should I make here? What action feels the most right?”

开始前先做几次深呼吸，问自己：“内心认为该做什么样的决定呢?觉得采取哪个方案最恰当?”

See what comes up, then engage and evaluate the outcome.

看看自己的内心反应如何，然后全力以赴、静待结果吧。

经典美文精选【3】

很喜欢一句诗：

最是人间留不住，朱颜辞镜花辞树。

冷静，却又犀利无比。

是啊，光阴是刀，

所以这世间没有一段不被宰割的人生。

自古以来，人间万事，

要经历多少风云变幻，桑田沧海?

许多曾经纯美的事物，最终都落满了尘埃。

任凭我们如何擦拭，也不可能回到最初的色彩。

人生走到最后，都要回归朴素和简单，

过程所经历的繁芜，

只是为平淡的结局写下深沉的一笔。

都说一寸光阴一寸金，

仿佛要将所有的时光，

丝丝缕缕都用得恰到好处，

才不算是虚度。

然而，当你静下心来，

看一枚叶子无声地飘落，

看一只蜜蜂栖息在花蕊上，

看一炷檀香渐渐地焚烧;

或是喝一盏清茶，和某个不知名的路人，

若有若无地闲话家常，光阴倏然而过，

这时候，你却会觉得，

时光是用来浪费的，并且一点都不可惜。

因为我们品尝到生活真实的味道，

这些微不足道的细节，才是人生的感动。

而江湖所酿造的风云和气象，

却像一座宽大的囚牢，

困住了我们清醒朴素的思想，

束缚着压抑着生命的本性。

这是一个丰盈饱满的时代，

太多的诱惑横在眼前，

让醉者会更醉，醒者会更醒。

一个富足的人，其实拥有了世间许多的华丽，

他却常常感到空虚落寞。

一个贫瘠的人，

所得到的只是一些微薄的片断，

他却有种满足的快乐。

一物一风流，一人一性情，

每个人落在红尘，都有一份自我的追求，

从不同的起点，到不同的终点，

历程不同，所悟出的道理也是不同。

只是想像的空间越来越狭窄，

飞翔的距离越来越短，

就连做梦，都需要勇气。

所谓得闲便是主人，

也许我们更应该将远志封存起来，

用闲逸的山水蓄养，于杯盏中自在把玩。

看一场烟雨，从开始下到结束;

看一只蝴蝶，从蚕蛹到破茧;

看一树的蓓蕾，从绽放到落英缤纷。

不为诗意，不为风雅，不为禅定，

只为将日子，

过成一杯白开水的平淡、一碗清粥的简单。

也许只有这样，

生活才会少一些失去，多一些如意。

日子如水清淡，来来往往的人，

不过是为了各自的归宿，做着无奈的奔忙。

也许一生真的不长，

但是亦可不必仓促地要把生活的滋味尝遍。

不如在缤纷的红尘里，

只将简洁的心灵，栖息在一束菩提的时光里。

把颜色还给岁月，留一份从容给自己。

篇10：美文阅读

精选美文阅读

小狐猴之死

马达加斯加岛上，一只小狐猴出生了。它好奇地打量着眼前的世界，母亲告诉它从明天开始它就要跟着母亲一起来学习生存。

但 但第一天，它就遇到了麻烦。它被脚下植物上的毒刺扎伤了脚，钻心的疼痛让它吱吱大叫。它问母亲，为什么我们要生活在这种长满毒刺的植物周围?这多么容易受伤!母亲说，没关系孩子，等你习惯就好了,世世代代我们都是这样生活下来的。晚上，舔着自己伤口的小狐猴在思考一个问题，为什么我们世世代代都要生长在这种恶劣的环境下?

几个月后，长大的小狐猴开始和母亲吃一样的食物，那是生长在毒刺中间的小小的嫩叶，很苦涩，这让小狐猴很苦恼。

偶然的一个机会，它遇到了一只在四处旅行的鸟，鸟给它带来了许多的信息。比如其他地方的猴子都是生活在没有毒刺的树上，而且吃的都是甜美的果子。“果子？”小狐猴疑惑地说。鸟笑了笑展开翅膀飞走，回来的时候嘴上叼着一枚红红的果子。小狐猴尝了一下，果然是美味。

小狐猴决定离开这里去寻找自己想要的生活。母亲和猴群的长老们劝它不要离开，告诉小狐猴别抱怨，谁都是在慢慢地适应生活，以后才可能高枕无忧。小狐猴听不进去，它摇摇头坚定地离开了家。

在岛的另一边小狐猴果然发现了鸟叼的那种果子，生长在一棵没有毒刺的树上。它欣喜地爬上去，但当它快要摘下那果子的时候，身体却被一条不知隐藏在哪里的蛇紧紧地缠住了，然后看到的是一张血盆大口。小狐猴最后想的是，以前自己生活的地方因为有那些毒刺，从来没有什么天敌可以进入……

圆谎

临近冬的时候，铁蛋的母亲去世了，死于劳累。十岁的铁蛋从此成了没妈的孩子，都说没妈的孩子苦，铁蛋的父亲是深有体会，一个大男人又当爹又当妈还要上班，那里照顾得过来铁蛋。他思前想后决定再婚，对象是托媒人找的，一个离异没有孩子的女人。

相处时，女人表现的很勤快，照顾铁蛋也很尽心，铁蛋的父亲相当满意，很快这个女人成了铁蛋的后妈。

女人嫁进来不久渐渐的露了本性，整日唠叨铁蛋的父亲嫌他赚的少。铁蛋的父亲受不了她的唠叨，背井离乡出外打工，只留下铁蛋和继母俩人在家，半年才能回家一次。

铁蛋的父亲一走，女人就变了脸，经常对铁蛋横挑鼻子竖挑眼，非打即骂。铁蛋受了孽待也不敢顶撞继母，更不敢反抗，否则他会没有饭吃。有时候被继母打疼了或被继母推出房门，铁蛋总是偷偷跑到隔壁邻居家。幸亏隔壁有位好心的阿姨，常常给他吃的，给他的伤处擦药，让铁蛋感觉出了丝的温度。

一日，继母买了几个苹果的，放在桌子上就出门去了。铁蛋回来后，偷偷的吃了一个。继母回来发现后顿时火了，劈头盖脑地对着铁蛋就打。

铁蛋被打的抱头鼠窜，继母见追不上铁蛋，顺手抄起木棍向孩子打去。铁蛋吓得撒腿就跑，跑到隔壁阿姨家里躲了起来。

继母追到隔壁家，半天没敲开门，她气呼呼的回家了。

没想到一进家门就看见铁蛋的'父亲坐在屋里。她立马换上一副笑脸说：“老公，你回来了了？”

父亲点点头，瞅了瞅她身后问：“铁蛋，应该放学了吧？怎么还没回来？”

继母心想坏了，这小兔崽子不知道跑那去了。她急忙说：“别提了，都怨我。哎！我怕我这当继母的对孩子管教太严了，会落人口舌，没敢管她，可是没想到，哎！他竟然和一帮小混混整日鬼混，也不上学，这会也不知道跑那去了。”

父亲听完狠狠的捶了一下床说道：“这孩子怎么变成这么坏了，真是欠揍，等他回来，你看我怎么教训他……”

这时铁蛋正好从邻居家里回来，他见父亲回来刚想往屋里进，告继母的状，可一听继母和父亲的对话，他站在门口犹豫了起来。

想了片刻，他挺着胸走了进去。他像是没看见父亲一样，扑通跪在跪在继母身前说：“妈，你原谅我吧！我再也不敢出去和人鬼混了，再也不惹你生气了，呜呜……”

这一哭到把继母给哭愣了，父亲上来就要揍铁蛋，继母不得不挡在他身前说：“行了，他知道错了，你就饶了他吧！”

父亲这才放下高举的巴掌，这次**也算平息了。

继母明知道自己不对在先，关键时候铁蛋没揭穿她的谎言，还帮她圆了慌，让她心里感到有几分愧疚和感动。从那以后，继母再没有孽待过铁蛋。

一把属于自己的钥匙

一个男孩在求学路上屡遭失败和打击。在确认他不适合在校读书后，他母亲很伤心。她将孩子领回家，准备靠自己的力量把孩子培养成才。可是这孩子无论如何都记不住那些需要记忆的知识。在妈妈眼中，这男孩是一个不长进的孩子，怎么教他，他都学不会。

母亲彻底失望了，因为他高考了几次都失败了，他没能走进大学校门。

男孩知道他在母亲的眼里是一个失败者。母亲悲伤无奈地说：“朽木不可雕也，你原本是块朽木，怎么雕都不会成器。”男孩很难过，他决定远走他乡去寻找自己的事业。

许多年以后，当年的男孩突然回来了，他已长成了一个成熟的男人。

有一天，他希望母亲同他去参加一个名厨大赛，在名厨大赛上，这个男人表现出多种厨师技艺，他做出的每一道菜都是色香味俱佳，最终，在专家的评选结果中，他取得了名厨大赛的冠军。

在一片热烈的掌声中，他走上领奖台，激动地说：“我想把名厨大赛的冠军杯献给我的母亲，因为我读书时没有获得她期望中的成功。她曾极度失望地认为我是朽木，现在我要告诉她，妈妈，我不是朽木，大学里没有我的位置，我总是拿不到考入大学的钥匙，但在生活中总会有一个位置是属于我的，而且是成功的位置，妈妈，总会有一把钥匙是属于我的，总会有一扇门是为我打开的。”

台下那位陪儿子一起来观看名厨大赛的母亲，万万没有想到，最终成为名厨冠军的获胜者居然是自己认为不成器的儿子。她流下了激动的泪水，深情地对儿了说：“孩子，你不再是朽木，你是妈妈的骄傲！”

许多人都在生活中苦苦寻觅着自己的位置，遇到打击和失败都是正常的，但是不能灰心，条条大路通罗马，成功的答案不只一个。失之东隅，收之桑榆。天生我才必有用，只要你努力进取，总有一扇门是为你打开的，总有一把钥匙属于你自己！

在苦闷中学会愉快

谁不曾为平庸而心烦气燥？然而，人生除死无大事，凡事心存希望，一切就终有转机！

她是个安静的女孩儿，最大的理想就是有一个属于自己的大房子。可以在里面呼呼大睡，而不用担心妈妈揪着耳朵叫自己上学。她总幻想自己的人生能平平稳稳，过着衣食无忧，平淡快乐的生活。

然而，现实总是很轻易地将每个人美丽温暖的梦击碎。上了大学之后，不仅希望过上的生活没有实现，而且她还陷入了抑郁的情绪里。冗长的课程、迷茫的未来，枯燥的社交活动，都让她感到压抑。内向的她渐渐明白了要想实现自己的理想，就必须在生活中努力奋斗，出人头地。于是，她开始拼命地学习功课，把大部分的时间都放在了学业上。她努力参加各种校园内外的活动，很用心地想融入别人的圈子里。

可渐渐地，她发现自己无论怎样努力，功课永远都不是最好的，与此同时，内向的自己也在社交中显得木讷，不善表达。她失望地发现原来自己真的不是特别出色，平凡的自己似乎毫无成功的资本。平庸的生活带来了无穷的苦闷，没有关注、没有鲜花、没有掌声，找不到自己存在的价值。有很长一段时间，她心甘情愿地随波逐流，她觉得自己这样的人很难和成功沾上边儿了，渐渐死了心。

既然没办法在人群中崭露头角，她反倒不在那么焦躁了。那段时间里，默默无闻地她体验过了焦虑、压抑、苦闷的种种情绪，也学会了和这些负面情绪和平共处。每个平凡的生命，都要经历这种苦闷的压力，想到这些，她反而变得淡然许多。既然现实无法改变，她便尝试着改变心情，努力在苦闷中学会快乐，在平庸中发现惊喜。渐渐地，她发现其实身边有很多好玩有趣的人和事情。尤其是很多人的搞怪表情和乐观的心态，深深触动了她的心灵。她开始尝试着将这些人的表情和有趣的生活状态糅合到一起，创作出自己娱乐的卡通图片。

让她没想到的是，这些卡通图片竟然引起了身边人的注意，并且大受欢迎。同学朋友们纷纷她的图片，在极短的时间里，她设计的那只可爱搞怪，表情丰富的小兔子迅速蹿红网络，成了网虫们最喜欢的表情人物，下载量连创记录。

这个创造了“兔斯基”系列图片的小女孩儿叫王卯卯，今年刚刚21岁，只是北京一所高校动画系沉默寡言的小姑娘。这个平凡女孩儿的成功，让人不得不深思：每个人生命中都有一段不认可，不被重视，找不到未来发展方向的生活。每个人都体会着平凡带来的苦闷和压抑，面对这种心灵的煎熬，我们应该如何面对？是沉沦消极，还是淡然接受？用王卯卯的话说：“那种苦闷压抑的生活让我喘不过气来，如果我不是在苦闷中学会让自己愉快起来，我早被自己的压抑压垮了，根本就谈不上成功了！”

世界上最可怕的就是努力结不出硕果，付出得不到回报。当失败成为常态，雄心沦为无奈，整日的奔波奋斗却换来毫无起色的未来，这样的生活，又有几人坚持得下来？平庸的人生，就是因为在反复地失败中，放弃了自己。

世界可以无奈，你却不能对生活撒娇耍赖。只有破罐才会破摔。天地无情，不会因为你的弱小而加以青睐。要想让世界知道你的存在，就必须在苦闷中学会愉快。每个人都是磁场，放弃招来堕落，坚持吸引希望。谁不曾为未来迷茫？谁不曾为平凡焦虑？谁不曾为平庸而心烦气燥？然而，人生除死无大事，凡事心存希望，一切就终有转机！

在苦闷中学会愉快，不仅宣泄了现实压抑下的苦闷，而且还能让你在平和的心态中开拓未来。凡有蓝天处，必有阳光；凡有成功处，就必有笑对苦闷人生的智慧！

绝处逢生

第二次世界大战时，有艘船被炮弹击中沉没了，船上只有一个幸存者，他借助一块浮木漂到了孤岛上，独自一人在那里艰苦地生活。

他天天站在岛上摇举白旗，希望有过路的船只能过来救他，可是一直都没有结果。为了生活，他用树木和枝条搭建了一个简陋的茅屋，靠采摘来的野果和捕捞的海鱼为生，就这样过了一段时间。

