只用一本书提高英语听力能力!重温经典名著双语阅读小编推荐:跟着纪录片学英语不背单词和语法,轻松学英语
返回列表 回复 发帖

[NPR] 【整理】2008-01-25&-01-27, 在绝望中寻找一线生机

提高英语听力能力 找对方法很重要!

[NPR] 【整理】2008-01-25&-01-27, 在绝望中寻找一线生机

user posted image

Learning to Find the Silver Linings


Annaliese Jakimides' son committed suicide when he was 21. Today she keeps his memory alive by talking with everyone she meets — just the way her son used to. In these personal connections, Jakimides believes she has found a silver lining in her youngest son's death


user posted image



【电信用户1】下载
Download MP3

【电信用户2】下载
Download MP3

【网通/教育网用户】下载
Download MP3



点击进入NPR整理稿汇总页面

点击进入多主题版块听写规则(新手必读) 

版主提示:
一、若是自己的听写稿, 请发帖时标注'Homework'.
二、若是改稿, 请发帖时标注'on 某某人'并在修改处标红.
三、为了达到最快的下载速度,推荐使用迅雷高速下载本站音频/视频材料.

 

 

整理:Asylum

 

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor Maine where she’s a copy editor for Saw Million Woodlark magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written about before, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I'm 57. Divorced after 28 years of marriage, I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. At my core I am grateful for it all — even my son's death. It gave me the lens through which to see everything.

 

I believe in a silver lining.

 

I will forever carry my son with me. How can a mother not? This is the only choice I had: I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I could live a life celebrating him. Now let me be honest here: I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy, and found the silver lining thing. I'm a people person, but Arrick was really a people person. He told me once, "I talk to everyone I want to talk to."

 

"Everyone?" I asked incredulously.

 

"Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know."

 

And now, five years later, I've embraced my son's philosophy.

 

My daughter on the other hand, is more cautious — she shushes me when she sees I am about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. "You can't do that, Mom," she says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life; that I am more eager than ever to connect with others.

 

Waiting for the train, I hear strains of an Ornette Coleman tune. I smile, and drop a precious $5 bill into the open case. My Arrick played the saxophone. I wish I had his saxophone's soft leather traveling bag with me, so I could give it to this man in case he someday finds himself on the way to a non-street gig. I tell him that. He smiles.

 

Arrick couldn't figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant cocoa-brown fingers running along the sax's keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of three, Arrick was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so.

 

He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him as suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear — actually downright murky. I still don't know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son

continues: He continues to be part of my story, the family's story and every day now, I'm still making connections on his behalf.

 

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad-weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks I shouldn't speak to that I love her fuchsia hat with the funky feathers, and I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on a subway platform in wintry New York City.

 

Arrick's death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I'm in the game now. Arrick showed me the silver lining and I'm showing it to everyone I meet.


Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that.

If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through the more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Merrick of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org ,an essay from the founding editor of Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.


[ 本帖最后由 Asylum 于 2008-3-9 13:31 编辑 ]

普特在线文本比较普特在线听音查字普特在线拼写检查普特文本转音频

支持普特英语听力就多多发帖吧!您们的参与是对斑竹工作最大的肯定与支持!如果您觉得还不错,推荐给周围的朋友吧~
I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor, Maine, where she’s a copy editor for *** magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written before, but after she decided to take a thumb on our publican invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drown to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage; I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child on suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all, even my son’s death, it gives me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in the silver lining. I’ll forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not. This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. A wailed for month before I figured out how to treat the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Eric was really a people person. He told me once: I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Every one?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now, 5 years later, I’ve been braced my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees someone about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that now I see single encounter. As filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Eric plays this saxophone; I wish I had this saxophone soft left traveling bag with me. So I could give to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Eric couldn’t make out how to make his way, how to leave out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Eric is the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him in the suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear, actually downright murky. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smiled at the check in the grocery store, discuss our contexture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman that my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her filthy hat with the funky feathers. And I thank to the saxophone player for the fine Comleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Eric’s death made me set up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before. Playing its safe, but I’m in the game now. Eric show me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides says that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through the more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted for date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Meric of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org, an essay from the founding editor of Wild magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
There can be miracle when you believe!
立即获取| 免费注册领取外教体验课一节
on 春末夏初

