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One of my earliest childhood memories is of a visit to our doctor， in a village near the farm where I grew up. It was during this visit that I first learned I had a 1）heart murmur.
Like a scene from a 2）Norman Rockwell painting， the old doctor lifted me onto his lap and listened intently to my chest with his 3）stethoscope for what seemed like a very long time. Then he leaned over to me and quietly said： “Did you know your heart talks to you？ It is whispering something and if you listen very carefully， it will always tell you what to do.”
I don’t know that I fully understood what he was saying. But I was sure that my father， whom the doctor had just invited out onto the back porch to have a chat and a cigarette， would understand.
That old country doctor had diagnosed a problem with my 4）aortic valve， and he made his diagnosis without the aid of sophisticated diagnostic tools—no 5）echocardiogram， no 6）MRI， no 7）EKG. Just a finely tuned ear developed over the years spent listening to the hearts of old farmers and old farm wives.
I grew accustomed to the term “murmur” as a child， and for the longest time I was convinced that someone， or some thing， lived in my heart. At the very least， just as the doctor had told me， I believed my heart itself was speaking to me in a murmuring， whispering sort of way， in a language I did not yet comprehend.
Over the course of the next six decades， doctor after doctor would comment on my “defective heart.”But as a kid growing up on the farm， that imperfect heart was my constant companion， my friend.
As I lay in bed at night， I could hear my heart beating through my pillow. Its constant whisper lured my imagination away from fears of savages with 8）tomahawks hiding behind the bedroom door and the unearthly sound of the owls calling in the pine trees outside my window.
My heart’s heavy pounding kept me from following my best friend’s dare to walk across the beams in the 9）hayloft some 30 feet above the wooden floor of the barn.
The quickening of its beat as I took my first draw on a Sweet Caporal cigarette—stolen from under the front seat of my father’s ’59 Pontiac—made that draw my last.
在我最早期的童年记忆当中，有一段是去我成长的农场附近的一个村庄，拜访我们的医生。在这一次探访中，我第一次知道我的心脏有杂音。
就像诺曼·洛克威尔某一幅画作中的场景一样，这位老医生把我抱到他的大腿上，用听诊器仔细地听我的胸腔，听了好像很久很久。然后他靠向我，轻声说：“你知道你的心在跟你说话吗？它正在喃喃细语，如果你仔细倾听，它总会告诉你怎么做。”
我不知道自己是否能完全明白他在说什么。不过我肯定我的父亲会清楚知道，医生刚刚邀请他到后门的游廊去聊聊天，抽根烟。 那位年老的乡村医生诊断出我的主动脉瓣有问题，他并没有依靠任何高级的诊断工具就做出了这个诊断——没有超声心动图，没有核磁共振成像，也没有心电图。仅凭一只听力敏锐的耳朵，那耳朵凭着多年为年迈的农夫和农妇们诊听心脏的经验而练就。
打小开始，我就慢慢习惯了“喃喃”这个词，极长一段时间里，我深信有一个人，或者某一样物体，生活在我的心脏里。至少，就如医生对我说的，我相信我的心脏以一种喃喃低语的方式、以某种我还不能理解的语言在对我说话。
在接下来的六十个年头里，一个又一个医生为我那“有缺陷的心脏”给出医嘱。但是，作为一个在农场里长大的孩子，那颗不完美的心脏是我一直以来的伙伴，是我的朋友。
每当夜里我躺在床上，我能透过枕头听见心脏跳动的声音。它不间断的低语声，把我的想象力从恐惧中吸引开来，不再害怕那些藏在卧室门后拿着斧头的野蛮人和窗外松树上猫头鹰发出的可怕叫声。
我心脏那沉重的跳动，让我无法跟随我最好的朋友去冒险，走过干草棚里距谷仓木地板大概三十英尺高的横梁。
我从父亲那辆1959年的庞蒂克汽车前座底下偷来一根香甜卡波尔牌香烟。在我吸上第一口时，我的心脏加速跳动起来，那第一口烟也成了我的最后一口。
And one hot August afternoon when I was 7 or 8， during the 10）threshing time， I learned for the first time that sadness and despair also reside in the heart.