有一天，他千辛万苦搭盖的茅屋不知怎么回事突然起火了。火势凶猛，而且一发不可收拾，他想方设法置办的家什和家当都烧光了。看着熊熊大火，他埋怨上帝：“我惟一的栖身之处和仅有的一点生活用品都化为灰烬了，上帝啊，你为何逼迫我走上绝路呢？”

正当他沉浸于伤心和绝望的时候，忽然有人驾船来救他。他疑惑不解地看着来人，问道：“你们怎么知道岛上有人呢？”救他的人回答道：“我们起先也不知道，但是看见岛上火光冲天，觉得很奇怪，船长派我们来看看，没想到真的有人。”

他把起初对上帝的埋怨变为大大的感激，上帝借这把火救了他。

事情都是一分为二的，好事可以变成坏事，坏事也可以变成好事。正如古人所说：“塞翁失马，焉知非福？”

过了保鲜期

春天里，我在家门前的空地上开辟了一垄地，撒了些青菜菜籽，空闲时想起它，便浇浇水。过了个把月，我发现小青菜长得非常缓慢，问种了多年菜的邻居，他说，主要是因为你以前没有辛勤施肥、浇水，现在再施肥、浇水也难以改变多少，长不大了。菜过了气候了。

朋友家的孩子，上初中了，长得高大，也极聪明，可成绩欠佳。生活和学习习惯也不好，每天看电视、上网，既无理想，也对学习了无兴趣。对父母的同事、朋友，他一不如意就大吼大叫，让人心里很不舒服。他的母亲很瘦小，有一天她发着烧自己搬桌子，喊他来帮忙。他躺在沙发上看电视，像没听到一样，母亲只好把桌子顺着地板一点点地拖，对儿子没有丝毫的责备之意。孩子的父母说，小时候，父母只觉得他可爱、好玩，现在大了，有时行为看着不妥，想管时却发现不知从哪着手了，孩子的性格也基本定性，想改变是极其困难了。

花也好，树也罢，如果错过了时候，错过了季节，再施肥、浇水关注它，也往往是难以挽回了。植物尚且如此，何况有思想、有行为能力的人呢？教育也有保鲜期。过了保鲜期，那些问题孩子，就如长不大的蔬菜、养不旺的花一样，教育起来困难重重。孩子的教育耽误不得，千万不能滞后啊！

篇11：美文阅读

美文阅读集锦

美文阅读：矶鹞带来欢乐

Sandpipers to Bring Us Joy

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.

“Hello,” she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child. “I’m building,” she said.

“I see that. What is it?” I asked, not really caring.

“Oh, I don’t know, I just like the feel of sand.”

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by. “That’s a joy,” the child said.

“It’s a what?” I asked.

“It’s a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird went gliding down the beach.

“Good-bye joy,” I muttered to myself, “hello pain,” and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

“What’s your name?” She wouldn’t give up.

“Robert,” I answered. “I’m Robert Peterson.”

“Mine’s Wendy... I’m six.”

“Hi, Windy.” She giggled. “You’re funny,” she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.

“Come again, Mr. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”

The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother.

The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. “I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself, gathering up my coat.

The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.

“Hello, Mr. P,” she said. “Do you want to play?”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

“I don’t know, you say.”

“How about charades?” I asked sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Then let’s just walk.” Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. “Where do you live?” I asked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.

“Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t go to school. Mommy says we’re on vacation.” She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

英语阅读：AnEmptyBox

Once upon a time, a man punished his 5-year-old daughter for using up the family's only roll of expensive gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he became even more upset when on Christmas Eve, he saw that the child had pasted the gold paper so as to decorate a shoebox to put under the Christmas tree.

Nevertheless, the next morning the little girl, filled with excitement, brought the gift box to her father and said, “This is for you, Daddy!”

As he opened the box, the father was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction.

But when he opened it, he found it was empty and again his anger flared. “Don't you know, young lady, ” he said harshly, “when you give someone a present there's supposed to be something inside the package!”

The little girl looked up at him with tears rolling from her eyes and said: “Daddy, it's not empty. I blew kisses into it until it was all full.”

The father was crushed. He fell on his knees and put his arms around his precious little girl. He begged her to forgive him for his unnecessary anger.

An accident took the life of the child only a short time later. It is told that the father kept that little gold box by his bed for all the years of his life. Whenever he was discouraged or faced difficult problems he would open the box, take out an imaginary kiss, and remember the love of this beautiful child who had put it there.

In a very real sense, each of us as human beings have been given an invisible golden box filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children, family, friends and God.

There is no more precious possession anyone could hold.

英语阅读：HappinessEquateswithFun?

I live in Hollywood. You may think people in such a glamorous, fun-filled place are happier than others. If so, you have some mistaken ideas about the nature of happiness.

Many intelligent people still equate happiness with fun. The truth is that fun and happiness have little or nothing in common. Fun is what we experience during an act. Happiness is what we experience after an act. It is a deeper, more abiding emotion.

Going to an amusement park or ball game, watching a movie or television, are fun activities that help us relax, temporarily forget our problems and maybe even laugh. But they do not bring happiness, because their positive effects end when the fun ends.

I have often thought that if Hollywood stars have a role to play, it is to teach us that happiness has nothing to do with fun. These rich, beautiful inpiduals have constant access to glamorous parties, fancy cars, expensive homes, everything that spells “happiness”.

But in memoir after memoir, celebrities reveal the unhappiness hidden beneath all their fun: depression, alcoholism, drug addiction, broken marriages, troubled children, profound loneliness.

The way people cling to the belief that a fun-filled, pain-free life equates happiness actually diminishes their chances of ever attaining real happiness. If fun and pleasure are equated with happiness, then pain must be equated with unhappiness. But, in fact, the opposite is true: More times than not, things that lead to happiness involve some pain.

As a result, many people avoid the very endeavors that are the source of true happiness. They fear the pain inevitably brought by such things as marriage, raising children, professional achievement, religious commitment, civic or charitable work, and self-improvement.

英语阅读：TodayisaGift

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room‘s only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end.

They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation. And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance. As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn‘t hear the band - he could see it in his mind‘s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.

Days and weeks passed. One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. Slowly and painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.

The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, “Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you.”

英语阅读：IsPackingImportanttoYou?

A young man was getting ready to graduate from college. For many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's showroom, and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he wanted.

As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car. Finally, on the morning of his graduation, his father called him into his private study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautiful wrapped gift box. Curious, but somewhat disappointed, the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Bible, with the young man's name embossed in gold.

Angrily, he raised his voice to his father and said, “With all your money you give me a Bible?” He then stormed out of the house, leaving the Bible.

Many years passed and the young man was very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and a wonderful family, but realizing his father was very old, he thought perhaps he should go to see him. He had not seen him since that graduation day. Before he could make the arrangements, he received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately and take care of things.

When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart. He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the still new Bible, just as he had left it years ago.

With tears, he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. As he was reading, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words… “PAID IN FULL”.

How many times do we miss blessings because they are not packaged as we expected? I trust you enjoyed this. Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; but remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for. Sometimes we don't realize the good fortune we have or we could have because we expect “the packaging” to be different. What may appear as bad fortune may in fact be the door that is just waiting to be opened.

英语阅读：TheBabyEagle

Once upon a time there was a baby eagle living in a nest perched on a cliff overlooking a beautiful valley with waterfalls and streams, trees and lots of little animals, scurrying about enjoying their lives.

The baby eagle liked the nest. It was the only world he had ever known. It was warm and comfortable, had a great view, and even better, he had all the food and love and attention that a great mother eagle could provide. Many times each day the mother would swoop down from the sky and land in the nest and feed the baby eagle delicious morsels of food. She was like a god to him, he had no idea where she came from or how she worked her magic.

The baby eagle was hungry all the time, but the mother eagle would always come just in time with the food and love and attention he craved. The baby eagle grew strong. His vision grew very sharp. He felt good all the time.

Until one day, the mother stopped coming to the nest.

The baby eagle was hungry. “I'm sure to die,” said the baby eagle, all the time.

“Very soon, death is coming,” he cried, with tears streaming down his face. Over and over. But there was no one there to hear him.

Then one day the mother eagle appeared at the top of the mountain cliff, with a big bowl of delicious food and she looked down at her baby. The baby looked up at the mother and cried “Why did you abandon me? I'm going to die any minute. How could you do this to me?”

The mother said, “Here is some very tasty and nourishing food, all you have to do is come get it.”

“Come get it!” said the baby, with much anger. “How?”

The mother flew away.

The baby cried and cried and cried.

A few days later, “I'm going to end it all,” he said. “I give up. It is time for me to die.”

He didn't know his mother was nearby. She swooped down to the nest with his last meal.

“Eat this, it's your last meal,” she said.

The baby cried, but he ate and whined and whined about what a bad mother she was.

“You're a terrible mother,” he said. Then she pushed him out of the nest.

He fell.

Head first.

Picked up speed.

Faster and faster.

He screamed. “I'm dying I'm dying,” he cried. He picked up more speed.

He looked up at his mother. “How could you do this to me?”

He looked down.

The ground rushed closer, faster and faster. He could visualize his own death so clearly, coming so soon, and cried and whined and complained. “This isn't fair!” he screamed.

Something strange happens.

The air caught behind his arms and they snapped away from his body, with a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced. He looked down and saw the sky. He wasn't moving towards the ground anymore, his eyes were pointed up at the sun.

“Huh?” he said. “What is going on here!”

“You're flying,” his mother said.

“This is fun!” laughed the baby eagle, as he soared and ped and swooped.

“Yes it is!” said the mother.

篇12：美文阅读:心灵鸡汤

45 Years and 6,000 Miles Apart

It was a difficult time in Japan. It was a time near the end of the American occupation of Japan that followed World War II. My mother, the oldest of three siblings, gave up a rare opportunity to go to college so that she could work two jobs and support her family after her father fell ill and couldn't work. Her mother had already died when she was only twelve years old. She was not only the sole source of income but also a sister and mother to two little girls. Amidst all of this hardship she fell in love with an American soldier. With a mind filled with hope and determination she left war-torn Japan for the bounty of America with the dreams of being better able to provide for her family and in particular, a better life for her two little sisters.

Life in America didn't turn out so well for my mother. The man she married turned out to be a severe alcoholic. Her survival and determination to provide for her own children rivals any challenge she could have faced in her homeland. With constant pressure, her dreams moved from hope to long days of labor. Years went by and she never wrote home. More years passed and she became afraid to write. She wouldn't be able to bear the news of anything ill becoming of the two little sisters she left behind. She couldn't bear to tell them that anything less than good had become of her life.

I had always wondered about the relatives that I must have in Japan and as my mother never spoke of them, it created an empty space in my life. I assumed it was painful for her to bring up the past so I respectfully thought it was better not to ask. It took a long time, but finally I had the chance to go to Japan for a three-month project. Would I be willing to open the Pandora's box sealed by my mother silence? I told my story to a charming Japanese family that had befriended me. They sensed my need to know about the relatives that were missing from my life. My new friends took on the quest of finding my lost relatives for me as it would be too difficult for me as a foreigner to do it alone.

My time in Japan was passing quickly without news, but the hope of meeting at least one of my relatives never faded away. Two days before I was to depart Japan, Yokiyo phoned me and exclaimed, “I've found them!” Of course I was thrilled but had to ask, “Were they happy about it?” My mother had feared that maybe they had buried their emotions for her and didn't need a wound reopened. Yokiyo explained to me how the first aunt she spoke to immediately broke into tears, unable to speak with the joy of knowing her lost sister was still alive. My aunts were on the bus from Tokyo the very next day to meet me. They hugged me and were moved by the few characteristics I bore of my mother. They told me a day hadn't passed that they didn't think of her. They had a strong need for closure and I promised to bring their sister to them.

My sixty-eight-year old mother, after having out survived her husband, became a reclusive little old lady. We both knew the trip would be difficult for her but she told me she swore to her sisters over the phone that she would swim to Japan if she had to. I told my mother that I would take her in the spring, giving us six months to prepare and save up for the trip of a lifetime. Her heart started to fill with childhood memories and she began to tell stories about her past. Both of her sisters started to call her every weekend to make sure the plans were on schedule. My mother was excited but nervous as she emphasized it had been forty-five years without any contact with her sisters so in reality, these women were total strangers to her.

On the plane ride to Tokyo, mom confessed it was exactly forty-five years to the month that she last saw Japan. As the sea of lights came into view her face was pressed against the window. She remembered a sea of lights fading away forty-five years ago, thinking that would be her very last view of her homeland. I silently watched her fight back the tears.

In Narita airport, my mother eyed her sisters in the crowd and snuck up on them in a jovial way. The sisters wanted to laugh at her prank but broke into tears at finally being united with their long lost sister. Too emotional to speak, the three of them mostly looked to each other on the train ride to Tokyo. At Aiko's house, over a cup of green tea the women begin to talk.

Our week in Tokyo passed quickly. The two women ushered us around like two mother hens, taking us sight seeing and feeding us every delicacy they could think of. It didn't take long until the three sisters acted like sisters again, teasing each other, laughing, and talking late every night. The atmosphere filled up with a priceless joy that fed everyone's heart. You couldn't tell that they had spent the last 45 years apart. I took lots of photographs of the three sisters sitting in the park, singing childhood songs, cooking together.

I witnessed how their love for each other erased the 45 years they had lost. Every moment together was precious for them, as we all knew this could be the last time these sisters would be together. What was important was they were sisters again, sisters forever. They had proved that time or distance could not damage their sisterly bond.

A New Strength

“What's wrong, Mommy?” One by one, three small figures straggled into my bedroom, navigating through the darkness to my side of the bed. The ringing of the phone and my crying had pulled them from their sleep in the few minutes before sunrise.

“Mommy's very sad right now,” their daddy answered for me. “Mommy's sad because your Grandpa Bastien died early this morning.”

All three climbed onto the bed and started stroking me, each trying to comfort a pain I thought they were too young to understand. Three sets of innocent eyes stared helplessly up at me, watching unfamiliar waves of grief ebb and flow.

