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强大而神秘。至于那陡峭的河岸，那曾是孩子们的禁地，对我们充满危险的吸引力。
我的个性和对世界的认识正是在这二者中间形成、发展起来的。这曾经是我的摇篮，是我从未走出过的摇篮，尽管我们一直在否定它。
随着我内心的创伤在逐渐痊愈，我的眼中充满了泪水。40年来的第一次，我体会到了什么叫完整。
A place where I had never expected to find myself： the ancient city of Philippopolis； capital of Thrace。 A well preserved amphitheatre； golden in the morning sun。
All alone； I look around： Row upon row of concentric stone circles divided into equal sectors。 Lines radiating – some reaching for infinity； others anchored by the transversal of the stage。 Light and shadow playing over a balanced blend of growth； reality and potential。
Hovering somewhere near the centre of the circle； I try to work out why it all seems so familiar。 Like being back in my very own landscape。 Though I know that I have never been in Thrace before。 Not in this life – or any other。
No – it’s not the location； it’s the configuration。 The geometric concept that produced the amphitheatre： a Greek marriage of structure and drama； perfectly arranged。
Ever since it first entered my consciousness – whenever that may have been – this figure has persisted as my guiding star。 The ideal I always reached for。 Definition of my aims。 It led to architecture； theatre； astrology； conditioned every word I wrote。
The essence of my mind in three dimensions； graphically depicted by the amphitheatre。 It took a long time to arrive at that picture。 But it was worth waiting for。
I am a transnational。 One of those people who leave their country of origin； sacrifice the security of birth right； give up an established identity honed by background and education。
All for the dubious pleasure of starting anew； unconditioned； unencumbered； naked as the day you were born； even at the price of being relegated to the bottom rung of the social ladder。 Everyone； down to the beggar in the street – provided he is in his own country – is better placed than a recently arrived immigrant。
Initially you struggle along； ignorant of procedures that all others take for granted； stuttering in flawed idioms； unable to assert yourself； unwittingly violating established codes and customs。 You behave； and you are treated； like someone mentally and socially deficient。 Courtesy and respect are in short supply。
As a clever immigrant you pick up the challenge and do your best to assimilate； fast and furiously； until your new countrymen can no longer tell that you’re not ‘one of them’。 But is that really what you want？ Go through life masquerading as something you are not； and never will be： ‘one of them’？
Identity 身份（3）
The whole point of migrating； which by far outweighs the hardship； is the wonderful freedom it brings。 The privilege of not being expected to conform。 The advantage of belonging to all cultures and none。 Choosing the best from each one you sample but at heart remaining your true unaffected self。
We all love people who represent an image： who take to life as if it were a stage。 Acting out impressions we can easily interpret； taking their bow from the rest of us。
Some of them bee cult figures： James Dean； Kennedy； Elvis； Grace； Diana – the list is long。 But there are also modest examples of people pursuing symbolic lives in relative obscurity。
I’m sure you can think of a few examples of people who have successfully invented themselves： the perfect housewife ensconced in her colour…matched home； the businessman in a tailored suit taking his seat in the board…room。 The bearded bohemian； the stern intellectual； the sweet…smiling bimbo； and so on。 All helping us decipher the mystery of human nature by labelling themselves unequivocally。
In my younger days I worshipped such people； mistaking for self…realisation masks cultivated by their owners to the point where they lost touch with their own reality。
Perhaps that was the reason why they all died young？
I didn’t see the connection。 Mourning my lost idols； I did my best to follow in their footsteps。 Until the day when a wise person told me：