In those days， neighbours helped neighbours with the harvest. That whole day our farm was a beehive of activity； tractors roared down the laneway 11）spewing 12）diesel fumes as they strained to pull wagons loaded with 13）sheaves of wheat， men shouting “14）Gee” and “15）Haw” to teams of tired horses over the constant 16）chug of the threshing machine.
Suddenly the noise stopped， and I watched in horror as our neighbours pulled my father， dazed and barely conscious， out of the straw stack where he had collapsed from exhaustion in the August heat.
Thirty years later， that same sadness enveloped my heart and filled my chest the night I learned that my father’s heart had contracted， this time violently， and for the very last time.
We have developed a 17）lexicon of heart terms： a cold heart， a warm heart， follow your heart， listen to your heart， without a heart， a big heart， even a broken heart. And now， after 60 years， my heart was telling me that it was indeed broken， tired.
What had started out as a quiet， guiding， almost inaudible whisper had become a call for help. It was indeed time to “fix that defect.”
在我七岁或者八岁那年一个炎热的八月下午，在打谷的时候，我第一次认识到，悲伤和绝望也住在我的心里。
在那个年代，邻居们会互相帮忙收割。那一整天，我们的农场像一个熙熙攘攘的蜂窝；拖拉机轰鸣着驶过通道，在奋力拖着装满小麦捆的推车时喷出柴油烟雾，男人们大声朝着一队队疲倦的马匹喊着“向右”和“向左”，好让马匹拉动不时轧轧作响的打谷机。
突然间，所有吵杂声都停止了，我惊恐地看着我们的邻居把我的父亲从麦草垛里拉出来。他晕倒了，毫无意识，因为八月的炎热而衰竭昏倒。
三十年后的那个晚上，父亲再次心脏病发，这回很是猛烈，也是最后的一次，那股悲伤裹住了我的心，填满了我的胸腔。
我们创造了一系列关于“心”的词汇，比如：铁石心肠、热心肠、随心所欲、倾听心声、没心没肺、心胸开阔，甚至是破碎的心。而现在，在六十年之后，我的心告诉我，它真的碎了，很疲惫。
起初那个安静的、引导性的、几乎听不见的低语声已经变成了一个求救声。真的是时候“修复缺陷”了。
I worried that the surgery required to replace the diseased valve would silence the voice in my heart， but a few nights after the operation， when the daytime busyness of the hospital ward had finally died down， I turned my ear once again to my pillow to hear what， if anything， my heart had to say. The hum of the murmur that had been with me since childhood had been replaced with a strong， steady， solid， 18）metronome-like beat.
And as I listened to the new sound coming from my chest， I came to realize that what our hearts offer us is not so much a message as it is an invitation； to move away from the noise in our heads， to quiet the mind， and to connect with the grace that is life and all that is sacred.
Lying in that hospital bed I understood for the first time the gift that old country doctor had given me.
He had blessed me with what would become a life-long opportunity to embrace that which others had labeled deficient， and to accept it as whole.
He had bestowed upon me the capacity to recognize my heart as a portal to being present. He had taught me to listen to my heart.
我担心这个需要替换掉那片不健全心脏瓣膜的手术会消除掉我心中的声音，然而手术几天后的晚上，当白天医院病房里的繁忙最终褪去时，我把耳朵再次贴近枕头，听一听我的心脏是否还会说些什么。
从孩提起便一直与我相伴的喃喃哼唱，被一声声强壮、稳健、结实、像节拍器一样的心跳声所替代。
我听着来自我胸腔的全新声音，领悟到我们的心给我们带来的远不止是一个信息，更是一个邀请；邀请我们挪去头脑中的吵杂声，平静心智，与生命的恩泽以及各种神圣的恩赐连通起来。
躺在那张病床上，我首次明白到那位乡村医生赠与我的是一份怎样的礼物。
他施予我一个毕生的机会，去拥抱别人定义为缺陷的东西，并且完全地接纳它。
他授予我一种能力，去认可自己的心是一个让我活在当下的门户。他教会了我听从自己的心声。
Like a scene from a 2）Norman Rockwell painting， the old doctor lifted me onto his lap and listened intently to my chest with his 3）stethoscope for what seemed like a very long time. Then he leaned over to me and quietly said： “Did you know your heart talks to you？ It is whispering something and if you listen very carefully， it will always tell you what to do.”
