孤独的喜悦
阿迪丝·惠特曼

　　这是一月份，雨一落下来就结成冰。我坐在书桌前，屋子里静得能听到一只小鸟落到了屋顶上。没有人从寒冷中进来，叫嚷着要吃晚餐。没有人叫我去外面看桦树上结的冰。没有人焦急地打断我：“这一天你还没工作够吗？”
　　这种寂静始于七年前，美丽的春天一个充满流水声的日子。我丈夫，渴望着高尔夫季节的开始，飞快地给了我一个拥抱冲出家门，然后回头叫道：“看好家，我３点钟就回来。”可是离３点钟还老早，他心脏病突发摔倒了，再也没有回来。
　　我的经历对我而言是独特的，可是当然不。在美国有众多孤独的寡妇和鳏夫。也不是只有爱人过世才会进入孤独的王国，人们因无数的理由摆脱与他人的生活，在美国孤独正在增长。如果生命够长久，大多数人在生命中都会经历一次或多次孤独。
　　突发的巨大的阵阵孤独会时常拜访孤寂的我们。我们恐惧那些沮丧的时刻，在那些时候得做的事似乎太多了，却没有任何人向我们伸以援手。对他人夫妻生活或家庭生活的渴望，对共享经历的喜悦的渴求把我们压垮了。
　　可是孤独也能使生活充满满足，温暖甚至快乐。既然孤独不挑时间地造访大数人，我们就该学会如何找寻这些快乐，以致我们能独自生活得尊严而优雅。
　　现在回望精神恢复的那些年，我看到孤独的这些报答中的一些在头脑中明确起来。不能决定的孤独中的温暖跟悲伤一样固有，就像雨后的第一缕阳光，虽然孱弱，但却越来越强大。这些温暖从何而来呢？首先，来自记忆，保留了我们共同生活的那些日子的记忆。
　　孤独增强了记忆。因此，记忆也奇怪地加强了被悲伤打断了的生活的连贯性。从这些增强的记忆里会得出的新的领悟。
　　一个夏日，我把丈夫一生写给我的信收集到一块，并按顺序重读。从信中浮现出一个多么可爱，复杂而又经常苦恼不堪的人啊！我悲伤地看到他所想要的，而他常常被淹没在生活的网中。如果我更理解他，更多地听他倾诉，跟他更亲密些又将会怎样啊？
　　也许我现在的新领会是直到时空交错之时才能获得的。因为只有当我们从远处遥望，那失去的人的点点滴滴才会聚拢起来。我们看到了完整的他，生活的琐屑阻碍不了我们的想望。
　　如果回忆温暖了孤独，孤独也能被我们个性成长的感觉所温暖。孤寂了几周后，我发现自己卷入到数不清的内心对话中——在生与死，自信与自弃，爱与因为伤害太多而拒绝再爱之间，自己在争个不休。
　　我们不是一直知道自己是一个集合体——充满同情又残酷无情，成熟而幼稚，明智又浅薄吗？不是也一直知道那些冲突的自己的对话正等着把我们卷入其中吗？
　　卷入这些争斗，我获得了与自己解释不了的情感进行斗争的机会，为一些重要的问题找到了答案。我为什么这么做而不那样做？我是一个什么样的人？我想要什么样的生活？当生活在人群之中时，一些天赋的激情和洞察力就在闲聊中漏掉了。孤独时，我们被迫注意标明是从内心经验中提出的问题。
　　孤独也是一个人学会战胜恐惧完善个性的处所。我开始独居时多么恐惧啊！害怕独自长途驾驶，害怕夜晚，害怕再也不会被爱了。
　　每天，孤独的人——仍抗拒着不愿成熟——还必须应付一些新事物。如果是单身女性，现在得学习如何照料车子；如何找出炉子出了什么毛病；如何缴纳个人所得税。迅速而痛苦地，你发现了自己是一个什么样的人，会有哪些办法。孤独，就如德国诗人雷纳·玛丽亚·莱尔克所说：“没有你遇不到的事。”只要诚实就够好了。
　　在最勇敢的时刻，会认为正在进行的是人最终的工作——灵魂的塑造。在孤独的散兵坑里确实有许多不可知论者；他们中的一些人为所欲为是因为他们太孤独了，也孤独得太久了。不过，孤独的本质体验中的一些事有助于心灵的成长。教友派信徒宣称的“上帝与每个人同在”的发现照亮了许多孤独的日子。
　　首先，人们及我们对他们的新的了解温暖了孤独。我知道这是一个悖论。你也许会问：从它的本质来看，孤独不是妨碍与他人的关系吗？正相反，孤独尤其适宜于人类的关系。最明显的理由是他实在需要。卡尔·杨写道：“孤独不必对友谊怀有敌意，因为没有人比孤独的人对友谊更敏感了。”
