花語(yǔ)者

By+Dahlia+Lithwick+譯/常晨

I was raised in a greenhouse. My mother， born of Iraqi Jews who had migrated to India， married a Canadian who brought her home to a glass house in Ottawa. As a toddler， I barely noticed that most of the house was made of windows， but it wasnt me paying the heating bills. What I did notice was that every window was always and forever mounded with plants. Delicate African violets and cactuses1） bloomed， and avocado2） trees stood sentry3） over the living room. They must all have been as baffled by the endless Canadian winters as my mother. But more pressing in my memory， we were running a plant infirmary4） at my house， in which root tipping， stem reinforcing， and plant healing happened in tiny glass jars and chipped mugs on every windowsill.

It was as if my brothers and I had a whole host of plant half-siblings guiding us through our childhoods， hopping along on their little plant wheelchairs and slings and crutches.

Of course when I started college， I bought plants for my dorm rooms， and I even have a vague， blurred memory of my mother once walking me through a root transplant over the phone， in the manner of Hawkeye Pierce on M.A.S.H.， talking some rookie5） surgeon through an amputation6） by walkie-talkie7）. When my parents finally moved to the desert， my mothers green world exploded into the outdoors. Suddenly there was jasmine， and hibiscus， and lemon trees so fat with fruit the neighbors would come by with shopping bags. Plants outside the house！ If I call her and the phone rings and rings， it just means my mom is out in her garden， snapping off dried leaves and picking out tiny weeds and doing something with something that will someday bloom into something extraordinary.

Then came the plant she gave me when my first son was being born. A painful and violent labor8） turned into a painful and violent delivery9） and then got worse. It was going so badly that when my parents left the hospital the first night， my mother tore the printed message off the top of the little card theyd stuck in the plant at the hospital gift shop that had read “Welcome new baby” or some such. A joyous welcome was no longer certain. A few hours later， soon after Coby emerged， I saw a new， flowering plant by my bed and only the torn bottom half of a card.

I took out the worst of my postpartum10） derangement11） syndrome on that poor plant. I couldnt help but wonder how my mother imagined I could take care of a tiny white flowering plant over and above the colicky， deranged， sleepless bucket-of-hair that came out of me crying and couldnt stop for three-and-a-half months （but whos counting？）. I wanted to drown that plant. Taking care of it was too much to ask of me.endprint

My son did stop crying， but only after my mother sat up rocking him all night long， so my husband and I could sleep for a few hours and not phone the divorce attorneys. Eight-and-a-half years later， the plant still blooms in an upstairs dormer window12）. I forget to water it and it lives， I overwater it and it coughs up a lung and then thrives again. Tiny white flowers greet me almost every morning， despite my best efforts to forget it. I once dragged my mother over to the plant and demanded that she explain why it looked so droopy13） in places.

“Yes， they do that，” she said.

Even with its perilous beginnings， that plant is the most precious thing my mother has ever given me. Most of what I know about parenting and patience and life Ive learned by watching it. Of my kids， I now mostly think， “Yes， they do that.” At some point， I asked my mother what this type of plant is called， and she said， “Its a Grandma Rose plant，” because my grandmother， her mother-in-law， had loved them so much. When my son turned 3， he planted strawberries all over the backyard garden， and they produce similarly tiny white flowers that—I secretly hope， every spring—might just grow into my Grandma Rose.

My second son， Sopher， was born without a plant entourage14） but with a green thumb15） in his mouth. He started popping seeds into the garden as soon as he could toddle， and the row dedicated to “peas” is still labeled “pesa” because he was 4 and couldnt spell， and really， shouldnt they have been called pesa in the first place？ Last summer， when he was 5， Sopher and I ended up in Home Depot or Lowes or one of those huge “home improvement” stores with no windows anywhere， and he circled four times around a rack of broken， dead， and diseased plants generously described by a sign as “l(fā)onely plants” but largely marked by their crypt-like odor. He begged for one. We now have three. He waters them and names them and tells me he is the “plant whisperer，” just like his grandmother.

