人生如一朵浮云
[ 2006-11-27 14:12 ]
I've opened the curtain of my east window here above the
computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little
cloud above the neighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while,
then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow, big and
little and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must
always be leading and drooping.
The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with
swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and
that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun.
But trees are clouds, too, of green leaves-clouds that only move a little. Trees
grow and change and dissipate like their airborne cousins.
And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I
put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other
people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift
toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well advised to
drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we
such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us breathe
the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.
I close the curtain now, feeling broader, fresher. The act is over. Applause
is sweeping through the trees.
（英語點(diǎn)津姍姍編輯） |