They did not know their grandpa the way I had hoped they would. A gap of seven hundred miles saw to that. Their memories of Grandpa Bastien came from visits at Thanksgiving, long-distance phone calls and pictures displayed in photo albums. They did not know the big, strong man I loved so much. And for once, I was glad their little hearts were spared knowing him so they would not feel the depth of losing him.

None of them had ever seen or heard me cry so openly. Through tears I reassured them I would be all right but there was no way to explain the grief. There was no way to tell a four-, six- and eight-year-old how their Mommy's life had changed. In an instant I had gone from having a father to having memories. At that moment, thirty-four years of memories and pictures seemed small and insignificant.

It would have been selfish to give words to my tears, explain to them that I would never again hear his voice, send him Father's Day cards or hold his hand. No, I knew it would be wrong to make them understand this grief, so I held back the words and released only the tears. They continued their vigil, sitting quietly, patting me tenderly with little hands.

As the first hint of morning light filtered through the blinds in the bedroom, they began to talk softly amongst themselves. One by one they hugged me and kissed me. One by one they scooted off the bed and left the room. Off to play or watch cartoons, I presumed, and I was glad grief had not touched their innocence.

I felt helpless, though, watching them walk away. With one phone call, I had crossed this ominous bridge between my father's life and his death, and I didn't know how to return. I didn't know how I would learn to laugh or play or be the mother they needed me to be in the midst of this grief.

After lying in bed for what seemed like an eternity, I dried my eyes and decided I'd try to explain my sadness to them in a way they could understand. While still formulating the words, they walked back into the room, each with knowing eyes.

“Here, Mommy,” they whispered in unison. “We made this for you.”

I took the little package from eager hands and carefully peeled away a layer of leftover Christmas wrapping paper. Inside I found a note written by my eight-year-old: “To Mommy: We love you. Love, Shae, Andrew and Annie.”

“Thank you,” I told them. “This is beautiful.”

“No, Mommy, turn it over,” one of them instructed me. I turned over the note and on the other side discovered a paper frame, decorated with crayon lines and hearts, and inside the frame was a photograph of my dad, smiling his contented smile, hands folded across an ample belly. It was one of the last good pictures I had taken before he died, before sickness had taken the sparkle from his eye.

My well-planned speech fell away, and I knew no explanation was needed. They understood my tears, and their handmade gift had given me new strength. As I looked at the picture, echoes of childhood memories flooded back, filling the emptiness. Yes, grief had touched my children, but they had their own special way of dealing with it. In their innocence, they taught me that the things I had thought insufficient, the memories and pictures, would be the very things to keep my dad alive.

A Change of Heart

It was the tail end of the depression, and things were tough. Mum had a hard time raising us kids on her own in our small community of New Westminster, BC. My Dad had drowned in Pitt Lake, five years earlier - I still remember it like it was yesterday. Because Dad had no pension, or benefits, there was not much money so we went on relief, now called social assistance. We relied on the Salvation Army to keep us clothed, and although our clothes were second hand, we thought they were beautiful.

Looking back, I realize what Mum went through sending us kids to school. Every morning she would tuck a new piece of cardboard in our shoes, because our soles were worn out. When we got home, Mum would have “French Toast” ready for us. This was bread deep-fried in lard. Constant moving was typical for my family in these times. Rent was twenty-five dollars a month, but Mum couldn't pay it, and we knew we would be evicted right after Christmas on the first of January. These were hard and sad years, but we never complained.

Christmas was approaching, and we were entitled to a twenty-five dollar Christmas fund for social services. The Inspector came to our house, and searched it from top to bottom to be sure we didn't have any food hidden away. When he didn't find any, he issued the cheque for Mum. It was four days before Christmas, and Mum said that instead of buying food, she would use the money to pay back rent, assuring us all of a roof over our heads for a little while longer. She told us then there would be nothing for Christmas.

Unknown to Mum, I had been selling Christmas trees, shoveling snow, and doing odd jobs to earn enough money to buy a new pair of boots. Boots that weren't patched, boots with no cardboard in the soles. I knew exactly which boots I wanted. They were ten-inch Top Genuine Pierre Paris and they had a price of twenty-three dollars.

Well, the big day came on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was very excited, as I hurried up the road to catch the bus. It was only half a mile walk, but on the way I noticed a house with Christmas lights and decorations. It was then I realized that at our house, we had no lights, no decorations, nor any money for Christmas goodies.

I knew then that we would have no turkey or ham for Christmas, and I felt sad. But I knew for certain that we would have French toast.

As I continued walking I began to feel bewildered. I was eleven years old, and I was feeling a strange sense of guilt. Here I was going to buy a new pair of boots while Mum was home in tears. She would be trying to explain to us why there were no presents. As I arrived at the bus stop, the driver opened his big manual hinged door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, until eventually the driver asked, “Son, are you getting on this bus or not?” I finally blurted out, “No thanks Sir, I've changed my mind.”

The bus drove off without me, and I stood alone in a daze, but feeling as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My mind was made up and I realized what I had to do.

Across the street from the bus stop was a big grocery store called the Piggly Wiggley. Into the store I went, brimming with happiness and excitement. I realized that the twenty-five dollars I had worked so hard for went a long way for groceries. I bought a turkey, ham, oranges and all the Christmas treats. I spent every dime of my hard-earned money. The owner of the grocery store said, “Son, you can't pack all those groceries and carry them home yourself.” So I asked two boys with carriers on their bicycles to run them the half-mile down to our house. As I walked behind the delivery boys, I whispered for them to quietly unload the groceries on the porch and pile them against the door. Once they had done this, with great excitement and tears in my eyes, I knocked on the door. I could hardly wait to see my mother's face! When Mum opened the door, some of the groceries fell inside onto the floor, and she just stood there dumbfounded. Holding back the tears, I hollered, “Merry Christmas Mother!! There really is a Santa Claus!”

I had a lot of explaining to do as we unpacked all the food and put it away. That day I got enough hugs and kisses from Mum to last two lifetimes. To see my Mother's prayers answered more than made up for the boots I never got. It was a Merry Christmas for us after all!

A Childhood Passion Strikes A Cord

I waited until my mother had driven away. Then, after opening the front door, peeking down the road and seeing her white Ford Falcon disappear, I lined up my eight-iron shot. Standing smack in the middle of the living room, with a plastic golf ball sitting on the carpet, I took dead aim through the small opening that skirted the chandelier and led through the back door to my target, a square of screen at the back of the porch.

At 13, I had been hitting balls inside for well over a year. Eight-iron shots were my favorite - even plastic practice balls zipped off the clubface at an ideal trajectory. I loved the unique contour of that particular club, its braveness as it stood distinguished from the rest of the set. It had none of the angular assertiveness of the seven-iron (which reminded me of a proud slice of pie), or even the bulbous, bloated roundness of the wedges. No, the eight-iron, viewed at address, appeared to be exactly what it was: a jewel-like machine of measurement.

Over the past year, a small worn spot had begun to appear on the carpet, and while the blemish didn't please my mom, perhaps some thought that one day I would make millions on tour and buy her a dream house had made her overlook it.

My next swing, however, would prove a swipe no one could ignore. The backswing seemed ordinary enough, a decent little turn. And the transition was good too. Other kids had dogs; my swing was my faithful servant. The club dropped into the slot just as it was supposed to, and with a well-timed release I squared the blade forged out of steel.

Next to my living room practice tee sat the family piano. Now, a plastic practice golf ball yields a soft, light sensation when struck reminiscent of patting a balloon. On that fateful swing, I felt that little whiff, all right, which was followed by a most unexpected THUD. I had caught the side of the piano solidly with my eight-iron, which had gone on to bury itself deep within the instrument's chamber, leaving only the silver shaft exposed. With my grip horrifically frozen in place, the image must have resembled a tableau in a French farce.

I didn't like to think of myself as a delinquent child. I was a good student, a good athlete. I ate my vegetables, didn't smoke and felt compassion for kids less fortunate than myself. But knowing that I had done something wrong, the criminal instinct took over.

Off I went on my bicycle to the candy store, then the art supply shop across the street. I saw my mom's car parked in the supermarket lot, and recalled her saying she was going to stop by her friend Phylis's house after shopping. So I figured I had an hour and a half to carry out my plan.

Back home there wasn't time to lose. I chewed a wad of gum and stuck it in the vertical “divot” slashed in the piano. Then, with the ecstatic freedom of Van Gogh, I painted the pink gum brown, hoping to match the hue of the instrument.

The end of this unfortunate escapade came swiftly. Mom walked in, groceries in hand, spotted the oozing gum dripping cheap watercolor paint on the side of the family treasure and threw a fit. My dad, who on the golf course crooned over every great golf shot I hit like a tenor warbling “Sonny Boy” with a pint of Guinness in his hand, suddenly rejected the idea that golf encompassed spiritual values. My backside made the abrasion on the piano seem like the surface of a mountain lake at dawn. The scar in the piano never healed, but mine did, and I grew up to be a golfer. I even played to scratch for many years while teaching school in Memphis.

My passion for golf, though, goes beyond the mere enjoyment of the game. It penetrates to the root of the word passion itself, with its base in the idea of suffering. From the recognition of the pain of others, we develop compassion. Every time I play golf, I see my own frustration mirrored in the exasperation of my partners, and I remember what I learned when I was a kid swinging in the living room - that the world is not a stage by a golf course

A Cup of Coffee

I heated up a cup of coffee today in the microwave. I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry as I stood there holding the steaming cup for the second time this morning. My son woke up crying, and it took nearly an hour of singing, consoling and rocking to get him back to sleep. In the meantime, my coffee got cold. So, I heated it up in the microwave.

I grew up vowing never to be like my mother. She is a wonderful, strong woman, and anyone would be proud to be like her. But I wasn't going to be. No one in town seemed to know her name. To the teachers and students at the various schools her children attended, she was simply known as ____'s mom (fill in the blank with any one of her five children's names). At the grocery stores and around the auto parts stores and hardware places, they affectionately called her “Mrs. Dale” after my father's first name; and the folks at the bank, utility companies and other such important places addressed her with Dad's last name, as Mrs. Keffer. Mom answered to all of these with a smile and kind words.

I, on the other hand, was never as gracious about it. Often, I would tell the bagger at the grocery store, “Her name is Joyce, by the way,” as he handed her the bag and told her to have a nice day using one of the aforementioned names. Mom would always smile and say, “You have a good day, too,” as she shot me the mind-your-manners-I-taught-you-better-than-that look. When we would then get to the car, I would bicker at her for not standing up for herself. “You are your own person,” I would retort. “You're not just an extension of Dad.”

“I could be called a lot worse,” she would always reply. “Besides, everyone knows your dad.”

Everyone in this small town did know my dad. He was a friendly, hard-working man who liked to flirt with the checkout girls and give car advice to anyone who needed it. He could charm his way out of a speeding ticket and talk his way into a better deal with ease. He would not think twice about fixing a broken part on one of the neighbor kid's bikes. Or leaving in the middle of a cold winter night to change a frightened teen's flat tire.

But everyone knew my mom, too. While Dad was a great man in the community, Mom was equally special. She had her own way of talking herself into a good deal, and she loved to give friendly advice to people she met. When she would wake up on cold, snowy mornings to a house full of college kids who had been stranded in town, she would weave her way through the sleeping bodies and fix enough pancakes for all. If anyone was in need, my mom was right in the thick of the fight to help. She would collect items for a family who lost all in a house fire, canned goods for the church pantry, and clothes for a teen mother's baby when no one else would help.

As a teen, I never understood my mom. How could someone with so much to offer the world be content to stay home and be known as an adjunct to her husband or as someone's mother? Why wasn't she proud of who she was? Once upon a time, she wanted to be a nurse and join the Peace Corps. How could anyone give up her dreams for washing out dirty diapers and packing my father's bologna sandwiches?

All I knew was that this was not going to happen to me. I had big dreams of making a difference in the world - but with a bang, not a whimper. People would know me. I planned on working my way up through the ranks of the YMCA with a busy writing career on the side. My husband, if there was one, would be right behind me and, as for children, they would be cute and at their nanny's side. I would not be like my mother - I would be me. And people would know me as someone important.

Now here I was heating up my cup of coffee in the microwave for the second time. Just as I had watched her do a million times after setting it down to pack a lunch, feed the cats, tie a shoe, retrieve a towel from the dryer, find a paper that needed returning to school, answer the phone and a million other possible interruptions. I dreamed of downing a good cafe latte for breakfast before another busy day at the office, and here I was drinking instant mocha from a “Happy Birthday” mug with colored balloons all over it.

I understand now. I understood eight months ago as I held my son for the first time. I understood when his tiny little hand wrapped around my finger and his big blue eyes looked into mine as he drifted off to sleep. I understood when the love I have for my husband tripled as I first saw the little body cuddled in his big, strong arms and saw the tears streak down his face. I understood it all instantly.

I look forward to the day that I will be known as Andrew's mom to the people in town and the children at school. Every day, as my husband returns home from work and his face lights up as his son holds out his hands, I am proud to be Mrs. Frank Huff. Just like my mom is proud to be called Mrs. Dale Keffer. Just like my mom. Those are four words that I thought I would never say proudly.

By the way, if you see her, her name is Joyce.

And now I need to heat up my coffee again.

A Friend's Secret

There's a moment in the Disney classic Cinderella when the ragamuffin heroine lays claim to her wayward glass slipper and Prince Charming adoringly sweeps her into his arms and waltzes her away. It's a scene that draws longing sighs from every woman who watches it. Why? Romance! That's what it's all about.

I've often wondered how that intangible sense of true love and romantic devotion makes the leap from celluloid to reality. I know it can happen. I've been around couples married for decades who still glow while sitting side by side, hands lovingly intertwined. Yet, as the child of divorced parents, and a divorcée myself, I also know that the course of true love never runs smooth. In fact, “Rocky Road” might better entitle the majority of marriages I've encountered.

However recently, a friend of mine told me a little secret - a tale of love that brought tears to my eyes and, I must admit, a little envy to my heart.

Her story wasn't about the latest piece of jewelry that her husband gave her, or flowers he sent as my friend's husband passed away two years ago, just short of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Now, at the age of seventy, she is alone, but thanks to her loving spouse, not always lonely.