His sunflower grew so big it finally fell over. His tomatoes are still glorious. Even the pesa. I worry that the neighbors will come with shopping bags for the pesa. I watch him out there in wonder.

Voltaire16） famously concluded Candide with the advice， “But let us cultivate our garden.” He understood that there is something about caring for the plant world that makes us more apt to behave well in the human world. One has the notion that things raised in hothouses come out delicate and fragile. But I think the opposite is true： I think they are raised with an understanding of how life runs deep and sure and all around.endprint

We consider ourselves a green family. Prius17）， check. Compost18） heap check. But I dont shiver in anticipation at the thought of splitting tubers19） or transplanting peonies20）， as my mother does. She reminds me what it is to be of the earth and to fight for the Earth， not by way of bumper stickers and committee meetings and petitions， but by just planting and tending and weeding and never giving up on even a broken bit of spider plant21）. I see that in my son now， too—happy with dirt in his green rubber boots and a watering can and a watermelon seed. When I go to visit my parents， my first stop is my mothers garden. When his lonely plant goes yellow at the edges， my son asks to put in a call to his grandparents. The earth and the garden have rooted us all to one another when nobody was looking. We cultivate our garden and let life take it from there.

在忙碌、緊張的生活中，養(yǎng)花可謂一種不錯(cuò)的身心愉悅方式。我們種植、澆水、松土，培育出屬于自己的小小花園，讓心靈得到陶冶和治愈，讓生命得到滋養(yǎng)和豐富。

我是在溫室里長(zhǎng)大的。我的母親是一個(gè)在伊拉克出生的猶太人，后來(lái)移民到印度，嫁給了一個(gè)加拿大人。這個(gè)加拿大人把她帶回家——渥太華的一所玻璃房子中。在我蹣跚學(xué)步時(shí)，我并沒(méi)有注意到房子的大部分是由玻璃窗組成的，畢竟付暖氣費(fèi)的不是我。但我確實(shí)注意到，每個(gè)窗戶前總是且永遠(yuǎn)擺滿了植物。嬌美的非洲紫羅蘭和仙人掌吐露著芬芳，鱷梨樹如哨兵般保衛(wèi)著客廳。它們肯定和我的母親一樣，不明白為什么加拿大的冬天沒(méi)有盡頭。然而，讓我記憶最為深刻的是，我們家經(jīng)營(yíng)了一個(gè)植物醫(yī)務(wù)室，在這里，每個(gè)窗臺(tái)上都有小小的玻璃瓶和豁了口的杯子，植物們?cè)诶锩嫔?、長(zhǎng)莖、愈合。

我和我的兄弟們好似擁有一大群植物兄弟姊妹，陪我們走過(guò)童年，我們?cè)谥参镏墟覒蛲嫠?，把它們?dāng)成小輪椅、吊索和拐杖。

開(kāi)始上大學(xué)時(shí)，我就買了些花花草草放在宿舍房間里。我甚至還模糊地記得，媽媽有一次打電話指導(dǎo)我進(jìn)行嫁接，就像美劇《陸軍野戰(zhàn)醫(yī)院》里鷹眼·皮爾斯通過(guò)對(duì)講機(jī)指導(dǎo)一個(gè)新手醫(yī)生進(jìn)行截肢手術(shù)一樣。當(dāng)父母最終搬進(jìn)了沙漠中時(shí)，媽媽的綠色世界一下子拓展到了戶外。忽然間就有了茉莉花、木槿，還有高產(chǎn)的檸檬樹，高產(chǎn)到鄰居們都帶著購(gòu)物袋來(lái)摘檸檬。植物種到戶外啦！如果我打電話給媽媽，電話一遍一遍地響而沒(méi)人接，那就意味著她正在花園里摘枯葉、除雜草，拿著某種工具在培育某種植物——有一天這種植物會(huì)繁花盛開(kāi)、大放異彩。