“Dear girl； don’t be tempted to live by an image。 It’s a much too dangerous game。 To survive in this world you need substance。 And an image is no more substantial than a dream。”
When did you last hear someone sighing： “Those were the days。” Was it a middle…aged woman in clothes too young for her； humming her favourite golden oldie； or a weathered man who still wears his hair long and speaks in the idiom of twenty years ago？ Or – was it your own voice you heard？
You may well be one of many who are caught in a time warp maintaining an old…fashioned style； as if； at some stage； your inner watch had stopped； and everything since passed you by。
We all have traces of it； this urge to halt the passage of time； whether it is a wish for eternal youth； a nostalgic hankering for things gone by； or a vain attempt to defer the final curtain。
But then there are those who cling to an outgrown persona； because it is the only one they trust。 They seem to be afraid to mature and develop； accept that each given moment offers and adds something new。
What deep insecurity lies behind such fear？ Was there in their past but one occasion； when they came vibrantly alive？ When they felt； finally； that they were loved and valued： someone with a right to be？
Whatever the reason； there is no escaping the fact that life is all about change and growth。 You are now a somewhat different person from when you started reading this text。
‘No one can bathe in the same river twice。 Because everything flows。’
At six years of age； stunned by grief； I left my first home； not expecting to return。
In those days it was considered healthy to turn your back on pain。 Never look back； but build a bright new future with whatever was at hand。
I grew up with a void in my heart： an ever…present sadness that I did not understand。 I thought it had always been there。 Part of my constitution。 Until I went back。
The land between the lakes looked the same： on one side； Little Lee； frosty surface glittering in sunlight within a frame of golden reeds； streaked by long blue shadows from snow…laden trees。 This was our playground in winter and summer。 A haven of childhood serenity。
To the north； guarded by dark forests； shrouded by purple cloud rising as the ice settled； the vast deep waters of Large Lee stretched into the unknown。 Menacing； but at the same time powerful； majestic。 The steep shores – forbidden ground – were dangerously attractive。
Spanning these two was the space where my character formed； my picture of the world developed。 It was my cradle – the cradle we never outgrow； although we often deny it。
Tears filled my eyes； as the wound inside me slowly began to heal。 For the first time in forty years I knew the feeling of being whole。
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Others 别人（1）
随着现代社会婚姻的动荡和单亲家庭的增多，重组家庭变得越来越普遍。而这其中关系的处理绝非易事。实际上，人们犯的最大的错误，莫过于假装他们过得很轻松。
在亲眼看到了很多家庭中的离合后，我忍不住要下一个结论：那些带着孩子改嫁的女人们，总是倾向于对新的配偶产生一种歉疚感，觉得是自己让这个男人承受了别的男人种下的苦果；而再婚的男人们，常常对自己的孩子有种愧疚感，认为自己让孩子不得不承受母亲被人替代的结局。
对于第一种情况，女人带来的孩子会认为自己是不受欢迎、没人疼的包袱；而对于第二种情况，男人带来的孩子则会挑剔、憎恶父亲的选择。无论哪种情况，都无益于这个重组家庭的和谐，也无法让新的家庭有一个健康的环境。
我们都需要一个温馨、安全的家来当作自己的营地，一个能让自己为生命中各种各样的战斗做好准备的地方，一个能让自己在战斗中喘息的栖息之地。
军队中的每一个士兵都有平等的权利。所以，让我们停止内疚和抱歉，不论是否有血缘相连，都来支持彼此，让彼此感受除家以外任何地方都无法给予的东西。
我认识的一个男人是个麻烦缠身的人，他正值中年，经历着婚变。在治疗期间，医生让他在一页纸上写下所有他认为处理不来的事情，在纸的背面则写下他最享受的事情。
“好了。”当他把写好的纸递给医生时，医生说：“你的一部分工作完成了，现在剩下的，就是由你自己决定如何处理单子上的这些事情了。”
他开始向写下的那些他不喜欢的事情一一告别：妻子、孩子、年迈的父亲、爱流口水的狗，还有他大价钱卖掉的房子，那些钱足以让他还清贷款，支付赡养费。
他把工作列在了以上事情的下一行：由于身体原因提早退休。接着他自己住到了托雷莫里诺（Torremolinos）的一个小公寓里，在那里，他可以整年地享受他在单子上列出的两件他极其享受的事——高尔夫和帆板。
就算他的确过得不开心，但是，用治疗语言来讲，他至少对自己是真实的。
两年后，他回到了伦敦，接受抑郁症的治疗。
“这个治疗师一点也不好，”他向我抱怨道，“她说，我的问题在于，我太自私了。如果我做一些对别人有益的事，我的健康情况就会大为好转。这跟我以前所知道的完全是相悖的！”
“我如何才能兼顾二者呢？”他绝望地说道，“既照顾到别人，同时又活出真实的自己？这根本不可能啊！”
如我所述，这是一个麻烦重重的灵魂。
我还记得自己被嫉妒咬噬时的滋味，那让我感觉自己恶毒极了。我嫉妒的对象是学校里的一个女孩儿：金发、活跃，还有一双绿色的眼睛。不仅仅是漂亮，她还是那么的沉着。像她这样的女孩儿还能再期望得到什么？
她的自命不凡简直让我无法忍受。她是那么的光芒四射，风趣幽默，开心快活。人人都喜欢她，除了像我一样少数被她折磨的人。