For tucked away in drawers and cabinets throughout my friend's home are love notes scripted by her husband. Terms of endearment that he planted as romantic surprises during the course of their marriage. Over the years, she saved his sweet inscriptions, often leaving them in their original hiding places, his loving sentiments tenderly playing anew with each rediscovery.

Now that he is gone, my friend's life is a daily challenge of loving memories and sad yearning for this romantic man with whom she shared almost half a century of life. Yet in her indomitable way, she is continuing on with determination and enthusiasm. She is healthy and strong and lives each day with an interest in the world around her. She is surrounded by family and friends who support her and a community where she is acknowledged and respected.

Most of all, however, my friend endures with the inner sense that she is loved, truly and totally. Any time she thinks otherwise, all she has to do is open a kitchen drawer, or look in her bedroom nightstand, to find a reminder.

Although somehow I have a feeling that even without looking...she already knows.

A Friendly Face

It was the beginning of November. I was larger - “larger than life!” - my husband, Jeff told me. I had a belly the size of three basketballs. I was expecting our first child and I was scared to death. It was just my husband and me; no family no close friends to share in our excitement, our terror. We were stationed in Japan and had lived there for two years when I became pregnant.

When I noticed the first pangs of labor, my husband and I raced through the crowded streets of Japan. Okay, raced isn't quite the right word. It was more like “turtled” through the streets of Japan. Our hospital was at Yokota Air Force Base, which was only thirty miles away, but usually took us two hours to get to. I was too scared to notice the woman he nearly hit, the dog he almost ran over and the shopping cart he swerved around, and too tired to care. I did notice that he managed to hit every red light and a few train crossings.

Finally we got through the gates of the base and to the hospital. My contractions had subsided so the hospital told us to return home and rest. It was a false alarm. As we left, I noticed a rather tall woman, very much with child, being admitted to the delivery ward. We smiled in passing and I headed out the doors.

I cried a lot on the way home. I was so scared and dreaded another drive to the hospital. But what really upset me was that I was going to have a baby, and I had no one else to share it with. I was lucky to have my husband there. His squadron had deployed on a four-month cruise two weeks earlier. The commander allowed Jeff to stay behind until our child was born, then he had to meet up with the ship. That upset me too, that my husband would miss the first four months of his first child's life; that I would be a single mom and have to deal with not only my own recovery, but also learn how to care for an infant.

“If only I had my mom! Or your mom! Or some close friends!” I sobbed to my husband. He felt terrible, but there was little he could do.

That night, the pains started again and grew in frequency. I kicked my husband awake and told him it was time to go. This time it was three in the morning. There was little traffic and we made it to the hospital in record time.

Sixteen hours and a difficult delivery later, I gave birth to a boy we named Eric. We were shocked, because the Japanese doctor who gave me an ultrasound a few months before said he was sure it was a girl. At least, we thought he said girl. While everything we bought was feminine, frilly and pink, we were thrilled that our Emma was really an Eric.

I was wheeled into my room, which I had to share with another new mother, and Eric was whisked away to the nursery. There was a curtain separating me from the other mother but I could hear voices and the quiet gurgles of a newborn. I lay staring at Jeff.

“Can you believe we have a little boy?” he asked all smiles. I smiled and nodded. Then the tears came to my eyes.

“What's the matter?” Jeff sat down beside me.

“I'm supposed to be happy. Our parents should be here to meet their first grandchild. Our brothers and sisters and best friends should be here.” I felt my chin quiver.

“They'll see him soon,” Jeff said. He bent over and kissed my forehead. “Should I call home?” he asked.

“Sure,” I let out a big yawn. I couldn't move. My body ached. I felt like a Mack truck had hit me. And worse, the nurse would be in soon to get me up and to the bathroom. “They'll be surprised to know we had a boy.”

Jeff picked up the phone. “What's your parents' number?”

I gave him the number and he called home to tell everyone we had a baby boy. After he hung up I heard a voice from behind the curtain.

“Excuse me,” said someone quietly.

My husband drew back the curtain and we looked at the tall woman I had seen earlier at the hospital.

“I heard you calling home and recognized the area code,” she started. “Are you from Massachusetts?”

“My wife is,” said Jeff pointing at me.

“Where in Mass?” asked the woman.

“Oh, it's a real small town between Boston and Cape Cod,” I said.

“You probably don't know it.”

“What's the name?”

“Norwell,” I said.

The woman's eyes lit up and her jaw dropped.

“I'm from Norwell, too!”

I looked at her, my eyebrows scrunched tight. I didn't recognize her.

“What's your name?”

She told me and I immediately gave her mine. We stared at each other in disbelief.

“You're Kelly from South Street?” I asked. I sat up in my bed and straightened my hair.

“Yep. Can you believe this?” She was holding a small bundle and rocking her arms back and forth.

“This is amazing,” I said. Jeff and Kelly's husband shook hands. I had known Kelly since elementary school. We went through high school together until she moved away some time around our senior year. We didn't hang out together but had the same homeroom and many classes together. Now, ten years later we were having babies together on the other side of the world. She had grown quite tall since I knew her and her hair was different. But when she told me her name I immediately recognized her. Our babies were due on the same day, but both decided to come late. Kelly had given birth to a beautiful baby girl named Samantha.

The remainder of our time in the hospital was spent going through yearbooks, which our husbands dug up for us. We gave interviews to the base newspapers. No one could believe that two high school friends would be reunited in the delivery ward of a military hospital, half way around the world.

My prayers were answered, too. At the moment Kelly spoke up, I was completely exhausted and filled with such sadness, longing for a familiar face from home.

While my husband was shipped off two weeks later, Kelly and I kept in contact. Every Christmas I receive a card from her and Samantha, letting me know how they are doing.

A Fair Trade

“Keep away from children.” That's what my matchbook cover says. Gladly. I'm seventy-four years old and heavily into the osteoporosis-and-angioplasty scene. But how can I keep away from children? We have a ten-year-old adopted granddaughter.

Nobody likes to be one of life's clichés. But we are. Startling statistics these days tell how many grandparents adopt grandchildren. My husband and I are two of them.

Our car has no bumper sticker that says, “I'm spending my children's inheritance.” We are. But not on travel.

So this grandmother's life revolves around Girl Scouts and choir, dance and piano lessons. She's a much-ignored advocate for good manners. A much-resisted fashion consultant.

Well, you get the picture.

If ever there was a Don't Ask, Don't Tell situation, this is it. You get questions, or looks.

At the clinic, at the school office, wherever. “You're her...mother?” Well, yes, legally speaking. You keep explaining, like someone in a Zen riddle. “I'm her mother. I'm also her grandmother.”

The kid gets questions, too, from other kids. “Why do you live with your grandparents?” “What's wrong with your parents?” My advice to her: “Tell them it's none of their business.” But she came up with a better one: “My parents couldn't take care of me.”

That's true.

Every adoptive grandparent and grandchild has some kind of soap-opera scenario. And it's nobody's business.

Culture shock bombards adoptive grandparents. There are two kinds. Math and sex.

Math first. Let's say you did bring up five children. Your oldest is now fifty-three. Your youngest is now thirty-four. That means you've been out of the loop for a while.

So you find that elementary-school math is a big culture shock.

You never mastered the so-called New Math thirty years ago. Now you find yourself clueless when confronted by a fifth-grade math book.

Go ask your granddad. Never mind. He's clueless, too.

Sex at the modern ten-year old level is an even bigger culture shock. The words! The jokes! The casual, offhand reports of startling playground shenanigans.

Everything has speeded up. Now ten-year-olds act like teenagers. The giggling gender awareness. The raucous music. The constant sass. If this is fifth grade, what lies in wait in middle school?

And there are little ironies in the fire.

Take sewing. I can't sew. But now I have to sew Scout badges on vests, initials on dancewear, tails on costumes, buttons on many things. A real seamstress could do this in minutes. It takes me hours.

It doesn't help that I have arthritic hands.

So here I am with a ten-year-old who's bigger than I am and wears bigger shoes that are getting even bigger. And more expensive.

Here's the part of the soap opera I'll tell: We were her foster grandparents for several years before we adopted her. Adoption took some doing. And yes, our advanced age was questioned by social workers, lawyers, the works.

But in the end, after some hassle, the kid was ours.

She's pretty. She dances and sings. She makes friends. She gets good grades. Well, if you don't count spelling. They have something now called “creative spelling,” and you'd better believe it's creative.

So we're statistics - grandparents who have adopted a grandchild. And when you're in your mid-seventies, and your child is ten, you may rightly wonder about another kind of statistic: What are the chances you'll be around for her high-school graduation, her college diploma, her wedding day, her first child?

Luckily, the kid's beloved aunt and other relatives are standing by, ready to take over when the time comes.

Sometimes statistics end up cutting it pretty close. But the kid's with her own family. You wouldn't take that for anything.

A Forever Kind of Love

One of our favorite patients had been in and out of our small, rural hospital several times, and all of us on med-surg had grown quite attached to her and her husband. In spite of terminal cancer and resulting pain, she never failed to give us a smile or a hug. Whenever her husband came to visit, she glowed. He was a nice man, very polite and as friendly as his wife. I had grown quite attached to them and was always glad to care for her.

I admired their expression of love. Daily, he brought her fresh flowers and a smile, then sat by her bed as they held hands and talked quietly. When the pain was too much and she cried or became confused, he hugged her gently in his arms and whispered until she rested. He spent every available moment at her bedside, giving her small sips of water and stroking her brow. Every night, before he left for home, he closed the door so they could spend time alone together. When he was gone, we'd find her sleeping peacefully with a smile on her lips.

On this night, however, things were different. As soon as I entered report, the day nurses informed us she had steadily taken a turn for the worse and wouldn't make it through the night. Although I was sad, I knew that this was for the best. At least my friend wouldn't be in pain any longer.

I left report and checked on her first. When I entered the room, she aroused and smiled weakly, but her breathing was labored and I could tell it wouldn't be long. Her husband sat beside her, smiling, too, and said, “My Love is finally going to get her reward.”

Tears came to my eyes, so I asked if they needed anything and left quickly. I offered care and comfort throughout the evening, and at about midnight she passed away with her husband still holding her hand. I consoled him and with tears running down his cheeks he said, “May I please be alone with her for awhile?” I hugged him and closed the door behind me.

I stood outside the room, blotting my tears and missing my friend and her smile. And I could feel the pain of her husband in my own heart. Suddenly from the room came the most beautiful male voice I have ever heard singing. It was almost haunting the way it floated through the halls. All of the other nurses stepped out into the hallways to listen as he sang “Beautiful Brown Eyes” at the top of his lungs.

When the tune faded, the door opened and he called to me. He looked me in the eyes then hugged me saying, “I sang that song to her every night from the first day we met. Normally I close the door and keep my voice down so as not to disturb the other patients. But I had to make sure she heard me tonight as she was on her way to heaven. She had to know that she will always be my forever love. Please apologize to anyone I bothered. I just don't know how I will make it without her, but I will continue to sing to her every night. Do you think she will hear me?”

I nodded my head “yes,” unable to stop my tears. He hugged me again, kissed my cheek, and thanked me for being their nurse and friend. He thanked the other nurses, then turned and walked down the hall, his back hunched, whistling the song softly as he went.

As I watched him leave I prayed that I, too, would someday know that kind of forever love.

A Friday Night in May

“Mr. Walker is coming to my jazz recital,” announced Laura, my seven-year-old daughter, as I applied mascara to her blonde eyelashes.

Trying not to jab her eyeball, I asked, “What makes you think so?” Mr. Walker, her first-grade teacher, could do no wrong. He'd turned her into a reader, a thinker and an organized student. He was the one who encouraged my tomboy daughter to try dance. He'd told her she shouldn't settle for stereotypes. We settled on jazz – a dance experience that wasn't quite pink ballet slippers but more like rousing funk. She was leery, but decided to give it a try. Now, on the night of her big recital, it appeared she had her heart set on Mr. Walker attending. It's not that I doubted his dedication, it's just that I wouldn't attend a dance recital unless I'd given birth to one of the dancers. I'm not saying they are excruciating, I'm merely suggesting Mr. Walker probably had something more important to do on a Friday night.

I felt compelled to prepare my daughter for the real world. I couldn't let her go around thinking her happiness depended on the remote possibility he would attend.

“Did he say he'd come?” I inquired gently.

“No, but I asked him to,” she said, flinching as I removed pink sponge curlers. I launched into a rambling lecture about how not everyone has the time or inclination to witness her stage debut.

“Mom,” she sighed. “You don't understand. He wants to come. He's my teacher,” she concluded, as if that was his sole reason for existence.

I figured she'd get over it. After all, you can't prepare your child for all of life's disappointments. And she did have grandparents in from Baltimore, cousins in from Nashville, and an aunt and an uncle attending. It will have to be enough, I thought, miserable because of the complete assurance she had shining from her blue eyes.

I got her safely backstage, lipstick applied, hair stiffly sprayed and cowgirl hat securely fastened. Cowgirls, istsy-bitsy-spiders and Arabian dancers crowded around, saying hello, touching each other's cemented curls. “I can't believe it's Laura,” said her dance instructor, staring at the sight of Umbro shorts replaced with a fringed cowgirl skirt.

“Save a seat for Mr. Walker,” she whispered, as I brushed some final blush onto her cheeks. I thought about telling her not to get her hopes up, to try to appreciate the accumulated frequent-flyer miles represented by members of her own family. But I didn't. Maybe, I thought, she'll forget about it.

The curtains were about to go up. Our extended family was gathered, when I happened to glance to the back of the theater. There, perusing a program, was Mr. Walker. I hurried to the back and half-dragged him down the aisle to the saved seat in the middle of our family. “You came,” I whispered as the curtains rose. Smiling, he gave me the thumbs-up signal. When the little cowgirls came strutting on stage, he clapped and cheered, declaring them talented and wonderful.

“How did Mr. Walker like the dance?” was her first question as I retrieved her from the backstage crowd.

“How did you know he'd come?” I asked, still amazed.

“I just knew,” she replied, a smile lighting her face like a candle in a dark room.