我第一個(gè)兒子出生時(shí)，媽媽給了我一盆植物。我經(jīng)歷了痛苦而又劇烈的分娩和生產(chǎn)過(guò)程，之后情況變得更糟。由于情況非常糟糕，在第一天夜里我父母離開(kāi)醫(yī)院時(shí)，媽媽把他們?cè)卺t(yī)院禮品店買的夾在植物里的小卡片的頂部撕掉了，那上面印有“歡迎小寶貝”或諸如此類的文字。我們甚至都不確定能否開(kāi)心地迎接這個(gè)新生命。幾個(gè)小時(shí)之后，科比出生了，之后沒(méi)過(guò)多久，我就在床邊看到了一棵新的開(kāi)花植物和撕得只剩一半的卡片底部。

因?yàn)楫a(chǎn)后紊亂綜合征，我的壞脾氣都撒在了那棵可憐的植物上。我忍不住想知道，媽媽是怎么想的，我怎么可能在照顧一個(gè)患有腹絞痛、吵鬧、不眠不休、打娘胎里出生就一直哭了三個(gè)半月（可是誰(shuí)又在數(shù)呢？）的小毛孩的同時(shí)，還能去照顧一盆嬌小的白花植物。我真想淹死這盆植物。讓我照顧它，對(duì)我來(lái)說(shuō)，要求太高了。

我兒子后來(lái)不再哭了，但那是在我媽媽熬夜搖了他一整晚之后。這樣我和我老公才得以睡上幾個(gè)小時(shí)，而不至于去給離婚律師打電話。八年半之后，這盆白花仍然在樓上的天窗旁綻放著。我忘記澆水，它活著；我澆水過(guò)多，它嗆著水掙扎一陣子，然后又欣欣向榮了。幾乎在每個(gè)清晨，小白花都在向我問(wèn)候，盡管我盡最大努力去忘記它。有一次，我拉著我媽媽去看這棵白花，讓她跟我解釋一下為什么這棵花有的地方看起來(lái)沒(méi)精打采。

“是的，它們有時(shí)就是這樣子。”她講道。

盡管小白花一開(kāi)始的時(shí)候生命堪憂，但是這盆花成了媽媽給我的最珍貴的禮物。關(guān)于為人母、耐心和生命的大部分感悟，我都是通過(guò)觀察這盆小白花獲得的。關(guān)于我的孩子們，我現(xiàn)在很多時(shí)候都這樣想，“是的，他們就是這樣子。”有一次，我問(wèn)媽媽這種植物叫什么，她說(shuō)：“這叫祖母玫瑰?！币?yàn)槲业淖婺?，也就是媽媽的婆婆，非常喜?ài)這種花。我兒子三歲的時(shí)候，他在后院花園里種滿了草莓。草莓也有著同樣?jì)尚〉陌咨ǘ洹Ｃ總€(gè)春天，我都暗暗地希望，這些白色花朵會(huì)長(zhǎng)成祖母玫瑰。

我第二個(gè)兒子索菲爾出生時(shí)，沒(méi)有植物保駕護(hù)航，但是他有著種花的天賦。剛會(huì)蹣跚走路，他就能把種子扔到花園里。當(dāng)時(shí)用來(lái)種“豆子”的這一畦被稱為“豆之”，因?yàn)樗臍q的他還不會(huì)拼寫，不過(guò)說(shuō)真的，難道豆子最開(kāi)始不應(yīng)該叫“豆之”嗎？去年夏天，索菲爾五歲的時(shí)候，我和他去了家得寶還是勞氏之類的連一扇窗戶都沒(méi)有的大型家居裝飾商場(chǎng)。索菲爾繞著一架萎靡、凋零、奄奄一息的植物轉(zhuǎn)了四圈。這些植物被“善意”地打上“孤獨(dú)的植物”的標(biāo)簽，但其地窖般的氣味相比其“孤獨(dú)”氣質(zhì)更為突出。他懇求我買一棵。現(xiàn)在我們有了三棵。他給這些植物澆水、起名字，還跟我說(shuō)他是“花語(yǔ)者”，和姥姥一樣。endprint