　　当心没有被某人的爱所占据，它虽然空，因此却敞开着。我们更自由地结识陌生人，更自由地与他们深入交谈。朋友的出现就像黑暗里的阳光。我们就像传说中的布须曼在沙漠荒地与另一个布须曼人相遇，叫喊着：“早安！我本来已经死去，可是现在你来了，我又活过来了。”
　　似乎进入孤独了解了自己的挣扎仿佛就接受了他人的悲伤。我记得有一天，第一次觉得深深理解了一位酒鬼朋友，我在心里指责过她。可是现在熟悉了多么渴望逃避自己的命运后，我明白了人会如何寻找避难所，无论能在哪里找到都行。还有一天，也突然理解了懦弱的人——我一直很难理解他们——当他们的表达带来的轻松和沉重一样多时，也许畏缩表达他们自己。
　　因而，尽管很少时间有他人相伴，我们的独处却具有新的特质。我跟朋友比过去更常进行深层次的交谈，大概由于现在我跟他们的交谈更直率更诚实。正如几年前精神病学家詹·伊兰王尔德对我说的：“交流越深入，你们就越亲密。”
　　孤独是成熟的进取心不能避免的一部分。好好运用，孤独之时就是生活受到阻塞时的泄洪道；它是以后经历的一盏灯。
　　不过它并不安静。孤寂的人他们的内心生活已被孤独逼为情感的打谷场。我想被孤独找上的人它决不以同一种方式来编排。经历过孤独的人更愤怒或更温和，更严厉或更具有同情心，更悲伤或更充满深情，更沉默或更爱与人沟通，可是绝不雷同。
　　跟最重要的学习经历一样，孤独充满了痛苦。没有什么状态比孤独更容易给人带来苦涩，我们必须运用技巧和勇气防止它带来痛苦。
　　不要可怜自己。没有什么能像自怜那样迅速地把我们同他人分离开来。一个人生活的风险就是我们的感觉可能会成为生活中最重要的事。我们可能对人们心怀不满却不对他们说；也可能总是赞美“过去的好时光”而完全不留意自己目前的生活。
　　尽管不容易，在孤独中也必须设法热爱生活和他人。记住，你不会始终是目前的感觉。也不可能夸大人精神的恢复能力。
　　寻找到孤独的喜悦。我曾听到孤独的人说：“好事不会发生到我身上。”如果写日记就不会这么想了。每天我都在日记里列出特殊的快乐：“今天朋友打电话给我，给我带来一份意想不到的礼物；我进行了一次长途散步，回来后觉得恢复了青春活力。”回看这些日记，我能看到自己的成长，并发现生活多么不可预测而丰富多彩。
　　接受孤独把它作为一段成长的时期。许多不快乐、孤独的人的麻烦是他们看不到孤独的重要性。我们的生活是，也应该是，跟季节和天气一样，有晴有阴，有雨有旱。孤独不是一段要忍受的时间，相反地它跟生活的关系就像链圈跟链条一样。它是——如果我们愿意让它是——一段成长的时间；一段看清我们过去和未来生活方向的时间。
　　接受孤独。不要去想它短暂或长久，而是就当它在这儿，现在与它相处而已。
　　也许将独自度过余生——对此必须要有准备。可是如果有一些想要的东西——再婚，一份新工作，新的朋友——当他们出现时就把渴望变成这些东西是应得的。
　　深化生活。考虑、弄清楚每件事，这是孤独的特殊优点。生活的力量就从中而来；到孤独里去。祈祷，沉思。抵达自己生命中发光的地方，对你大部的生活而言，你是一个陌生人。
　　爱，尊重，欣赏自己。不要因可能造成你孤独的过错严惩自己。放松，吃好，睡好，并给自己奖励，惊喜，快乐。跟你自己说：“我已受到伤害，我将允许自己休息一下，舒服一下了。”
　　做出选择。很少有人会把孤独作为永久的状态，我也不会。可是有时我会选择把它当作生命的一部分，因为没有孤独我们就不会完整。就如剧作家克里斯托弗·弗莱所说：“敢开触及他自身孤独的人才是自由的人，正是由于经历了孤独他才生活了下来。”
　　记住，我们即使生活在一屋子人当中也是孤独的。每个人独自出生，独自寻找生命的意义，再独自死去。我们所能做的最重要的事就是学会活得勇敢，谦逊而美丽。