I know Laura will have a lot of dedicated teachers in he lifetime. She will have creative English teachers, brilliant college professors and inspired dance instructors. But I'm not sure she'll ever have another like Mr. Walker.

A teacher who obviously had something important to do on a Friday night in May.

A Friend on the Line

Even before I finished dialing, I somehow knew I'd made a mistake. The phone rang once, twice - then someone picked it up.

“You got the wrong number!” a husky male voice snapped before the line went dead. Mystified, I dialed again.

“I said you got the wrong number!” came the voice. Once more the phone clicked in my ear.

How could he possibly know I had a wrong number? At that time, I worked for the New York City Police Department. A cop is trained to be curious - and concerned. So I dialed a third time.

“Hey, c'mon,” the man said. “Is this you again?”

“Yeah, it's me,” I answered. “I was wondering how you knew I had the wrong number before I even said anything.”

“You figure it out!” The phone slammed down.

I sat there awhile, the receiver hanging loosely in my fingers. I called the man back.

“Did you figure it out yet?” he asked.

“The only thing I can think of is...nobody ever calls you.”

“You got it!” The phone went dead for the fourth time. Chuckling, I dialed the man back.

“What do you want now?” he asked.

“I thought I'd call...just to say hello.”

“Hello? Why?”

“Well, if nobody ever calls you, I thought maybe I should.”

“Okay. Hello. Who is this?”

At last I had gotten through. Now he was curious. I told him who I was and asked who he was.

“My name's Adolf Meth. I'm 88 years old, and I haven't had this many wrong numbers in one day in 20 years!” We both laughed.

We talked for 10 minutes. Adolf had no family, no friends. Everyone he had been close to had died. Then we discovered we had something in common: he'd worked for the New York City Police Department for nearly 40 years. Telling me about his days there as an elevator operator, he seemed interesting, even friendly. I asked if I could call him again.

“Why would you wanta do that?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, maybe we could be phone friends. You know, like pen pals.”

He hesitated. “I wouldn't mind...having a friend again.” His voice sounded a little tentative.

I called Adolf the following afternoon and several days after that. Easy to talk with, he related his memories of World Wars I and II, the Hindenburg disaster and other historic events. He was fascinating. I gave him my home and office numbers so he could call me. He did - almost every day.

I was not just being kind to a lonely old man. Talking with Adolf was important to me, because I, too, had a big gap in my life. Raised in orphanages and foster homes, I never had a father. Gradually, Adolf took on a kind of fatherly importance to me. I talked about my job and college courses, which I attended at night.

Adolf warmed to the role of counselor. While discussing a disagreement I'd had with a supervisor, I told my new friend, “I think I ought to have it out with him.”

“What's the rush?” Adolf cautioned. “Let things cool down. When you get as old as I am, you find out that time takes care of a lot. If things get worse, then you can talk to him.”

There was a long silence. “You know,” he said softly, “I'm talking to you just the way I'd talk to a boy of my own. I always wanted a family - and children. You're too young to know how that feels.”

No, I wasn't. I'd always wanted a family - and a father. But I didn't say anything, afraid I wouldn't be able to hold back the hurt I'd felt for so long.

One evening Adolf mentioned his 89th birthday was coming up. After buying a piece of fiberboard, I designed a 2' x 5' greeting card with a cake and 89 candles on it. I asked all the cops in my office and even the police commissioner to sign it. I gathered nearly a hundred signatures. Adolf would get a kick out of this, I knew.

We'd been talking on the phone for four months now, and I thought this would be a good time to meet face to face. So I decided to deliver the card by hand.

I didn't tell Adolf I was coming; I just drove to his address one morning and parked the car up the street from his apartment house.

A postman was sorting mail in the hallway when I entered the building. He nodded as I checked the mailboxes for Adolf's name. There it was. Apartment 1H, some 20 feet from where I stood.

My heart pounded with excitement. Would we have the same chemistry in person that we had on the phone? I felt the first stab of doubt. Maybe he would reject me the way my father rejected me when he went out of my life. I tapped on Adolf's door. When there was no answer, I knocked harder.

The postman looked up from his sorting. “No one's there,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little foolish. “If he answers his door the way he answers his phone, this may take all day.”

“You a relative or something?”

“No. Just a friend.”

“I'm really sorry,” he said quietly, “but Mr. Meth died day before yesterday.”

Died? Adolf? For a moment, I couldn't answer. I stood there in shock and disbelief. Then, pulling myself together, I thanked the postman and stepped into the late-morning sun. I walked toward the car, misty-eyed.

Then, rounding a corner, I saw a church, and a line from the Old Testament leaped to mind: A friend loveth at all times. And especially in death, I realized. This brought a moment of recognition. Often it takes some sudden and sad turn of events to awaken us to the beauty of a special presence in our lives. Now, for the first time, I sensed how very close Adolf and I had become. It had been easy, and I knew this would make it even easier the next time, with my next close friend.

Slowly, I felt a warmth surging through me. I heard Adolf's growly voice shouting, “Wrong number!” Then I heard him asking why I wanted to call again.

“Because you mattered, Adolf,” I said aloud to no one. “Because I was your friend.”

I placed the unopened birthday card on the back seat of my car and got behind the wheel. Before starting the engine, I looked over my shoulder. “Adolf,” I whispered, “I didn't get the wrong number at all. I got you.”

A Garden for Four

In San Francisco, where the houses rub shoulders and squat only steps from the street, we don't have gardens. We have backyards. And if you find a place to live with a backyard that has not been cemented over or gone to the dogs, you consider yourself lucky, indeed.

Four years ago, I found a new apartment. It had a backyard with a small concrete center patio, as so many of them do. A leaning fence corralled three sides of the yard. Between the patio and the fence, deep beds held a mishmash of bottlebrush and pine. The trees stood in weed patches and everything was tangled in climbing clematis that was busy strangling sweet-smelling jasmine.

This apartment happened to sit less than a block from my parents' big, but yardless, condo. They had just retired and were busy with bridge tournaments, guitar lessons and international travel. Dad was still a Hercules of a man, silly, creative and kind. Mom was The Planner. When they enthusiastically offered their gardening services, I was thrilled. I had no idea what would happen next.

It started innocently enough. For Christmas, they gave me one of those plastic green scooter seats - “to save your back,” Mom said. For my birthday in February, Dad and my brother spent two entire weekends removing the top three inches of “bad dirt” and replacing it with Dad's “good dirt,” a secret concoction of who-knows-what mixed with beer dregs. Mom and Dad got a set of keys to my place, “just in case” they felt like puttering in the garden while I was at work.

As spring warmed to summer, I began to feel as if leprechauns had moved in; each evening, I'd come home from work to find all sorts of garden mischief. A fragrant, fifty-pound bag of chicken manure materialized in the work shed. His and her watering cans stood at either side of the yard, to save steps and arguments about who last left what can where. And our gardening tool collection grew so fast that I suspected the shovels had married and started a family of little spades, hoes and picks.

Had I slept through moonlight work sessions? Window boxes changed their dresses nearly as often as I did. And each time the fog rolled in, rows of bumblebee wind whirligigs clattered in beds of purple petunias and pink impatiens.

I would wake up early on Sunday mornings, pull back the drapes and spit coffee at the sight of my parents' dungareed fannies pointing skyward, beginning another full day of planting and pulling. Mom developed a mania for combinations of orange and purple. She planted salvia, marigolds, poppies, golden aster and lavender. The bolts of color blanketing the yard made my eyes hurt. I took to reading my paper wearing sunglasses.

Dad, meanwhile, proclaimed himself paramedic to all sick and injured plantings - mainly because he stepped on them himself in his size-thirteen work boots. His gardening prescription? “Give it another week.”

But my parents' gardening mania was short lived. Less than a year later, and just six weeks before I was to be married, Dad was in a hospice, dying of brain cancer. A ferocious biological weed had sent its tendrils deep into his memory, robbing him of speech and sight. Yet he insisted that whatever happened to him, we mustn't postpone the wedding. I promised him solemnly that we would honor his wish, and we did.

I had learned a lot watching my parents enjoy themselves, shaping that city garden in their precious last summer. Working, planning, bickering, experimenting and learning side by side, they built memories for all of us. I realized how much Mom treasured those months when she gave my husband and me a splendid patio set with a gigantic umbrella. “So you can enjoy your garden like your dad and I did,” she said with a smile.

Recently, my husband - out of the blue - decided to plant a gigantic candy-colored bougainvillea. Nurseryman and neighbors galore warned him that bougainvillea roots are extremely sensitive and that they often get shocky, keeling over dead the minute they are put in the ground. Sure enough, two weekends later, it looked like a tumbleweed, no more than a collection of brittle twigs.

“Should we ripe it out?” he asked me.

I remembered Dad's favorite gardening cure.

“Give it another week,” I said.

Dad and I were right. I think that cheerful bougainvillea will be cresting our fence by this summer.

A Full and Complete Stop

A little while ago, I was on a flight back home from a business trip.

After the aircraft landed and was taxiing toward the gate, the head steward got on the PA system and began the oft-repeated speech about destinations, gate locations and the service people waiting to help you.

Then, as the plane approached the gate, some passengers looked restless, and it appeared as if they were about to stand up.

Seeing this, the steward announced, “We have invested a lot of money to ensure that your flight has been safe and comfortable. We are also looking for ways to save money, and this aircraft is participating in a new experiment. To reduce costs, we are asking for volunteers to help clean the cabin upon our arrival. Those wishing to volunteer for cabin clean-up, please stand up before we come to a full and complete stop.”

Not a single passenger left his or her seat until we were at the gate, and the seat belt sign was turned off.

A Grandpa's Love

I stared from the deck of my hotel room, intrigued. An older gentleman was assisting a young girl as she struggled to walk down the beach. He must be her grandfather, I thought. Somehow, I was drawn to the drama of the twosome, and winced as she fell. The graying man helped her to her feet, and she continued painstakingly plodding through the sand.

That evening, as I ate in the hotel restaurant, and watched as the same young girl proceeded to get up from the table and reach for her walker. She grasped it firmly with both hands, and leaning heavily, she made her way out of the restaurant, smiling as she went.

As I sipped my coffee in the lobby the next morning, I noticed a sign tacked to the announcement board. “Special Olympics Relays.” Ah, I thought, that must be what the walking lessons are all about.

Over the next three days, I watched as the grandfather patiently worked with his student. “You can do it, Sweetheart. Let's get up and try again.” And at this encouragement, she would struggle again to her feet.

On the morning of the Olympics, as I visited with friends in the lobby, a beautiful bouquet of roses was delivered to the front desk. The girl soon appeared for her delivery, her face brightening at the sight. She smiled as she read the card.

As she walked away, the card slipped from her fingers and she continued down the hallway. I stepped quickly to retrieve it, glancing at the handwritten words as I hurried after her, “To my sweet Elizabeth – you have been the greatest encouragement to my heart these last few days. I love and am proud of you. Win or lose, you will always be my little miracle from God. Love, Grandpa.” She had disappeared around the corner, so I put the card in my pocket to give to her later.

Now attached to the little girl and her grandpa, I felt compelled to watch her Olympic event – a quarter-mile. She definitely was a fighter. I cheered as she crossed the finish line – second place. She smiled as she stood on the awards platform, and a tear slipped down her cheek as the medal was placed around her neck. She told the crowd, “I especially want to thank my grandpa for believing in me when I had no one else.”

I found her later and returned her card. I said, “Congratulations!” As we talked, she revealed that she and her parents were hit by a drunk driver three years prior. She was the only survivor. Her grandfather shook my hand and said, “By the grace of God alone, this little girl is alive and able to accomplish what she did today.”

Elizabeth smiled and hugged her grandpa. “Everyone gave up hope that I would ever walk again. My grandpa was the only one who didn't.”

A High School Love Not Forgotten

When they saw him walking across our high school campus, most students couldn't help but notice Bruce. Tall and lanky, he was a thinner replica of James Dean, his hair flipped back above his forehead, and his eyebrows always cocked upward when he was in deep conversation. He was tender, thoughtful and profound. He would never hurt anyone.

I was scared of him.

I was just breaking up with my not-so-smart boyfriend, the one you stayed with and went back to 30 times out of bad habit, when Bruce headed me off at a campus pass one morning to walk with me. He helped me carry my books and made me laugh a dozen times with giddiness. I liked him. I really liked him.

He scared me because he was brilliant. But in the end, I realized I was more scared of myself than of him.

We started to walk together more at school. I would peer up at him from my stuffed locker, my heart beating rapidly, wondering if he would ever kiss me. We'd been seeing each other for several weeks and he still hadn't tried to kiss me.

Instead, he'd hold my hand, put his arm around me and send me off with one of my books to class. When I opened it, a handwritten note in his highly stylized writing would be there, speaking of love and passion in a deeper sense than I could understand at 17.

He would send me books, cards, notes, and would sit with me at my house for hours listening to music. He especially liked me to listen to the song, “You Brought Some Joy Inside My Tears,” by Stevie Wonder.

At work one day I received a card from him that said, “I miss you when I'm sad. I miss you when I'm lonely. But most of all, I miss you when I'm happy.”

I remember walking down the street of our small village, cars honking, the warm lights from stores beckoning strollers to come in from the cold, and all I could think about was, “Bruce misses me most when he's happy. What a strange thing.”

I felt deeply uncomfortable to have such a romantic spirit by my side, a boy - really a man at 17 - who thought his words out wisely, listened to every side of an argument, read poetry deep into the night and weighed his decisions carefully. I sensed a deep sadness in him but couldn't understand it. Looking back, I now think the sadness stemmed from being a person who really didn't fit into the high school plan.

Our relationship was so different from the one I'd had with my prior boyfriend. Our lives had been mostly movies and popcorn and gossip. We broke up routinely and dated other people. At times, it seemed like the whole campus was focused on the drama of our breakups, which were always intense and grand entertainment for our friends to discuss. A good soap opera.

I talked to Bruce about these things and with each story, he'd respond by putting his arm around me and telling me he'd wait while I sorted things out. And then he would read to me. He gave me the book “The Little Prince,” with the words underlined, “It's only in thy mind's eye that one can see rightly.”

In response - the only way I knew how - I wrote passionate letters of love and poetry to him with an intensity I never knew before. But still I kept my walls up, keeping him at bay because I was always afraid that he'd discover I was fake, not nearly as intelligent or as deep a thinker as I found him to be.