他的向日葵長(zhǎng)得非常大，最后都栽倒了。他的西紅柿依舊生機(jī)勃勃。還有豆之。我都擔(dān)心鄰居們會(huì)拿著購(gòu)物袋來(lái)要豆之。我驚奇地看著他在戶外勞作。

伏爾泰的作品《老實(shí)人》 有一句著名的結(jié)尾，同時(shí)也是一句金玉良言——“但是，讓我們培育我們的花園?！彼溃P(guān)愛(ài)植物世界使我們更容易在人類世界中舉止得體。有人認(rèn)為溫室中的植物嬌嫩柔弱。但是，我認(rèn)為事實(shí)恰恰相反：我認(rèn)為溫室里的植物明白生命的深邃、必然和廣闊。

我們自認(rèn)為是綠色環(huán)保家庭?；旌蟿?dòng)力車，我們開(kāi)。堆肥，我們也用。但是我們還沒(méi)有達(dá)到媽媽那種程度，她一預(yù)想到要給土豆分莖或是嫁接牡丹就會(huì)激動(dòng)得發(fā)抖。媽媽提醒我，什么叫成為地球的一分子并為地球而戰(zhàn)，并不是通過(guò)貼保險(xiǎn)杠貼紙、參加委員會(huì)會(huì)議和請(qǐng)?jiān)?，而是通過(guò)種植、照料、除草以及決不放棄哪怕是一根破敗的吊蘭?，F(xiàn)在，我在兒子的身上也看到了這一點(diǎn)——他穿著自己的綠色橡膠鞋，拿著噴壺和西瓜種子，開(kāi)開(kāi)心心地在泥土里耕耘。每次我去看父母，都得先看看媽媽的花園。當(dāng)兒子那些“孤獨(dú)的植物”的葉邊發(fā)黃的時(shí)候，他會(huì)讓我給姥姥姥爺打電話求助。不經(jīng)意間，大地和花園已讓我們緊緊聯(lián)系在一起。我們培育我們的花園，讓生命從這里得到滋養(yǎng)。

1.cactus [?k?kt?s] n. 仙人掌科，仙人掌

2.avocado [??v??kɑ?d??] n. 鱷梨，鱷梨樹

3.sentry [?sentri] n. 哨兵；崗哨

4.infirmary [?n?f??（r）m?ri] n. （學(xué)校及其他機(jī)構(gòu)中的）醫(yī)務(wù)室

5.rookie [?r?ki] n. （無(wú)經(jīng)驗(yàn)的）新手，生手

6.amputation [??mpj??te??（?）n] n. 截肢；切斷（術(shù)）

7.walkie-talkie [?w??ki?t??ki] n. （便攜式）步話機(jī)

8.labor [?le?b?（r）] n. 分娩

9.delivery [d??l?v（?）ri] n. 分娩

10.postpartum [?po?st?pɑ?rt?m] adj. 產(chǎn)后的

11.derangement [d??re?nd?m?nt] n. 紊亂

12.dormer window：屋頂窗，天窗

13.droopy [?dru?pi] adj. 耷拉著的

14.entourage [??nt??rɑ??] n. 隨從

15.green thumb：精湛的種植花木和蔬菜的技能

16.Voltaire：伏爾泰（1694～1778），法國(guó)啟蒙思想家、哲學(xué)家、作家、歷史學(xué)家

17.Prius：普銳斯，是豐田汽車的一個(gè)創(chuàng)新產(chǎn)品，屬于典型的混合動(dòng)力汽車。

18.compost [?k?mp?st] n. 堆肥

19.tuber [?tju?b?（r）] n. （馬鈴薯等植物的）塊莖

20.peony [?pi??ni] n. 牡丹；芍藥

21.spider plant：吊蘭endprint