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radiolistener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor, Maine, where she’s a copy editor for *** magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written aboutbefore, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage; I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child just suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all, even my son’s death, it gives me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in the silver lining. I’ll forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for month before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Eric was really a people person. He told me once: I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Every one?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now, 5 years later, I’ve embraced my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees someone about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that now I see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Eric plays the saxophone; I wish I had this saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Eric couldn’t make out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Eric was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him in the suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear, actually downright murky. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smiled at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman that my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her ? hat with the funky feathers. And I thank to the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Eric’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Eric showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through the more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted for date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Meric of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org, an essay from the founding editor of Wild magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
视听在线 摩登原始人~The Flintstones~
http://forum.putclub.com/forumdi ... r=type&typeid=3
实现无障碍英语沟通
on petersburg

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radiolistener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor, Maine, where she’s a copy editor for *** magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written aboutbefore, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage; I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child just suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all, even my son’s death, it gave me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in a silver lining. I’ll forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Eric was really a people person. He told me once: I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Every one?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now, 5 years later, I’ve embraced my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees someone about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Eric played the saxophone; I wish I had this saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Eric couldn’t make out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Eric was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him in a suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear, actually downright murky. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman that my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her ? hat with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Eric’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Eric showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Meric of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org, an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
口译专员推荐—>口译训练软件IPTAM口译通
on farmsun

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radiolistener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor, Maine, where she’s a copy editor for Saw Million Wordlud magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written aboutbefore, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage; I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child just suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all, even my son’s death, it gave me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in a silver lining. I’ll forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Oric was really a people person. He told me once: I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Every one?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now, 5 years later, I’ve embraced my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees someone about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Oric played the saxophone; I wish I had this saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Oric couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Oric was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him in a suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear, actually downright murky. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman that my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her a few should ahead with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Oric’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Oric showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Meric of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org, an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.

Humor first, Joke later...
homework sad.gif sad.gif sad.gif

I believe in mystery
I believe in family
I believe in being who I am
I believe in the power of failure
And I believe normal life is extraordinary
This I believe
Our this I believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jackimides. She lives in Bangermay where she is a copy editor for Somunen Woodlog Magazine in other local publications. Jackimides also does create her writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer Jay Allison

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jackimides’ life that she says she never have written before. But after she decided to take a sup on our public invitation to create an essay for this series. She discovered that she was drawn to write about that event not because the darkness but rather it’s opposite. Here is Annaliese Jackimides with her essay for this I believe.

On 57, divorce after 28 years marriage I no longer have a house, I owned very little, made a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. at my court, I am grateful for it at all. Even my son’s death. It give me the length through which to see every thing, I believe in the silver lining. I offer ever carried my son with me . how can a mother not. This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I could live a life celebrating him. Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to treat the rocks for the joy and found the silver-lining thing. I’m a people person, but (son’s name) was really a people person. He told me once, I talked to every one I want to talk to, every one? I asked incradualicely. Well yeah I might meet someone I need to know and now five years later I have been embraced my son’s philosophy. My daughter in the other hand is more cautious. She sortious me when she see some about to say hello to strange a woman by the subway stop.” you can’t do that way mom” she said half laughing knowing that I now see every single encountered as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others wailing for the change. I heard strains of a all net commentoon, I smiled and dropped a precious 5-dollar-bill into the open case, (son’s name) play the sexerphone. I wish I have a sexerphone saw leave the traveling bag with me
So I can give it to this man in case someday he found himself on the way that was none street gate. I tell him that, he smiles.(son’name)couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe you want it to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sexers kids. I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, (son’s name) are the smartest, the funniest and we all say so. It was also the darkest but no one ever saw it in the suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear actually down right mercki. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however is that my son continues. He continues to be part of my story, the family story and every day now I am still making connections on his behalf. So I smile at the check in the grocery store., Discuss architecture with the homeless guy who be every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter think I shouldn’t speak to that I love her phushure head with the funky feathers and I thank the sexerphone player for the fine common on the subway platform in __, New York city. (son’name)’s death make me sit up and pay attention. I linger on the ages before, playing safe but I am the game now. (son’s name)show me the silver lining and I show it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jackimides with her essay for this I believe. Jackimides said that she found that the subject of child suicide can be tabooed and she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website: NPR.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search to the more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted today. For this I believe I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is Co-Editor with Dan Gediman, John Gregory and Viki Merrick of the book this I believe the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on NPR.org an essay from founding editor of Wire Magazine Kevin Kely.

