双语 ● All Flowers are Beautiful 所有的花儿都美丽
All Flowers are Beautiful 所有的花儿都美丽
◎ Suzanne Chazin
I grew up in a small town where the elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an age, not so long ago, when children could go home for lunch and find their mothers waiting.
我在一个小镇长大，从我家步行到我就读的小学只要10分钟。在那个时代，其实也就是不久前，孩子们可以回家吃午饭，妈妈会等着他们。
At the time, I did not consider this a luxury, although today it certainly would be. I took it for granted that mothers were the sandwich-makers, the finger-painting appreciators and the homework monitors. I never questioned that this ambitious, intelligent woman, who had had a career before I was born and would eventually return to a career, would spend almost every lunch hour throughout my elementary school years just with me.
那时候，我并不觉得这有多奢侈，可如今，它的确成了一种奢望。我想当然地认为妈妈就该做三明治，就该欣赏手指画，就该检查家庭作业。我从未怀疑过：在我出生前，这个有抱负、有智慧的女人曾经有过一份事业，又将重新投身于另一份事业。可我上小学的那几年，她几乎每天都陪我吃午餐。
I only knew that when the noon bell rang, I would race breathlessly home. My mother would be standing at the top of the stairs, smiling down at me with a look that suggested I was the only important thing she had on her mind. For this, I am forever grateful.
那时，我只知道中午放学的铃声一响，我就会气喘吁吁地跑回家里。妈妈就站在楼梯上，笑容满面地迎接我。这让我觉得我在她心中是唯一重要的事情。为此，我永远心存感激。
Some sounds bring it all back: the high-pitched squeal of my mother’s teakettle, the rumble of the washing machine in the basement, the jangle of my dog’s license tags as she bounded down the stairs to greet me. Our time together seemed devoid of the gerrymandered schedules that now pervade my life.
一些声音总能将我拉回旧时：妈妈烧开水时水壶发出的又长又尖的声音；地下室里洗衣机发出的隆隆声；我的小狗下楼迎接我时脖子上那块牌子发出的叮当声。可现在的生活无法与以前相比了。如今，我的生活完全被各式各样的行程表所操控着。
One lunch time when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly rehearsed my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head.
我读三年级时的一次午餐时间，我将永生难忘。那时，我在学校的一部话剧中饰演公主。于是，那几个星期妈妈都陪着我练习台词。可不管我在家背得多熟练，一上台，那些台词就从我的脑海中消失了。
Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained that she had written a narrator’s part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her words, kindly delivered, still stung, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.
最后，我的老师把我叫到一旁，向我解释说，她写了一些旁白，要我换成旁白的角色。她说得很委婉，可还是伤害了我。尤其是当我看到另一个女孩取代我饰演公主时，我的心里难过极了。
I didn’t tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard.
那天中午回家吃饭时，我没有把这件事告诉妈妈。可她察觉到了我的不安。于是，她没有叫我接着练台词，而是问我想不想到院子里走走。
It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine on the trellis was turning green. Under the huge elm trees, we could see yellow dandelions popping through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with dabs of gold.
那是一个美好的春日，篱笆上的玫瑰藤都已慢慢变绿了。在那棵大榆树下，我们看见一簇簇黄色的蒲公英从草丛中冒出来，就像一位画家为我们的山水画添上了一抹金黄。
I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the clumps. “I think I’m going to dig up all these weeds,” she said, yanking a blossom up by its roots. “From now on, we’ll have only roses in this garden.”
我看见妈妈在一簇花草旁弯下腰来。“我想我应该把这些杂草全部拔掉。”她一边说着，一边连根拔起一簇盛开的花。“从今往后，我们的花园里只有玫瑰。”
“But I like dandelions,” I protested. “All flowers are beautiful even dandelions.”
“可我喜欢蒲公英，”我抗议道，“所有的花儿都美丽，即使是蒲公英。”
My mother looked at me seriously. “Yes, every flower gives pleasure in its own way, doesn’t it?” She asked thoughtfully. I nodded, pleased that I had won her over. “And that is true of people too,” she added. “Not everyone can be a princess, but there is no shame in that.”
妈妈十分严肃地看着我。“是啊，每朵花都用自己的方式展示它的美，难道不是吗？”她若有所思地问道。我点点头，很高兴自己说服了妈妈。“人也是一样的，”她补充说道，“不是每个人都能成为公主，这没什么可丢脸的。”
Relieved that she had guessed my pain, I started to cry as I told her what had happened. She listened and smiled reassuringly.