Secret Joys of Solitude
ARDIS WHITMAN

IT IS JANUARY, and rain freezes as it falls, I am sitting at my desk in a house so silent that I could hear a bird alight on the roof. No one comes in from the cold, clamoring for dinner. No one calls me outside to see the ice on the birch tree. No one interrupts me with an anxious “Haven’t you worked enough for one day?”

The silence began seven years ago, on a beautiful spring day full of the sound of running water. My husband, eager to start the golf season, gave me a quick hug and dashed out the door, calling back, “Hold the fort! I’ll be home at three.” But long before that hour, he had fallen, stricken by a heart attack. He never came home again.

My experience feels unique to me, but of course it is not. There are legions of lonely widows and widowers in America. Nor is the death of a loved one the only entry into the kingdom of loneliness. People are shaken loose from living with others for myriad reasons. Solitude is on the increase in America. If we live long enough, most of us will have one or more sequences of it during our lives.

We who are solitary are visited from time to time by great gusts of loneliness. We are scared by those dismal hours in which what we have to do — without anyone helping us — seems too much. We are overwhelmed by a longing for the paired or family life of others, for the joy of sharing experiences.

But solitude can also be a way of life full of satisfaction, warmth and even joy. Since the un-chosen times of solitude come to so many of us, it behooves us to learn how to find these joys, so that we many live alone in dignity and grace.

Looking back now after the healing years, I see some of these rewards of solitude crystallizing in my mind. Like the first thin sunlight after rain, there is a meager, yet growing, warmth that is as indigenous to unchosen solitude as sorrow itself is. Where does this warmth come from? First of all, from memory, which holds together the days of our lives.
Solitude enhances memory. And so, curiously, memories strengthen in us the sense of the continuity of our lives at the very time that grief has interrupted it. From these enhanced memories comes a new kind of understanding.

One summer day I gathered together a lifetime of my husband’s letters to me and reread them in sequence. What a loving, complex, often-tormented human being emerged from them! Sadly, I saw that what he wanted and what he was had been often lost in the net of daily living. What if I had understood better? Listened more? Stayed closer?

Perhaps this new understanding I feel now is something we cannot have until space and time intervene. For it is only that all the bits and pieces come together. We see him whole, and our vision is unobstructed by the pettiness in life.

If solitude is warmed by memory, it is warmed also by a growing sense of our own identity. After I had been alone for a few weeks, I found myself caught up in innumerable interior dialogues — between the self who wanted to die and the self who wanted to live, the self who believed and the one who denied, the self who loved and the one who repudiated love because it hurt too much.

Haven’t we always known that we were a congregation of selves—compassionate and cruel, mature and childish, wise and shallow? And haven’t we always known that the dialogue with these warring selves was waiting for us to catch up with it?

Caught in these struggles, I had a chance to come to grips with my unexplained feelings and answer some important questions. Why do I do this and not that? What is being asked of me? What am I to do with my life? When we live surrounded by people, some of the passion and insight natural to us leaks away through the sieve of small talk. Alone, we are forced to pay attention to the question marks that experience raises in our hearts.

Solitude is also the identity-making place where one learns to overcome fears. How many I had when my solitude began! There was the fear of driving a long distance alone; the fear of the night; the fear that I would never be loved again.

Every day, too, the solitary person—still fighting the human battle against growing up—must cope with something new. If you are a woman alone, you must learn now how to look after the car; how to find out what is wrong with the furnace; how to do your own income tax. Quickly and painfully, you discover what kind of a human being you are, what kind of resources you have. And in solitude, where, as the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke once said, “there is nothing that does not see you.” Only honesty is good enough.

At your most daring moments, you believe that what is going on is that ultimate human work—the shaping of a soul. True, there are plenty of agnostics in the foxholes of solitude; some of them got that way because they were too much alone too long. Nevertheless, there is something in the nature of the solitary experience that contributes to the growth of the spirit. And many a solitude has been lighted by the discovery of what the Quakers call “that of God in every man.”