I wanted the old habits of popcorn, movies and gossip back. It was so much easier. I remember well the day when Bruce and I stood outside in the cold and I told him I was going back to my old boyfriend. “He needs me more,” I said in my girlish voice. “Old habits die hard.”

Bruce looked at me with sadness, more for me than for himself. He knew, and I knew then, I was making a mistake.

Years went by. Bruce went off to college first, then I did. Every time I came home for Christmas, I looked him up and went over for a visit with him and his family. I always loved his family - the warm greetings they gave me when they ushered me into their house, always happy to see me. I knew just by the way his family behaved that Bruce had forgiven me for my mistake.

One Christmas, Bruce said to me: “You were always a good writer. You were so good.”

“Yes,” his mother nodded in agreement. “You wrote beautifully. I hope you'll never give up your writing.”

“But how do you know about my writing?” I asked his mom.

“Oh, Bruce shared all the letters you wrote him with me,” she said. “He and I could never get over how beautifully you wrote.”

Then I saw his father's head nod, too. I sank back in my chair and blushed deeply. What exactly had I written in those letters?

I never knew Bruce had admired my writing as much as I had his intelligence.

Over the years, we lost touch. The last I heard from his father, Bruce had gone off to San Francisco and was thinking about becoming a chef. I went through dozens of bad relationships until I finally married a wonderful man - also very smart. I was more mature by then and could handle my husband's intelligence - especially when he'd remind me I had my own.

There's not one other boyfriend I ever think about with any interest, except for Bruce. Most of all, I hope he is happy. He deserves it. In many ways, I think he helped shape me, helped me learn how to accept the side of myself I refused to see amid movies, popcorn and gossip. He taught me how to see my spirit and my writer inside

A Hug from a Teenage Boy

As northern Canadians we share many memories of cold winters. At Christmas time, I often reflect upon one particular evening of a prairie winter in the early sixties. Though the frost was cruel, the reminiscence is warm.

We were students at college in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, most of us living away from home for the first time. Hanging a few strips of tinsel in our rooms didn't relieve the feeling of homesickness that had overtaken our dorm. What could we do to bring on the Christmas spirit, stave off our longing for home and maybe brighten someone else's life? One of my friends suggested going caroling. That was it! Every student at our small college was rousted out for the occasion. No auditions. No voice lessons. No excuses. Warmth of spirit was the only requirement. And our enthusiasm served as an electric soul-warmer for those who seemed lacking in spirit.

We divided into groups so our music would resound over most of our college town. The group I joined had nothing resembling four-part harmony, but we could collectively make a joyful noise. Bounding boisterously and carrying a tune in our hearts, we made our first call. “Deck the Halls,” we tra-la-la-ed.

Soon we discovered that caroling brings a variety of responses. When you carol for people you know, you can be sure of open doors and open hearts; when you carol for strangers, you can't be sure of what kind of reception you will get. Some folks remained in the safety and coziness of their homes, watching and listening passively through living room windows. Others cautiously propped the door open enough to hear us, but not enough to let in the cold - or their unknown guests. Some flung wide their doors and sang along; others watched in silent reverie.

One of the stops on our journey was a three-story apartment building. With no intercoms or security cameras to deter us in those days, we walked right in. Starting our performance in the basement, we sang mostly to closed doors. After a couple of songs we headed for the main floor. Two doors swung open. One doorway framed a young couple, obviously expecting a child. In another doorway, two preschoolers clung to their parent's legs. Surprise? Wonder? Curiosity? Their faces seemed to ask, Who are these strange, bundled-up people? And why are they doing this?

We sang “Away in a Manger” for the young ones. We continued with “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem” for our seemingly appreciative gathering. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, we burst into “It Came upon the Midnight Clear,” a song that suited the night.

One door on the top floor creaked open. A stately gentleman, grey-haired and thin, held onto his doorknob. He became our audience of one. As we murmured about what to sing next, the elderly fellow asked, “Would you come into our apartment and sing for my wife? She's bedridden. I know she'd love to hear you. My wife used to be an opera singer,” he added proudly, “and she's always loved music.”

All eight of us stepped timidly into the couple's tiny, crowded bachelor suite. Books, records, china, antique furniture and mementoes whispered stories to us. I reminded myself not to stare for fear of invading their privacy. This was their home, their sanctuary and a hallowed place where the old-timer watched over his fragile partner. Her silver bed-mussed head made only a small dint in her pillow.

Without a word, he adjusted his wife's headrest so she could see and hear us better. Then he gave a nod. Our voices rose and warbled through “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Had our voices been given extra grace and beauty for this occasion? Perhaps they had - we sang rather well for such a motley, impromptu crew.

A smile flickered on the lady's gaunt, wrinkled, yet beautiful, face. Her eyes sparkled softly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her husband requested “Joy to the World” and “Silent Night,” two of her favourites.

篇13：小学生美文阅读参考

小学生美文阅读参考

比较快乐的人生看法，在于起床时，对于将临的一日，没有那么深沉的算计。完全没有缺乏的人，也不可能再有更多的快乐了。

快乐是一种等待的过程。突然而来的所谓“惊喜”，事实上叫人手足无措。一般性的快乐往往可以言传。真正深刻的快乐，没有可能使得他人意会。

快乐和悲伤都是寂寞。快乐是不堪闻问的鬼东西，如果不相信，请问自己三遍──我快乐吗？

快乐是另外一件国王的新衣。这一回，如果国王穿着它出来游街，大家都笑死了──笑一个国王怎么不穿衣服出来乱跑呀！

你快乐吗？

你快乐吗？

你快乐吗？

试试看，每天吃一颗糖，然后告诉自己──今天的日子，果然又是甜的。

岁月

我们三十岁的时候悲伤二十岁已经不再回来。我们五十岁的年纪怀念三十岁的生日又多么美好。当我们九十九岁的时候，想到这一生的岁月如此安然度过，可能快乐得如同一个没被抓到的贼一般嘿嘿偷笑。

相信生活和时间。时间冲淡一切苦痛。生活不一定创造更新的喜悦。

小孩子只想长大，青年人恨不得赶快长胡子，中年人染头发，高年人最不肯记得年纪。出生是最明确的一场旅行。死亡难道不是另一场出发？

成长是一种蜕变，失去了旧的，必然因为又来了新的，这就是公平。

孩子和老人，在心灵的领域里，比起其他阶段的人来说，自由得多了。因为他们相似。

岁月极美，在于它必然的流逝。春花、秋月、夏日、冬雪。

自己

在我的生活里，我就是主角。对于他人的生活，我们充其量只是一份暗示、一种鼓励、启发、还有真诚的关爱。这些态度，可能因而丰富了他人的生活，但这没

有可能发展为──代办他人的生命。我们当不起完全为另一个生命而活──即使他人给予这份权利。坚持自己该做的事情，是一种勇气。绝对不做那些良知不允许的'事，是另一种勇气。

不要害怕拒绝他人，如果自己的理由出于正当。当一个人开口提出要求的时候，他的心里根本预备好了两种答案。所以，给他任何一个其中的答案，都是意料中的。

原谅他人的错误，不一定全是美德。漠视自己的错误，倒是一种最不负责的释放。过分为己，是为自私自利。完全舍我，也是虐待了一个生灵──自己。自怜、自恋、自苦、自负、自轻、自弃、自伤、自恨、自利、自私、自顾、自反、自欺加自杀，都是因为自己。

自用、自在、自行、自助、自足、自信、自律、自爱、自得、自觉、自新、自卫、自由和自然，也都仍是出于自己。

自己是什么？

自己是谁？

自己是自己的吗？

篇14：经典美文阅读:从宽处理

经典美文阅读:从宽处理

我们家的`格言是，从宽处理。

自穿衣服开始，该穿中码的买加大码，丢进洗衣机乱洗一通，再扔到干衣机烘干，咦，刚刚好，从来不用试身，省得烦。

时间上也要宽容，极少约人，因为未必可以准时。上午八时起床，慢慢磨，商量、考虑、探索到什么地方用午膳，往往延至中午才出门。

工作也是，长篇没有题材，先写短篇，结果写了三十个短篇，长篇仍拖着。对自己真是宽容得无可再宽，延年益寿，全靠这样。

那么，推己及人，对旁人也要有伸缩性。钟点工家务做得不好，不要紧，替她做好；售货员服务不周到，不予计较，到别家去。换句话说，任何对生计没有影响的事，我都可以得过且过、马马虎虎。

这一盘菜不新鲜不要紧，少吃几口就好，反正过几个小时，又要吃第二顿。这种小事，何必坚持原则，一定要搞个水落石出，弄得神憎鬼厌，大家下不了台，整天都不高兴。

最从容、最愉快、最省时的方法是从宽处理，这是我多年的处世经验，切勿小觑。

篇15：抒情美文阅读

抒情美文阅读

《在浮华的蓝海里走去》

我们都是一尾失语的鱼，在浮华的蓝海里来去 ——题记

一.心的节奏跟不上脚步了

虽已十月，但从屋内看向窗外，阳光还是那么温暖，仿佛依旧拥有可以融化一切的魔力，让人的心里滋生出密密麻麻的幸福感。于是便决定出门走走。

因着主旨是散步，便没有骑车。穿着宽松的风衣，白色的耳机线从口袋里蜿蜒而上，在耳边放出舒缓的旋律，一个人在街上走着，享受这片刻的安宁。

风有些大。街边的树叶是黄绿色的。

路人行色匆匆地与我擦肩。甚至在某一时刻我会觉得我和他们完全是两个世界，没有交集，沉默的路过。

渐渐地，脚步变得慌乱，似乎，似乎和那些人的速度是一样的。

忽然记起有时候和朋友逛街时朋友说你走慢点，走那么快做什么。

原来在每天的三点一线间，在每天的往返匆匆间，我的脚步竟越来越快，快到最后路过了盛开的花，无视了卖萌的猫，然后，把心也丢了。

有谁说过么，那些曾经远大的理想都会在时间的冲击下溃不成军。

这不是我想要的。

二.那些你想，那些你曾

我过去不爱夏天，因为它兵荒马乱。

难道不是么，那些艳丽的花儿都选择在这个季节轰轰烈烈地盛开，不管那高悬的炎日，不管那吵闹的夏蝉。

或许正因为此，我现在热爱夏天。

我们一生中最美好的时光不就是四季中的夏天么，决绝，无悔。

可现在秋风乍起，叶落，花残。

好像有一些终是失去了。

许是回眸刹那的微笑，许是书本里的小纸条，许是曾经的青涩悸动。

在不知不觉间，我好像突然就走了好远，那些来不及握紧的流沙，就这么被秋风吹散了去。了无痕迹。

风很大，有些冷。耳机里的音乐还在流转。

我不想有一天失落地对别人说：呐，你知道么，那些你曾都不是那些你想。人没办法一直坚持的。

可如果，我说如果，我可以一直这样，那是不是很美好?像个童话一样美好。

三.刻在时光里的影子

回家坐在电脑前，支着下巴不知所云。忽然，一束光就这么打了过来，眼睛眯起来，感觉到有丝丝的暖意。

适应后转过头去寻光的来源。原来是西沉的落日余晖恰恰经过那扇窗，于是，便慷慨地洒了一束光辉，把影子映在墙上。

光影斑驳，映射在深深的记忆里。在那几秒间。

心里一瞬间明朗起来，似不惧任何。

那些乱杂，那些浮华，统统无视便好了，守护我的一方天下，任他浮夸。

这样想想，即使是一尾失语的鱼，也有勇气在蓝海里徜徉。

《路过》

柔风轻拍，不断扰乱着树上几欲落尽的残叶;细雨微下，似乎想湿润这里不知不觉的暮秋。听着哗啦啦地交织声响，看那滴滴答答渐愈渐强的雨势，又在这一个刚入傍晚，却有夜的感觉的道路上，我正进行着我的路过。

也许多年以后我会忘记曾经我因何事而邂逅了又一次的黄昏，更甚者便不会记得有一次本不值得怀念的经过。树，依旧是那些站立在路两旁的树。和去年此时一样，叶已变得憔悴枯黄，借着微弱的灯光，如若你肯细心注视那些枝枝蔓蔓上的精灵，或许还会在更深处发现一丝嫩绿。也许她们走错了季节，也许她们是送来希望，或者，她们仅仅像我一样，无意间在某次机缘下一次无谓的路过而已。还好，树下的青石板缝隙中依然挣扎着数株不知名的小草。虽说若在寒冬凛冽下她们会赢得一些赞誉，但此时的行人会因为今年初次的寒而忽略她们的顽强吗?