原来，她早就猜到了我的烦恼。我松了口气，哭着把整件事情告诉了她。她一边听一边微笑着安慰我。
“But you will be a beautiful narrator,” she said, reminding me of how much I loved to read stories aloud to her, “The narrator’s part is every bit as important as the part of the princess.”
“你会成为最美的旁白，”她说道，还提醒我以前我有多喜欢大声给她朗读故事，“旁白的部分和公主的角色一样重要。”
Over the next few weeks, with her constant encouragement, I learned to take pride in the role. Lunchtimes were spent reading over my lines and talking about what I would wear.
接下来的几个星期，在她的不断鼓励下，我慢慢为饰演旁白这个角色感到骄傲。至于午餐时间嘛，不是朗读我的台词，就是讨论表演时要穿什么服装。
Backstage the night of the performance, I felt nervous. A few minutes before the play, my teacher came over to me. Your mother asked me to give this to you, she said, handing me a dandelion. Its edges were already beginning to curl and it flopped lazily from its stem. But just looking at it, knowing my mother was out there and thinking of our lunchtime talk, made me proud.
演出那天晚上，我在后台感到十分紧张。表演开始前的几分钟，老师走到我身边。“你的妈妈让我把这个交给你。”她边说边递给我一朵蒲公英。蒲公英的边是卷的，整个花茎也都死气沉沉。我匆匆瞥了一眼，知道妈妈就在外面。我想起午餐时候我们的谈话，一股自豪感油然而生。
After the play, I took home the flower I had stuffed in the apron of my costume. My mother pressed it between two sheets of paper toweling in a dictionary, laughing as she did it that we were perhaps the only people who would press such a sorry-looking weed.
演出结束后，我把那朵蒲公英塞进演出服的口袋里带回家。妈妈用两张纸压平它，然后夹进字典里。她笑着说：“这世上也许只有我们愿意把一棵毫不起眼的小草好好地夹起来。”
I often look back on our lunchtimes together, bathed in the soft midday light. They were the commas in my childhood, the pauses that told me life is not savored in premeasured increments, but in the sum of daily rituals and small pleasures we casually share with loved ones.
如今，沐浴在和煦的午后阳光里，我时常会想起我们一起度过的午餐时间。它们就像是我童年生活里的小逗号，这些停顿让我懂得：生活的真正滋味并非来自于预先估好的增额，而是来自于和爱人共享的日常琐事和小小快乐。
Over peanut-butter sandwiches and chocolate-chip cookies, I learned that love, first and foremost, means being there for the little things.
花生酱三明治和巧克力曲奇让我懂得：爱，最原始的和最重要的，是关注那些微不足道的小事。
A few months ago, my mother came to visit. I took off a day from work and treated her to lunch. The restaurant bustled with noontime activity as businesspeople made deals and glanced at their watches. In the middle of all this sat my mother, now retired, and I. From her face I could see that she relished the pace of the work world.
几个月前，妈妈来看我。我请了一天假陪她吃午饭。午饭时餐馆里挤满了人，一群商人边吃饭边谈生意，还时不时地瞄一眼腕上的手表。我和退休的妈妈就坐在这群人的中间。从她脸上，我能看出她很羡慕上班族的工作节奏。
“Mom, you must have been terribly bored staying at home when I was a child,” I said.
“妈，我小的时候您在家照顾我，肯定很厌烦吧！”我说。
“Bored? Housework is boring. But you were never boring.”
“厌烦？我是挺厌烦家务活的，可是你永远不会让我觉得厌烦。”
I didn’t believe her so I pressed. “Surely children are not as stimulating as a career.”
我不相信，于是接着说：“照顾孩子肯定不如工作那么具有挑战性！”
“A career is stimulating,” she said. “I’m glad I had one. But a career is like an open balloon. It remains inflated only as long as you keep pumping. A child is a seed. You water it. You care for it the best you can. And then it grows all by itself into a beautiful flower.”
“工作的确更有挑战性，”她说，“我很开心我曾经有过一份工作。可是工作就像一个开口气球，只有不断吹气才能让它变大。但是孩子像一粒种子，只要你给它浇水，细心照料它，它就会自己长大，变成一朵美丽的花儿。”
All or nothing, now or never.
宁为玉碎，不为瓦全。机不可失，失不再来。