I don’t know that I fully understood what he was saying. But I was sure that my father， whom the doctor had just invited out onto the back porch to have a chat and a cigarette， would understand.
That old country doctor had diagnosed a problem with my 4）aortic valve， and he made his diagnosis without the aid of sophisticated diagnostic tools—no 5）echocardiogram， no 6）MRI， no 7）EKG. Just a finely tuned ear developed over the years spent listening to the hearts of old farmers and old farm wives.
I grew accustomed to the term “murmur” as a child， and for the longest time I was convinced that someone， or some thing， lived in my heart. At the very least， just as the doctor had told me， I believed my heart itself was speaking to me in a murmuring， whispering sort of way， in a language I did not yet comprehend.
Over the course of the next six decades， doctor after doctor would comment on my “defective heart.”But as a kid growing up on the farm， that imperfect heart was my constant companion， my friend.
As I lay in bed at night， I could hear my heart beating through my pillow. Its constant whisper lured my imagination away from fears of savages with 8）tomahawks hiding behind the bedroom door and the unearthly sound of the owls calling in the pine trees outside my window.
My heart’s heavy pounding kept me from following my best friend’s dare to walk across the beams in the 9）hayloft some 30 feet above the wooden floor of the barn.
The quickening of its beat as I took my first draw on a Sweet Caporal cigarette—stolen from under the front seat of my father’s ’59 Pontiac—made that draw my last.
在我最早期的童年记忆当中，有一段是去我成长的农场附近的一个村庄，拜访我们的医生。在这一次探访中，我第一次知道我的心脏有杂音。
就像诺曼·洛克威尔某一幅画作中的场景一样，这位老医生把我抱到他的大腿上，用听诊器仔细地听我的胸腔，听了好像很久很久。然后他靠向我，轻声说：“你知道你的心在跟你说话吗？它正在喃喃细语，如果你仔细倾听，它总会告诉你怎么做。”
我不知道自己是否能完全明白他在说什么。不过我肯定我的父亲会清楚知道，医生刚刚邀请他到后门的游廊去聊聊天，抽根烟。 那位年老的乡村医生诊断出我的主动脉瓣有问题，他并没有依靠任何高级的诊断工具就做出了这个诊断——没有超声心动图，没有核磁共振成像，也没有心电图。仅凭一只听力敏锐的耳朵，那耳朵凭着多年为年迈的农夫和农妇们诊听心脏的经验而练就。
打小开始，我就慢慢习惯了“喃喃”这个词，极长一段时间里，我深信有一个人，或者某一样物体，生活在我的心脏里。至少，就如医生对我说的，我相信我的心脏以一种喃喃低语的方式、以某种我还不能理解的语言在对我说话。
在接下来的六十个年头里，一个又一个医生为我那“有缺陷的心脏”给出医嘱。但是，作为一个在农场里长大的孩子，那颗不完美的心脏是我一直以来的伙伴，是我的朋友。
每当夜里我躺在床上，我能透过枕头听见心脏跳动的声音。它不间断的低语声，把我的想象力从恐惧中吸引开来，不再害怕那些藏在卧室门后拿着斧头的野蛮人和窗外松树上猫头鹰发出的可怕叫声。
我心脏那沉重的跳动，让我无法跟随我最好的朋友去冒险，走过干草棚里距谷仓木地板大概三十英尺高的横梁。
我从父亲那辆1959年的庞蒂克汽车前座底下偷来一根香甜卡波尔牌香烟。在我吸上第一口时，我的心脏加速跳动起来，那第一口烟也成了我的最后一口。
And one hot August afternoon when I was 7 or 8， during the 10）threshing time， I learned for the first time that sadness and despair also reside in the heart.