Support for this I believe comes from prudential retirement.

我爱罗*英俊
Homework of my:

I believe in mystery
I believe in family
I believe in being who I am
I believe in the power of failure
And I believe normal life is extraordinary
This I believe.

Our this I believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jackimides. She lives in Bangermay where she is a copy editor for Somunen Woodlog Magazine in other local publications. Jackimides also does create her writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jackimides' life that she says she never have written before. But after she decided to take a sup on our public invitation to create an essay for this series. She discovered that she was drawn to write about that event not because the darkness but rather it’s opposite. Here is Annaliese Jackimides with her essay for this I believe.

On 57, divorce after 28 years marriage I no longer have a house, I owned very little, made a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21.

at my court, I am grateful for it at all. Even my son’s death. It give me the length through which to see every thing, I believe in the silver lining. I offer ever carried my son with me . how can a mother not. This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I could live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to treat the rocks for the joy and found the silver-lining thing. I’m a people person, but R. was really a people person. He told me once, I talked to every one I want to talk to,
every one? I asked incradualicely.
Well, yeah I might meet someone I need to know and now five years later I have been embraced my son’s philosophy.
My daughter in the other hand is more cautious. She sortious me when she see some about to say hello to strange a woman by the subway stop.” you can’t do that mom” she said half laughing knowing that I now see every single encountered as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others wailing for the change. I heard strains of a all net commentoon, I smiled and dropped a precious 5-dollar-bill into the open case, R. play the sexerphone. I wish I have a sexerphone saw leave the traveling bag with me.

So I can give it to this man in case someday he found himself on the way that was none street gate. I tell him that, he smiles. R.couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe you want it to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sexers kids. I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, R.are the smartest, the funniest and we all say so. It was also the darkest but no one ever saw it in the suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear actually down right mercky. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however is that my son continues. He continues to be part of my story, the family story and every day now I am still making connections on his behalf.

So I smile at the check in the grocery store., Discuss architecture with the homeless guy who be every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter think I shouldn’t speak to that I love her phushure head with the funky feathers and I thank the sexerphone player for the fine common on the subway platform in which, New York city. R.’s death make me sit up and pay attention. I linger on the ages before, playing safe but I am the game now. R.show me the silver lining and I show it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jackimides with her essay for this I believe. Jackimides said that she found that the subject of child suicide can be tabooed and she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website: NPR.org thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search to the more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted today. For this I believe ,I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is Co-Editor with Dan Gediman, John Gregory and Viki Merrick of the book this I believe the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on NPR.org an essay from founding editor of Wire Magazine Kevin Kely.

Support for this I believe comes from prudential retirement.
All ways lead to Rome !
实现无障碍英语沟通
Homework. rolleyes.gif

I believe in mystery. I believe in family. I believe in being who I am. I believe in the power of failure. I believe normal life is extraordinary. This I believe.

Our this I believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangamin, where she is a copy editor for saw miller wood luck magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides' life that she says she's never written about before. But after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to creat an essay for this series, she discovered she was drawn to write about that event, not because of the darkness, but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for this I believe.

I am 57, divorced after 28 years' marriage; I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living, and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. At my core, I am grateful for it off, even my son's death. It gave me the lens, through which to see everything. I believe in the silver lining.

I will forever carry my son with me. How can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks, or I could live a life celebrating him. Now let me be honest here. I wailed for a month before I figured it out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing.

I am a people person, but Oric was really a people person. He told me once I talked to everyone I want to talk to. 'Everyone?' I asked incredulously.
'Well, yeah. I might miss someone I need to know.'

And now five years' later, I have embraced of my son's philosophy. My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees I am about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop.
'You can't do that, mom.' She says half laughing.
Knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life that I am more eager than ever to connect with others.

Waiting for the train, I hear strings of ornate common tune. I smile and drop a precious 5 dollar bill into the open case. My Oric played the saxophone. I wish I had his saxophone soft leather travelling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case someday find himself on the way to a non-street gig. I tell him that. He smiles.

Oric couldn't figure it out how to make its way, how to live out the rest of his life.
I believe he wanted it to. When I called up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax's keys, I am always convinced of it.