Above all, solitude is warmed by people and our new understanding of them. That is a paradox, I know. You may ask: isn’t the solitary, by the very nature of solitude, handicapped in relationships with others? On the contrary, the solitary is particularly fitted for human relationships. The most obvious reason is simply his need. “Loneliness,” wrote Carl Jung, “is not necessarily inimical to companionship, for no one is more sensitive to companionship than the lonely man.”

We have empty, therefore open, hearts as we did not when preoccupied with one love. We are freer to meet the stranger, freer to talk to him in depth. Friends appear like sunbursts in the dark. We are like the Bushman who, traditionally, on meeting another Bushman in a desert wilderness, cries, “Good day! I have been dead, but now that you have come I live again.”

The sorrow of others seem to enter you solitude as though they were framed by the understanding of your own struggles. I remember a day when, for the first time, I felt I deeply understood the temptations of an alcoholic friend. I had condemned her in my heart but now, knowing how I have longed to escape my fate, I see how human it is to look for refuge wherever you can find it. There was a day, too, when I suddenly understood why timid people—always difficult for me to understand—may shrink from expressing themselves, when the expression might bring to light so much darkness within.

And then, though we spend less time in the presence of others, what we do spend there has a new and special quality. More often than in the past, my friends and I communicate on a deeper level, perhaps because I now talk more freely and honestly to them. As psychiatrist Jan Ehrenwald said to me years ago, “The deeper you go, the closer you are.”

Solitude is a part of the inescapable enterprise of maturing. A time of solitude, well used, is a spillway for what has choked one’s life; it is an illumination of the rest of experience.
But it is not tranquil. The inward life of those upon whom solitude has been thrust is a threshing floor of emotions. I suspect that solitude never weaves you the same as when it found you. You emerge from it angrier or gentler; sterner or more compassionate; more bitter or more loving; more shut within or more communicating; but never the same.

Like most important learning experiences, solitude is full of pain. No state of life can sour more easily. We must use both craft and courage to prevent it from doing so.

Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Nothing separates us from others as quickly as self-pity. The risk for all of us who live alone is that our feelings may become the most important thing in our lives. We may brood resentfully about people instead of responding to them; we may glorify “the way it used to be” and give little heed to the life we are now living.

Although it is not easy, you must contrive in your solitude to love life and people dearly. Remember, you will not always feel as you do now. It is impossible to exaggerate the resilience of the human spirit.

Search out the joys of solitude. I have heard lonely people say, “Nothing good ever happens to me.” You will not think so if you keep a journal! Each day in my journal I list my special joys: “Today a friend called and brought me an unexpected gift; I took a long walk and came back feeling rejuvenated.” Looking back over the pages, I can watch myself growing and discover how unpredictable and wonderful life can be.

Accept your solitude as a time to grow. The trouble with many unhappy, lonely people is that they can see no significance in their solitude. Our lives are, and ought to be, like the seasons and the weather, a movement in and out of sun and shadow, rain and aridity. Solitude is not an interval to be endured. Rather it is related to our lives as a link to a chain. It is—if we will let it be—a time to grow; a time to see both the past and the future directions of our lives.
Accept your solitude. Do not think of it as either temporary or permanent, but rather as just here, to be dealt with now.

Perhaps you will live alone the rest of your life — and you must be ready for that. But if there is some thing you want—remarriage, a new kind of work, new friends—transmute the longing into being worthy of these things when and if they come.

Deepen your life. Turn everything to account, to understanding. This is the special virtue of solitude. The power of life comes from within; go there. Pray; meditate. Reach for those luminous places in yourself where, for most of your life, you have been a stranger.
Love, respect and enjoy yourself. Do not castigate yourself for guilts that may have contributed to your loneliness. Rest; eat well; sleep. And give yourself rewards, surprises, joys. Say to yourself, “I have been hurt. I will allow myself a break, a comfort.”
Given a choice, few people would pick solitude as a permanent state; nor would I. But I would choose to have it as a portion of life sometime, for without it we cannot be whole. As playwright Christopher Fry says, “No man is free who will not dare to pursue the questions of his own loneliness. It is through them that he lives.”

Remember, all of us are solitaries even when we are living in a house full of people. Everyone is born alone; finds the meaning of his life alone; goes to his heath alone. The most important thing we can do is to learn to live with ourselves with courage, humility and beauty.