慢慢走着，不知哪来的风仿佛从四面八方不断拍打着我。又是几片落叶飘洒在我面前，也许因为灯光的因素，从她们的淡黄中我读到了苍白。树上正演绎着依依不舍和茫然无知，那些无法在秋天中长大而仅有短暂童年的嫩青芽儿此时的迟疑不解不禁让我哑然失笑。除却她白日里舒适的.享受着似春的温暖外，这个季节会给她留下其他的什么?如果有那么一天，当所有的树叶都已落下，她失去了保护;当所有的枝头都略为苍凉，她正一览无遗地俯看处处的苍茫;当所有的陪伴零落成孤独时，她会寂寞吗?叶已经坠地，宽大厚实的身躯表明她曾经有一段美好的成长。可惜以前我并没有太多的记忆去承纳她在春夏间的经历，所以此时我只能片面的感受我强加于她的情愫。秋风无情地吹干了她身上几乎所有的青春，当所有的活泼都退守在经络时，时间的悄无声息、冷风的肆无忌惮与寒日的蹑手蹑脚一起谋划着侵蚀与掠夺。她还未落下便已开始卷叶，如果她一直卷下去或许可以保护最深的自己，那时即使寒冬来临也可安然无恙吧?可她没有，刚开始的卷身她便失去了原先平整完美的身形，她犹豫了。起伏坎坷的叶面开始有了暗影，仿佛那黑色正从中间入侵她的身体。算了吧，与其失去现在的本性和过往的记忆换作毫无意义的停留，不如淡然一切，放弃坚持让心灵飞舞一次。身躯的庞大接触地面时，竟激起一些灰尘。

也许是在风的作用下，那些灰尘一旦得到动力便急不可捺地怕失去机会似的拼命飞舞，不一会儿便朦胧了这儿本不甚明亮清晰的空间。当一些陌路行人纷纷躲避时，我却立住了。仿佛这无情的秋给了他们生命，让他们表达了一下永远被踩压的愤怒。每一次路过，我都不曾在意这些脚下的生灵。他们的微不足道怎么可能引起一些人的注意呢?太渺小了，来来往往的行人不断地用鞋底带着他们旅行，如此返复的穿梭，除却少许可以回到稍有一些记忆的地方外，其余的在又一个陌生的地方还会对陌生的面孔微笑吗?不过他们的飞扬也仅仅局限在树下，外面的雨水他们是碰不得的。

就这样走到了下有流水的桥上。没有太多的改变，也只有那本有浪花的水流上散着一圈圈的波纹，我知道雨仍在下着。

另一半路途的风景仿佛并没有演绎着另样的风情，我便匆匆的路过了。于是便将短暂的记忆撇在了身后。

次日的清晨又踏上了这条昨晚走过的路。此时的我没有注意地上散落一堆的昨夜的飘叶，也没有注意到那更满的小河河水，更不会察觉因细雨的点缀而清新的空气，我忧心忡忡的寻找昨日的嫩绿。和记忆中的一样，枝头已然落空，透过那些严守至明春的密密麻麻的树枝，视线延伸至了天空。多么纯粹啊，没有杂色影响雨后天空的蓝，可这不是我的希望。但没有放弃，我努力慢行以至发现即使丁点的逗留。路，什么时候走完了?那桥，又在何时躺在了身后?我终究没有发现那些精灵的存在。

日后一次休息，我躺在略显枯黄的草地上惬意地感受风的抚触和寒的侵袭时，身边的一枝草吸引了我的注意。她站立在众草中间，身高的优势让她更早的接受太阳温暖的同时，也让她过早的忍受了寒冷。些许的草叶开始泛黄，一些嫩芽渐渐萎缩，竟将所偎的草枝层层包卷起来。我明白了。本以为那些落地的秋叶将回到土里，化为春泥，透过根系、枝干，然后生长在以前待过的枝头，不曾想上面一直停留的生灵会捷足先登，不愿因自己错误的出现给树枝留下遗憾，他们选择绽放在明年!忍受风、雨的拍击，忍受霜、雪的洗礼，为的只是和提前落下的树叶一样，平凡的吐纳气息，生长，落下。

在以后的时间里，我知道即使她们已然落尽，但我仍然会和当初一样继续着我的往返，似乎那些精灵的存在与否和我的路过没有丝毫的联系。好像现在的我感觉诚然是这样。

《一缕艳香魂，指尖凝浅恨》

锦绣罗缎，旖旎春光，怎敌你身上的一缕幽香。思念似糖，甜到忧伤，最后还是未能等到，许你地老天荒;曾几何时，也曾臆想来到你身旁，轻抚一世忧伤;曾几何时，唐风宋雨，梦里念里皆是你。本安分守己，遇见你，却逆天而行。

艳魂飘香，乱了白衣少年前行的方向;说好一起暖过往薄凉，怎徒留我一个人在此凝恨眺望，独诉离殇。烂漫的花季，本应风华正茂，挥斥方遒，指点江山，怎如今只得轻叹，世事无常。夜未央，相思难断，望眼欲穿，深情的笔再也写不出积极向上，一路阳光的篇章。人海茫茫，孤影难成双，多想把这份过往，安置在一个充满爱地方，希望沐浴阳光，可以绾结出你的幽芳，我好细细珍藏，盈成一段华美的流光。上天没有眷顾我这份痴狂，我只得，黯然神伤。纵使你留给我的是甜蜜的忧伤，我仍希望，远方的你，安然无恙。

蒹葭漫过苍苍，归心渺渺如雾恍，若是古人，恐怕我已斩断尘缘，独卧青灯古佛旁;吃素斋，敲木鱼，娴闻幽语，以祭奠这斑驳的记忆。想象无数次你我的相遇，终不过是誓言随风流逝，俗世风尘堪无事。前世缘，今生难续。

犹忆当年大明湖逢卿，你优雅的波澜不惊，如流水般沉静，而我的青衫却无法做到云淡风轻。明媚嫣然的灵性，秀发袭肩的倩影，清风般轻柔的心境，我再也做不到独自听雨，任凭春风拂过耳际的静心。于是，我便私自将这凝眸于指尖，折成爱的经卷，寄予在你我的山水涧。浅行于红尘，笔尖难书你低首含情的娇嗔。想起你的娇嗔，为何此刻，留我，兀自守一座空城?

一缕艳香魂，指尖凝浅恨。当思念的风来袭，深情的眼眸被湿润;惊心的美，动魄的艳，烟云读倦，抚琴吟倦，难道是注定错失的姻缘?其实，我真的渴望，不顾一切，同你归隐我们的海崖天涯。望你，在每一个美妙的晨曦，牵你融入黄昏晚霞，共赴锦绣天下。你说：“掌心的温柔，只为君浅唱低和。你是我的檀郎，我是你的秋香，书就一段传奇，唯美时光。”想起有你的世界，便锄风栽月，婉转我一世情结。一场千年恋，以诗为鉴，遇见你这红颜，便沉醉千年。厚重的想念，早已溢满了笔尖，飘洒于流年，幽梦里的绝世容颜，干涸了我一个又一个的荒年。

青涩时光，爱情滋味，孑然身影，美梦难追。饮世水，弦沾泪，水泪映不出你的妩媚。都说男儿有泪不轻弹，可他们谁知，拥有你的爱，哪怕沦为囚鸟也不觉悲哀，只因有爱，只因幽兰花开，即使心在霎那间，碎成无数块，我也不希望看到，乌云停留在你的眉梢。《诗经》里的娉婷美人，我怎能让你的水袂轻拭泪痕。于是，我私自将这散落的年华轻揽，流转于红尘，指尖凝恨，细嗅那一刻莫名的温润。

白落梅说：“在苍翠的年华里，我们不能不热烈地相爱，纵算会让自己伤痕累累，纵算转瞬一切都烟消云散，也当无悔曾经的付出。没有谁能够做到在年少时就淡然心性，倘若人与人之间都寡淡相处，又何来风华绝代的过程?人在江湖，当鲜衣怒马，明媚灿烂地过每一天。做自己想做的事，爱自己想爱的人，不问对错，不管结果。”

湘帘卷，碧波莹，鸳鸯戏，曲共鸣，因缘天性，无悔初心。眼角的余光，最是柔情少年郎的张望，你开心，我便会嘴角轻扬。愿铺十里红妆，倾我一世温柔可好?可愿陪我荡起红木双桨，透过轩窗，摆渡时光?红尘万丈，我的微笑，只为一人扬!

顽皮的精灵，拍打着美丽的翅膀，让我凝眸浅望。只是，搁浅的清婉，飘逸的艳香，让我忆不起来时的路，寻不到你的芳踪。

篇16：四级阅读美文

四级阅读美文

Barbie’s fate

‵Barbie, beware. The ‵iconic plastic doll｜is ‵often mutilated｜at the ‵hands of young girls, according to research published｜by British academics.

“The ‵girls we survey｜see Barbie torture｜as a ‵legitimate play activity, and see the ‵torture as a｜ ‵‘cool’ activity,” said Agnes Nairn, one of the University｜of Bath researchers. The ‵types of mutilation are ‵varied｜and ‵creative, and ‵range from removing the hair｜to decapitation, burning, breaking｜and ‵even microwaving.

Researchers from the university’s ‵marketing｜and ‵psychology departments｜questioned ‵100 children｜about their attitudes｜to a ‵range of products｜as part of a study｜on ‵branding. They found｜ ‵Barbie provoked the ‵strongest reaction, with youngsters reporting｜“‵rejection, ‵hatred and ‵violence”, Nairn said. “The ‵meaning of ‘Barbie’｜went ‵beyond an expressed antipathy; ‵actual physical violence｜and torture towards the doll｜was ‵repeatedly reported.” she said.

While boys ‵often expressed nostalgia｜and affection toward GI Joe, ‵renouncing Barbie｜appeared to be a ‵rite of passage｜for ‵many girls,① Nairn said.

“The ‵most readily expressed reason｜for ‵rejecting Barbie｜was that she was ‵babyish, and girls saw her｜as representing their younger childhood｜ ‵out of which they felt｜they had now grown,” she said.

Nairn said｜many girls saw Barbie｜as an ‵inanimate object｜ ‵rather than a treasured toy.

“Whilst for an ‵adult｜the delight the child felt in ‵breaking, ‵mutilating｜and ‵torturing their dolls｜is ‵deeply disturbing, from the child's point of view｜they were ‵simply being imaginative｜in disposing of an ‵excessive commodity｜in the ‵same way｜as one might crush cans｜for recycling,” she said.

Manufacturer Mattel, which sells 94 ‵million Barbies｜a year worldwide, said the doll remained｜the “‵No. 1 fashion doll brand”.

Mattel U.K. said｜that despite the findings｜of “this ‵very small group of children, we know｜that there are ‵millions of girls in the U.K.｜and ‵across the world｜that love and enjoy playing with ‵Barbie｜and will ‵continue to do so｜in the future.” [330 words]

芭比娃娃的命运

芭比娃娃，小心点。根据英国研究人员公布的调查结果，这只塑料娃娃经常受到年轻女孩的虐待。

英国巴斯大学研究人员艾格尼丝·奈恩说：“我们调查的那些女孩都认为虐待芭比娃娃没有什么不对，而且还觉得自己这样做挺酷的。”虐待芭比的方式多种多样，而且很有创意，有的把芭比娃娃的头发给剃了，有的把她的头给卸了，有的烧它、把它的身体折断，甚至有人把它放进微波炉里。

巴斯大学营销系和心理学系的研究人员对100个儿童进行了调查，调查主要是针对他们对一系列产品的态度，这也是品牌研究的一个部分。调查结果表明，孩子们对芭比娃娃的反应最为强烈，据奈恩介绍，“排斥、厌恶和暴力”是被用的最多的评价字眼。她说，“芭比所遭受的已经不仅仅是孩子们的反感了，暴力和‘酷刑’对于这个娃娃来说已是家常便饭。”

“当男孩们对于‘美国大兵’念念不忘时，和芭比娃娃说再见则是很多女孩告别童年时代的标志。”

奈恩说，“女孩们不喜欢芭比最直接的一个原因就是，觉得芭比太孩子气，就像自己童年时的样子，而她们觉得自己已经不再是小女孩了，芭比娃娃已经不适合自己。”

奈恩说很多女孩都觉得芭比娃娃死气沉沉的，没有一点生气，根本不把她当成宝贝。

她说，“在大人们看来，孩子以虐待、蹂躏玩具娃娃为乐实在是太不正常了，但是站在孩子们的角度想想，他们觉得自己只是在处理一个多余的东西，这就和把铁罐压扁以便回收的.道理是一样的。”

芭比娃娃的生产商麦特尔公司介绍，芭比娃娃仍然是时尚娃娃的第一品牌。她每年的全球销售量达到9400万。

麦特尔公司说，尽管这个调查发现有一小部分孩子不喜欢芭比娃娃，但是我们知道在英国乃至全世界，有几百万的女孩都很喜欢芭比，她们把她当作自己的朋友，而且会一直对芭比娃娃‘宠爱有加’。

英语标准美文100篇 002Competition

It is a plain fact that we are in a world where competition is going on in all areas and at all levels.This is exciting.Yet, on the other hand, competition breeze a pragmatic attitude.People choose to learn things that are useful,and do things that are profitable.Todays' college education is also affected by this general sense of utilitarianism. Many college students choose business nor computing programming as their majors convinced that this professions are where the big money is. It is not unusual to see the college students taking a part time jobs as a warming up for the real battle.I often see my friends taking GRE tests, working on English or computer certificates and taking the driving licence to get a licence. Well, I have nothing against being practical. As the competition in the job market gets more and more intense, students do have reasons to be practical. However, we should never forget that college education is much more than skill training. Just imagine, if your utilitarianism is prevails on campus, living no space for the cultivation of students' minds,or nurturing of their soul. We will see university is training out well trained spiritless working machines.If utilitarianism prevails society, we will see people bond by mind-forged medicals lost in the money-making ventures;we will see humality lossing their grace and dignity, and that would be disastrous.I'd like to think society as a courage and people persumed for profit or fame as a horese that pulls the courage.Yet without the driver picking direction the courage would go straight and may even end out in a precarious situation .A certificate may give you some advantage, but broad horizons, positive attitudes and personal integrities ,these are assets you cannot acquire through any quick fixed way.In today's world, whether highest level of competition is not of skills or expertise , but vision and strategy. Your intellectual quality largely determinds how far you can go in your career.

英语标准美文100篇 008

Chinese Undergraduates in the US

Each year, elite American universities and liberal arts colleges, such as Yale, Harvard, Columbia, Amherst and Wellesley, offer a number of scholarships to Chinese high school graduates to study in their undergraduate programs. Four years ago, I received such a scholarship from Yale.

What are these Chinese undergrads like? Most come from middle-class families in the big urban centers of China. The geographical distribution is highly skewed, with Shanghai and Beijing heavily over-represented. Outside the main pool, a number of Yale students come from Changsha and Ningbo,swhereseach year American Yale graduates are sent to teach English.

The overwhelming majority of Chinese undergraduates in the US major in science, engineering or economics. Many were academic superstars in their high schools - gold medallists in international academic Olympiads or prize winners in national academic contests. Once on US campuses, many of them decide to make research a lifelong commitment.

Life outside the classroom constitutes an important part of college life. At American universities the average student spends less than thirteen hours a week in class. Many Chinese students use their spare time to pick up some extra pocket money. At Yale, one of the most common campus jobs is washing dishes in the dining halls. Virtually all Chinese undergraduates at Yale work part-time in the dining halls at some point in their college years. As they grow in age and sophistication, they upgrade to better-paying and less stressful positions. The more popular and interesting jobs include working as a computer assistant, math homework grader, investment office assistant and lab or research assistant. The latter three often lead to stimulating summer jobs.