The youngest of three, Eric is the smartest and the funnest. And we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him in suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear, actually downright murky.

I still don't know what brought him to suicide. What is clear however, is that my son continues. He continues to be part of my story, the family story. And everyday now, I am still making connections on his behalf. And so I smiled at the checker around the grocery store, dicuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks so I should not speak to that I love for a few should with the funky feathers.
And I thank the saxophone player for the fine colman on the subway platform in wintry New York city. Oric's death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before playing it safe, but I am in the game now.
Oric shows me the silver lining and I am showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for this I believe. Jakimides said that she's found that the subject of a child's suicide can be taboo and she hopes her essay might help counter that.
If you'd like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search the more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For this I believe, I am Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is co-editor with Ann Giteman, John Gragman and Vicky Maric of the book This I belive. The personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org, an essay from the founding editor of wild magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for this I believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
菩提本无树
明镜亦非台
本来无一物
何处惹尘埃
普特听力大课堂
on Sophi_a

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor, Maine, where she’s a copy editor for Saw Million Wordlud magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written aboutbefore, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage; I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child just suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all, even my son’s death, it gave me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in a silver lining. I will forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Oric was really a people person. He told me once: I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Every one?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now, 5 years later, I’ve embraced my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees someone about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Oric played the saxophone; I wish I had this saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Oric couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Oric was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him in a suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear, actually downright murky. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her a few should ahead with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Oric’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Oric showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Meric of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org, an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
deardina.spaces.live.com
好栏目推荐之美国口语俚语
On Genev:

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor, Maine, where she’s a copy editor for Saw Million Wordlud magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written aboutbefore, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather its opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage; I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all, even my son’s death, it gave me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in a silver lining. I will forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Oric was really a people person. He told me once: I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Everyone?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now, 5 years later, I’ve embraced my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees I'm about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an Ornette Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Oric played the saxophone; I wish I had his saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Oric couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Oric was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him as suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear, actually downright murky. I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her fuchsia hat with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Oric’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Oric showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Meric of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org, an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
on donglongnow
各位不好意思了,我老眼昏花,改稿非常累眼。没有标红,敬请原谅。 mad.gif

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor Maine where she’s a copy editor for Saw Million Woodlark magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written about before, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather it’s opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage. I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all even my son’s death, it gave me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in a silver lining. I will forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Orica was really a people person. He told me once: “I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Everyone?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now 5 years later, I’ve been embraced by my son’s philosophy.
My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees I'm about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an Ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Orica played the saxophone. I wish I had his saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Orica couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Orica was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him as suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear actually downright murky? I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her fuchsia hat with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Orica’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Orica showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Merrick of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org is an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
I believe in mystery, I believe in family, I believe in being who I am, I believe in the power of failure, I believe normal life is extraordinary. This I believe. Our this I believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener ..,she lives in ..where she is a copy editor for ..magazine and other local publications. J also does creative writings on her own town. Here is our independant producer ..
There is one dark convint in ..'s life that she says she never written about before. But after she decided to take a sop on our invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drown to write about that event, not because of the darkness, but rather the opposite. Here is J's essay for this commity for this i believe.
On 57, divorced after 20 years' marriage, I no longer have a house. I earned very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. At my cool, I'm greatful for it at all, even my son's death. It gave me the length through which to see everthing. I believe in the silver lining. I will forever carry my son with me how can a mother not. This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or like a silver rock celibrating in. Now let me be honestier, I willed for a month before I figured out how to trade rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I'm a people person, but He told me once: “I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Everyone?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now 5 years later, I’ve been embraced by my son’s philosophy.
My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees I'm about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an Ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Orica played the saxophone. I wish I had his saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Orica couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Orica was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him as suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear actually downright murky? I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her fuchsia hat with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Orica’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Orica showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Merrick of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org is an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
每天半小时 轻松提高英语口语
homework:

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor Maine where she’s a copy editor for Saw Million Woodlark magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written about before, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was (怎么总觉得这儿不是was呢?但又听不出来是什么,发音很像choose,语法又不对 sad.gif ) drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather it’s opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage. I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all even my son’s death, it gave me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in a silver lining. I will forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Orica was really a people person. He told me once: “I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Everyone?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now 5 years later, I’ve embraced my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees I'm about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strings of an Ornate Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Orica played the saxophone. I wish I had his saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he some day finds himself on the way to a non-street gag. I tell him that, he smiles.

