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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
Welcome to this I believe, an NPR series presenting the personal philosophies of remarkable1 men and women from all walks of life.
I believe in figuring out my own way to do things;
I believe in the power of numbers;
I believe in barbecue;
Well, I believe in friendliness;
I believe in mankind.
This I believe.
Which is the name of the series we bring you every Monday and our essay today comes from listener Christine Cleary, who lives in Cambridge Massachusetts with her two daughters. Cleary works at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute where she helps patients and families write about their experiences. Here is our series curator Jay Allison.
Through her work, Christine Cleary knows that loss creates a context where belief becomes especially important. She knows this from her own personal experience, too. Having faced the death of her husband from cancer and of her mother who suffered from Alzheimer's, enduring these events at the same time, illuminated2 her belief. Here is Christine Cleary with her essay for This I Believe.
I believe that memory is never lost, even when it seems to be, because it has more to do with the heart than the mind. At the same time my 44-year-old husband Ed, was losing his life, my mother was losing her ability to remember. As Ed's lungs filled with cancer, Mom's brain was becoming tangled3 in plaque4. She forgot how to start the car, whether or not she had eaten and which family members had died including my father.
I became afraid that one day I, too, would be unable to recall my husband, not because of Alzheimer's, but simply because my memory of him might fade. So from the day of Ed's diagnosis5 until his death a year later, I set out to memorize him. His crooked6 smile and vigorous embrace, his woodsy smell and the way cleared his throat when he reached the top of the stairs. I knew I'd always be able to recite his qualities, kind, gentle, smart, funny, but I wanted to be able to conjure7 up the physical man in my mind as fully8 as possible when he was gone.
Back then, I thought memory was a deliberate, cognitive9 process, like remembering multiplication10 tables or lyrics11 or where the keys were. Unable to rescue Ed from cancer, I was determined12 to save him form the only thing worse than dying, being forgotten. Later, I learnt that memory has a will of its own. You can't control it any more than you can influence the weather. When it springs up, a person loved and lost is found if only for a few seconds.
Recently, when I was driving, I had a deep and sudden sense of Ed, and the way it felt to have him next to me in the car. My body softened13 as it used to when we were together seven years ago, living a shared life. I wasn't remembering his face or the way he walked. The careful details I had stored had nothing to do with this moment in the car. Looking in the rearview mirror, I recognized in my own face the same look I once saw on my mother's face in the nursing home.
I had asked her questions about my father and she became confused about his identity. Yet as she sat there, dressed in a shapeless polyester outfit14, she briefly15 appeared young and radiant, her face filled with love and her eyes misty16. Her brain couldn't label the man correctly, but that wasn't important. It was clear to me that her husband was vivid in her heart, a memory even Alzheimer's could not crush.
I believe there is a difference between memory and remembering. Remembering has to do with turning the oven off before leaving the house. But memory is nurtured17 by emotion. It springs from a deeper well, safe from dementia and the passage of time.
Christine Cleary, with her essay for This I Believe. Cleary said that she did not fully understand what she learnt from her experience until she sat down to write about it. If you would like to write for our series, please visit our website at NPR.org. For This I Believe, I'm Jay Allison.
Support for This I Believe comes from Capella University.
This I Believe is produced for NPR by This I believe Incorporated at Atlantic Public Media. For more essays in the series, please visit NPR.org/this I believe.
I believe in figuring out my own way to do things;
I believe in the power of numbers;
I believe in barbecue;
Well, I believe in friendliness;
I believe in mankind.
This I believe.
Which is the name of the series we bring you every Monday and our essay today comes from listener Christine Cleary, who lives in Cambridge Massachusetts with her two daughters. Cleary works at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute where she helps patients and families write about their experiences. Here is our series curator Jay Allison.
Through her work, Christine Cleary knows that loss creates a context where belief becomes especially important. She knows this from her own personal experience, too. Having faced the death of her husband from cancer and of her mother who suffered from Alzheimer's, enduring these events at the same time, illuminated2 her belief. Here is Christine Cleary with her essay for This I Believe.
I believe that memory is never lost, even when it seems to be, because it has more to do with the heart than the mind. At the same time my 44-year-old husband Ed, was losing his life, my mother was losing her ability to remember. As Ed's lungs filled with cancer, Mom's brain was becoming tangled3 in plaque4. She forgot how to start the car, whether or not she had eaten and which family members had died including my father.
I became afraid that one day I, too, would be unable to recall my husband, not because of Alzheimer's, but simply because my memory of him might fade. So from the day of Ed's diagnosis5 until his death a year later, I set out to memorize him. His crooked6 smile and vigorous embrace, his woodsy smell and the way cleared his throat when he reached the top of the stairs. I knew I'd always be able to recite his qualities, kind, gentle, smart, funny, but I wanted to be able to conjure7 up the physical man in my mind as fully8 as possible when he was gone.
Back then, I thought memory was a deliberate, cognitive9 process, like remembering multiplication10 tables or lyrics11 or where the keys were. Unable to rescue Ed from cancer, I was determined12 to save him form the only thing worse than dying, being forgotten. Later, I learnt that memory has a will of its own. You can't control it any more than you can influence the weather. When it springs up, a person loved and lost is found if only for a few seconds.
Recently, when I was driving, I had a deep and sudden sense of Ed, and the way it felt to have him next to me in the car. My body softened13 as it used to when we were together seven years ago, living a shared life. I wasn't remembering his face or the way he walked. The careful details I had stored had nothing to do with this moment in the car. Looking in the rearview mirror, I recognized in my own face the same look I once saw on my mother's face in the nursing home.
I had asked her questions about my father and she became confused about his identity. Yet as she sat there, dressed in a shapeless polyester outfit14, she briefly15 appeared young and radiant, her face filled with love and her eyes misty16. Her brain couldn't label the man correctly, but that wasn't important. It was clear to me that her husband was vivid in her heart, a memory even Alzheimer's could not crush.
I believe there is a difference between memory and remembering. Remembering has to do with turning the oven off before leaving the house. But memory is nurtured17 by emotion. It springs from a deeper well, safe from dementia and the passage of time.
Christine Cleary, with her essay for This I Believe. Cleary said that she did not fully understand what she learnt from her experience until she sat down to write about it. If you would like to write for our series, please visit our website at NPR.org. For This I Believe, I'm Jay Allison.
Support for This I Believe comes from Capella University.
This I Believe is produced for NPR by This I believe Incorporated at Atlantic Public Media. For more essays in the series, please visit NPR.org/this I believe.
点击收听单词发音
1 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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2 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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3 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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4 plaque | |
n.饰板,匾,(医)血小板 | |
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5 diagnosis | |
n.诊断,诊断结果,调查分析,判断 | |
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6 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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7 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
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8 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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9 cognitive | |
adj.认知的,认识的,有感知的 | |
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10 multiplication | |
n.增加,增多,倍增;增殖,繁殖;乘法 | |
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11 lyrics | |
n.歌词 | |
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12 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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13 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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14 outfit | |
n.(为特殊用途的)全套装备,全套服装 | |
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15 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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16 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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17 nurtured | |
养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 ); 培育; 滋长; 助长 | |
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