In those days， neighbours helped neighbours with the harvest. That whole day our farm was a beehive of activity； tractors roared down the laneway 11）spewing 12）diesel fumes as they strained to pull wagons loaded with 13）sheaves of wheat， men shouting “14）Gee” and “15）Haw” to teams of tired horses over the constant 16）chug of the threshing machine.
Suddenly the noise stopped， and I watched in horror as our neighbours pulled my father， dazed and barely conscious， out of the straw stack where he had collapsed from exhaustion in the August heat.
Thirty years later， that same sadness enveloped my heart and filled my chest the night I learned that my father’s heart had contracted， this time violently， and for the very last time.
We have developed a 17）lexicon of heart terms： a cold heart， a warm heart， follow your heart， listen to your heart， without a heart， a big heart， even a broken heart. And now， after 60 years， my heart was telling me that it was indeed broken， tired.
What had started out as a quiet， guiding， almost inaudible whisper had become a call for help. It was indeed time to “fix that defect.”
在我七岁或者八岁那年一个炎热的八月下午，在打谷的时候，我第一次认识到，悲伤和绝望也住在我的心里。
在那个年代，邻居们会互相帮忙收割。那一整天，我们的农场像一个熙熙攘攘的蜂窝；拖拉机轰鸣着驶过通道，在奋力拖着装满小麦捆的推车时喷出柴油烟雾，男人们大声朝着一队队疲倦的马匹喊着“向右”和“向左”，好让马匹拉动不时轧轧作响的打谷机。
突然间，所有吵杂声都停止了，我惊恐地看着我们的邻居把我的父亲从麦草垛里拉出来。他晕倒了，毫无意识，因为八月的炎热而衰竭昏倒。
三十年后的那个晚上，父亲再次心脏病发，这回很是猛烈，也是最后的一次，那股悲伤裹住了我的心，填满了我的胸腔。
我们创造了一系列关于“心”的词汇，比如：铁石心肠、热心肠、随心所欲、倾听心声、没心没肺、心胸开阔，甚至是破碎的心。而现在，在六十年之后，我的心告诉我，它真的碎了，很疲惫。
起初那个安静的、引导性的、几乎听不见的低语声已经变成了一个求救声。真的是时候“修复缺陷”了。
I worried that the surgery required to replace the diseased valve would silence the voice in my heart， but a few nights after the operation， when the daytime busyness of the hospital ward had finally died down， I turned my ear once again to my pillow to hear what， if anything， my heart had to say. The hum of the murmur that had been with me since childhood had been replaced with a strong， steady， solid， 18）metronome-like beat.
And as I listened to the new sound coming from my chest， I came to realize that what our hearts offer us is not so much a message as it is an invitation； to move away from the noise in our heads， to quiet the mind， and to connect with the grace that is life and all that is sacred.
Lying in that hospital bed I understood for the first time the gift that old country doctor had given me.
He had blessed me with what would become a life-long opportunity to embrace that which others had labeled deficient， and to accept it as whole.
He had bestowed upon me the capacity to recognize my heart as a portal to being present. He had taught me to listen to my heart.
我担心这个需要替换掉那片不健全心脏瓣膜的手术会消除掉我心中的声音，然而手术几天后的晚上，当白天医院病房里的繁忙最终褪去时，我把耳朵再次贴近枕头，听一听我的心脏是否还会说些什么。
从孩提起便一直与我相伴的喃喃哼唱，被一声声强壮、稳健、结实、像节拍器一样的心跳声所替代。
我听着来自我胸腔的全新声音，领悟到我们的心给我们带来的远不止是一个信息，更是一个邀请；邀请我们挪去头脑中的吵杂声，平静心智，与生命的恩泽以及各种神圣的恩赐连通起来。
躺在那张病床上，我首次明白到那位乡村医生赠与我的是一份怎样的礼物。
他施予我一个毕生的机会，去拥抱别人定义为缺陷的东西，并且完全地接纳它。
他授予我一种能力，去认可自己的心是一个让我活在当下的门户。他教会了我听从自己的心声。