Orica couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant coco brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Orica was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him as suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear actually downright murky? I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her fuchsia hat with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Orica’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Orica showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that. If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Merrick of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org is an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.

silver lining:[不幸或失望中的]一线希望
shush:嘘
wail:悲痛
wintry:像冬季的,寒冷的
linger:游荡,闲逛
一念心清净
莲花处处开
一花一净土
一土一如来
on lxwsdrz9999

I believe in mystery.
I believe in family.
I believe in being who I am.
I believe in the power of failure.
And I believe normal life is extraordinary.
This I Believe.

Our This I Believe essay today was sent in by public radio listener Annaliese Jakimides. She lives in Bangor Maine where she’s a copy editor for Saw Million Woodlark magazine and other local publications. Jakimides also does creative writing on her own time. Here is our series curator, independent producer, Jay Allison.

There is one dark event in Annaliese Jakimides’s life that she says she’d never written about before, but after she decided to take this up on our public invitation to create an essay for this series, she discovered that she was drawn to write about that event. Not because of the darkness but rather it’s opposite. Here is Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe.

I’m 57, divorced after 28 years of marriage. I no longer have a house. I own very little, make a marginal living and I lost my youngest child to suicide when he was 21. At my core, I’m grateful for it all even my son’s death, it gave me the lens through which to see everything. I believe in a silver lining. I will forever carry my son with me, how can a mother not? This is the only choice I had. I could either carry him as a bag of rocks or I can live a life celebrating him.

Now let me be honest here. I wailed for months before I figured out how to trade the rocks for the joy and found the silver lining thing. I’m a people person but Orica was really a people person. He told me once: “I talk to everyone I want to talk to.” “Everyone?” I asked incredulously. “Well, yeah, I might miss someone I need to know.” And now 5 years later, I’ve been embraced by my son’s philosophy.

My daughter on the other hand is more cautious. She shushes me when she sees I'm about to say hello to a strange woman by the subway stop. “You can’t do that, mom.” She says half laughing, knowing that I now see every single encounter as filled with possibilities that can make a difference in my life, that I’m more eager than ever to connect with others. Waiting for the train, I hear strains of an Ornette Coleman tune. I smile and drop a precious five-dollar bill into the open case. My Orica played the saxophone. I wish I had his saxophone soft leather traveling bag with me. So I could give it to this man in case he someday finds himself on the way to a non-street gig. I tell him that, he smiles.

Orica couldn’t figure out how to make his way, how to live out the rest of his life. I believe he wanted to. When I call up that beautiful face and those elegant cocoa-brown fingers running along the sax’s keys, I am always convinced of it. The youngest of the three, Orica was the smartest, the funniest, and we all say so. He was also the darkest, but no one ever saw him as suicide dark. The why of these choices is often not clear ,actually downright murky? I still don’t know what brought him to suicide. What is clear, however, is that my son continues, he continues to be part of my story, the family story. And every day now, I’m still making connections on his behalf.

And so I smile at the checker in the grocery store, discuss architecture with the homeless guy who reads every bad weather day in the library. I tell the woman my daughter thinks I shouldn’t speak to that I love her fuchsia hat with the funky feathers. And I thank the saxophone player for the fine Coleman on the subway platform in wintry New York City.

Orica’s death made me sit up and pay attention. I lingered on the edges before, playing it safe, but I’m in the game now. Orica showed me the silver lining and I’m showing it to everyone I meet.

Annaliese Jakimides with her essay for This I Believe. Jakimides said that she’s found that the subject of a child’s suicide can be taboo, and that she hopes her essay might help counter that.

If you like to write about the core beliefs in your life, we hope you visit our website npr.org/thisibelieve to find out more. You can also search through there more than 35,000 essays that have been submitted to date. For This I Believe, I’m Jay Allison.

Jay Allison is coeditor with Dan Gedimen, John Gregory and Vicky Merrick of the book This I Believe, the personal philosophies of remarkable men and women. Next week on npr.org ,an essay from the founding editor of the Wire magazine Kevin Kelly.

Support for This I Believe comes from Prudential Retirement.
You never know until you try, and you never try until
you really try!
fighting~ :)
返回列表