Student activities are another prominent feature of American college life. Each week there are countless student-organized events of all sorts - athletic, artistic, cultural, political or social (i.e. just for fun). New student organizations are constantly being created, and Chinese undergrads contribute to this ferment. Sport looms much larger on US campuses than in China. At Yale, intramural sports from soccer to water polo take place all year long; hence athletic talent is a real social asset. One of the Chinese students at Yale several years ago was a versatile sportsman. His athletic talents and enthusiastic participation in sporting events, combined with his other fine qualities, made him a popular figure in his residential college.

英语标准美文100篇 017I Want to Know

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!

It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, without moving to hide it

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

I want to know if you can see beauty , if you can source your life from god’s presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

英语标准美文100篇 027Beauty

there were a sensitivity and a beauty to her that have nothing to do with looks. She was one to be listened to, whose words were so easy to take to heart.

I have thought about her often over the years and how she struggled in a society that places an incredible premium on looks, class, wealth and all the other fineries of life. She suffered from a disfigurement that cannot be made to look attractive. I know that her condition hurt her deeply.

Would her life have been different had she been pretty? Chances are it would have. And yet there were a sensitivity and a beauty to her that had nothing to do with looks. She was one to be listened to, whose words were so easy to take to heart. Her words came from a wounded but loving heart, very much like all hearts, but she had more of a need to be aware of it, to live with it and learn from it. She possessed a fine-tuned sense of beauty. Her only fear in life was the loss of a friend.

It is said that the true nature of being is veiled. The labor of words, the expression of art, the seemingly ceaseless buzz that is human thought all have in common the need to get at what really is so. The hope to draw close to and possess the truth of being can be a feverish one. In some cases it can even be fatal, if pleasure is one's truth and its attainment more important than life itself. In other lives, though, the search for what is truthful gives life.

The truth of her life was a desire to see beyond the surface for a glimpse of what it is that matters. She found beauty and grace and they befriended her, and showed her what is real.

英语标准美文100篇 080Work and Pleasure

To be really happy and really safe, one ought to have at least two or three hobbies, and they must all be real. It is no use starting late in life to say: “I will take an interest in this or that.” Such an attempt only aggravates the strain of mental effort. A man may acquire great knowledge of topics unconnected with his daily work, and yet hardly get any benefit or relief. It is no use doing what you like; you have got to like what you do. Broadly speaking, human beings may be divided into three classes: those who are toiled to death, those who are worried to death, and those who are bored to death. It is no use offering the manual labourer, tired out with a hard week’s sweat and effort, the chance of playing a game of football or baseball on Saturday afternoon. It is no use inviting the politician or the professional or business man, who has been working or worrying about serious things for six days, to work or worry about trifling things at the weekend.

It may also be said that rational, industrious useful human beings are divided into two classes: first, those whose work is work and whose pleasure is pleasure; and secondly, those whose work and pleasure are one. Of these the former are the majority. They have their compensations. The long hours in the office or the factory bring with them as their reward, not only the means of sustenance, but a keen appetite for pleasure even in its simplest and most modest forms. But Fortune’s favoured children belong to the second class. Their life is a natural harmony. For them the working hours are never long enough. Each day is a holiday, and ordinary holidays when they come are grudged as enforced interruptions in an absorbing vocation. Yet to both classes the need of an alternative outlook, of a change of atmosphere, of a diversion of effort, is essential. Indeed, it may well be that those whose work is their pleasure are those who most need the means of banishing it at intervals from their minds.

工作和娱乐

要想获得真正的快乐与安宁，一个人应该有至少两三种爱好，而且必须是真正的爱好。到晚年才说“我对什么什么有兴趣”是没用的，这只会徒然增添精神负担。一个人可以在自己工作之外的领域获得渊博的知识，不过他可能几乎得不到什么好处或是消遣。做你喜欢的事是没用的，你必须喜欢你所做的事。总的来说，人可以分为三种：劳累而死的、忧虑而死的、和烦恼而死的。对于那些体力劳动者来说，经历了一周精疲力竭的体力劳作，周六下午让他们去踢足球或者打棒球是没有意义的。而对那些政治家、专业人士或者商人来说，他们已经为严肃的事情操劳或烦恼六天了，周末再让他们为琐事劳神也是没有意义的。

也可以说，那些理性的、勤勉的、有价值的人们可分为两类，一类，他们的工作就是工作，娱乐就是娱乐；而另一类，他们的工作即娱乐。大多数人属于前者，他们得到了相应的补偿。长时间在办公室或工厂里的工作，回报给他们的不仅是维持了生计，还有一种强烈的对娱乐的需求，哪怕是最简单的、最朴实的娱乐。不过，命运的宠儿则属于后者。他们的生活很自然和谐。对他们来说，工作时间永远不嫌长。每天都是假日，而当正常的假日来临时，他们总是埋怨自己所全身心投入的休假被强行中断了。不过，有些事情对两类人是同样至关重要的，那就是转换一下视角、改变一下氛围、将精力转移到别的事情上。确实，对那些工作即是娱乐的人来说，最需要隔一段时间就用某种方式把工作从脑子里面赶出去。

篇17：爱情美文阅读

我来到烟雨飘飘的江南，逃离一段已经完全破碎的婚姻，放弃一段已经不再完整的感情，寻找一座城，将如莲心事托付给它，安放一份新的爱情。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来江南是一个地灵人杰的地方。你穿着白色旗袍，撑着紫色小伞，悠悠款款向我走来。而你，并非戴望舒的诗中那样忧愁又哀怨。你的眉毛弯弯，仿佛可爱的月牙儿;你的眼眸闪闪，仿佛春天小溪的清澈;你的脸蛋绯红，仿佛风中爱笑的桃花。你的鼻子坚挺而精致;你的皓齿洁白而整齐;你的嘴唇微薄而性感;你的乌发闪亮而柔顺。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来江南是一个诞生温柔女子的地方。江南的水，不像北方的江河，流得急，流得惊心动魄。江南的溪水，整齐而有规律的绕着小镇，缓缓地流淌。江南的女子，性子如江南的小溪，过日子是缓缓的，走路是慢慢悠悠的，做事是稳稳妥妥的。北方的女子，说话做事火急火燎的，爆发的往往是脾气;江南的女子，散发出来的往往是如水般温柔的气质。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来江南是一个令人多愁善感的地方。江南的灵气，孕育出江南女子的丰富情感。江南的女子敢爱敢恨;江南的女子温柔多情;江南的女子柔情如春风。你遇见我时，双目含羞;你爱上我时，为我抚琴弄月;你我情深似海时，你为我洗衣做饭。细水长流，柔情蜜意，你是风中的百合，淡淡的开，淡淡的随风摇摆，淡淡的微笑，淡淡的对我深情凝望。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来，江南是一个浪漫的地方。花开百万朵，情牵万世缘。江南的四季，开着不同姿色的美丽花朵。好一个姹紫嫣红的江南;好一个花红柳绿的江南;好一个芬芳浪漫的江南。春季的茉莉，是你娇羞的芬芳;夏季的荷花，是你“出淤泥而不染，濯清澜而不妖”纯洁;秋季的杜鹃，是你滚烫的赤诚;冬季的紫荆，是你对美好生活不变的希望。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来，江南是一个面朝大海，春暖花开的地方。我与你走在海边，海浪滚滚而来，漫过我们的脚尖，漫过我们的心田。我们赤着脚，在金黄松软的沙滩上欢快奔跑，浪漫追逐。我们在沙滩上画着两颗心，一支箭，穿越两颗心，有海作证，今生今世，来生来世，此情不变。我们在沙滩上，写着：面朝大海，春暖花开。只要大海不干枯，我们的爱情花朵永远像春天的花朵一样美丽动人，一样迷人盛放，一样暖人心魄。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来，江南是一个孕育善良女子的地方。你对我，百般呵护，万般温柔;你对我，点点滴滴铭记在心;你对我，爱得热烈，吻得真诚;你对我，千般依恋，万般投缘;你对我，爱得海枯石烂，永不变心。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来，江南是一个孕育心灵手巧的女子的地方。你，为我裁一件全体的外衣，不用几天光景，那外衣，颜色大气，大小适中，足显我商人的身分;你，为我织一件围巾，围巾里是你跌落我心中的温暖;你为我绣一方手帕，手帕里活灵活现地绣着两只戏水的鸳鸯，你对我的浓情，使这对鸳鸯好似活了一般。

当我遇见你，才发现，原来，江南是一个孕育才女的地方。你时常捧着一本书，靠坐在凉亭的一角，时而微笑展眉，时而依人带泪;你时常与我吟诗作画，抒一股燕雀安知鸿鹄之志;你时常在安静的月夜，用纤细而灵巧的手指弹奏古筝一只，竖琴一把。

你的微笑，是我今生的痴迷。若桃花，脸颊飞上一片红云;若宝钗，永远带着明丽的微笑;若紫薇，有着与尔康的心有灵犀;若荷花，纯洁而娇羞。你的微笑，是淡淡的知足的微笑;是淡淡的善良的微笑;是淡淡的深情的微笑。

你的眼睛，是我今生的懂得。时而笑意满满，善意浓浓;时而俏皮逗趣，天真可爱;时而泪光闪闪，含情脉脉。你的眼睛，是一双会说话的眼睛，你对我的深情，我早已从你眼中读懂;你的眼睛，烂若星辰，美若玉石，你的善良，我早已从你眼中读懂;你的眼睛，是一双深邃的眼睛，你如诗如画的才情，我早已从你眼中读懂。

江南，是我要选择的那座城;而你，是我今生今世，来生来世要安放的一份爱情。你去到哪里，哪里就是我的城，哪里就是我的天堂，哪里就是我的江南。因遇见你，我爱上了江南;因爱上了江南，我更懂得你的珍贵;因懂得你的珍贵，我才明白，我要选择的那座城，不仅仅是如轻风细雨，如诗如画的江南，而是婉约清丽的江南里那个明媚如桃花，笑颜深情的你;我要安放的那份爱情，不仅仅因烟雨蒙蒙的江南而起，还因为我懂得了自己要找那个知冷知热，懂我爱我的女子非你莫属。

你和我的初见的心跳，是心灵的感应;你与我的相爱，是相处的投缘和彼此性情才情的吸引;你与我的生死相守，是彼此深情的懂得和为爱的付出。

择一座城，安放一份爱情，是我今生最大的愿望，是我今生最大的幸福，是我今生最美丽无悔的选择。爱上你，爱上这座城，爱上这份弥足珍贵的爱情。

篇18：爱情美文阅读

花开如醉，清香怡人。如你象一朵荷，开在我梦寐的涟漪上，滴露的阔叶中，那么的美，那么的纯。象那心底的念，还象温柔细雨里抽芽般的想，那样的萌动，似你少女的荷，绽放在花草间，结满含苞的希翼，掬满一夜的相思。似与花草相依缠绵，那样的枝枝蔓蔓，似卷着时光的涟漪缠绵，那样的不离不弃，与风儿缠绵，与相思挂牵，宛如借着一方烟雨，在把思念和美丽遥寄。

你似含苞吐蕊，你似楚楚动人。就象开在我的眉宇间，爱的心上。象你清荷淌露的美，在掬着我一夜的想再相思。梦里夏夜里的琵琶声，声声期盼，似你的春光染绿了北山，夏荷红了江南般的想。给你时光河里的美丽，象你擦肩而过的身影，在吻含着那清新的雨露，吻露着荷香的美，晶莹剔透，光亮照人般的想，爱。就象你开在我的清凉河里，我醉在你的花芯里，那样唯美般的想。就象你是一朵美丽的女子，脉脉含情的把相思举在头顶，那荷香的美，暖了我的眸子，醉了我的心。

那出污泥而不染的梦，我在抽离梦幻般的想。就象踏着你细碎阳光的梦，在收敛那一个个美丽的惆怅。在寂寞的年华里苦等，你花期美丽的到来。寂寞的相思里，我象满掬着爱你的诗句再想你。就象那些孤单的日子里，总有你美丽的身影出现。如同你是流年里盛开的一朵明媚，在润泽我的心房。那些风雨无阻的日子里，我总是和寂寞说话，那些烟雨的梦，象一幅水墨画画在我的相思里，伴着你的荷香，在静怡的夜色里轻漾。

一池荷香，美丽动人。看着你的荷美，我的心象被放逐，是那么的美丽收不回。就象我躲进你美丽的荷香绣房里，在闻着你荷香的美，你还象五月蔷薇般害羞似的开，那瓣瓣芯蕊，象在恣意绽放，好美的轮廓，好动人的花美，我醉人般的陶醉，就象自己在依着月光的水岸，看着你花开的荷美，是那么的楚楚动人，美丽动人。

就象我就坐在你的荷塘边，在这满月的夜里想你，思念你。那清凉月亮里美丽的模样，就象在我梦的荷塘里款款的绽开，真个的美。如同那美丽的月亮渐渐的升高，我的梦也在逐升，就象你的美睡在我相思的荷塘里，一辈子也不愿醒来。

所有曲曲折折的梦，就象在这梦的荷塘里铺开，美丽的叶子出水很高，象亭亭的舞女的裙，在相思的梦里款摆。那些零零碎碎的小白花，象故意在抢点，还那么袅娜的开着的，羞涩的打着朵的，还象瀑里美丽的星星，在碧玉的美里抢点。就象刚出浴的美少女，在银浴里洗浴，那缕缕迷人的清香，象在雾霭里飘动，那个的美在徐徐上升，好似那朵荷花出浴的美，凝碧着一池的美丽，在脉脉含情里盛开。

我忽然象有了采莲的梦想，可是这里不是美丽的江南，而是夏夜的东北。能够在这如凉的夜里看到这么美的荷花，我心醉得不得了。

我不想用什么歌词颂赋来歌颂你，我想用我的爱来赞美你。你是我梦的荷塘里出水的莲子，那样美丽动人的为我开放，你荷花的美，就是我夜的美，那样的叫我陶醉。

★美文朗读心得体会

★经典诗词和美文心得体会

★美文:九月

★疫情美文

★教师美文

★修行美文

★礼服美文

★说书美文

★斗嘴美文

★怀抱美文

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