Y**u
发帖数: 5466 | 1 ☆─────────────────────────────────────☆
GWZW (GWZW) 于 (Fri Sep 14 20:41:02 2012, 美东) 提到:
By: 荞麦儿
婚姻是道场,
婚姻是道场，可以让人得道成仙，修得正果，而正果就是再也不用结婚了，因为你是仙
人。
听说天堂里也是不用结婚的。
但还在人间时，就得做这个道场。
曾看到一个统计，说百分之七十五的谋杀案件是发生在家人之间的。何苦要成家呢？成
了家就是一家人，为什么还要彼此杀戮？
因为婚姻是道场，很多人没有在这里修道，却只在这里吃喝拉撒与造人。
从脱口而出伤人的话到硬生生的把那些话咽回去，这是得道。
从为了洗碗的事要抡菜刀到默默地洗完一池子堆放的碗，默黙地想到那人的不容易，这
是得道。
从争谁对家的贡献大到为对方唱赞歌，这是得道。
从婚外情到回归，这是得道。
从一份又一份的离婚协议书到陪对方到老，并为对方铲下棺木上的第一铲土，或是为对
方按下焚烧炉的按钮，这是得道。
以前精力充沛时，因着种种磨合的不适，还会去抗争去拼命，而一个年轮一个年轮地磨
下来，原来爱争的都争不起来了，有时甚至只是相视一笑，就化解了战火。这相视一笑
的两位饮食男女，像不像两个得道的仙人？
如果把婚姻当作道场，给天天柴米油盐的婚姻抹上一些宿命色彩，就会少一些计较，多
一份宽容，既便这份宽容多少有些无奈。虽然拿出宗教的精神与婚姻拼上了，总归是一
件让人心酸的事，但天底下到底有多少亚当配对了自己的夏娃？多少肋骨复位时，没有
痛得呲牙咧嘴，没有排斥反应？
有的人也许要多做几个道场，有的人也许就在这一个道场里打坐修行了。
天下这么多人，为何我单单只遇见了你？想一想，都有玄命的意味。
你说你不想成佛成仙，你也不想上天堂，只想这一生一世过得心情好一点儿，只要离开
这个人。
如果离开可以更快乐一些，那就离开，去寻找下一个道场。
但终究还是个道场。
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xiaoputi (小菩提) 于 (Sat Sep 15 21:19:50 2012, 美东) 提到:
整个生活就是个修练的大道场，不止婚姻吧
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SeeU (See you) 于 (Sat Sep 15 23:31:32 2012, 美东) 提到:
http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2008/06/on_a_short_le
Of all the relationship experiments ever tried—, the one described in the
May 15 New York Timesmight be the most perverse. For 10 years, Michael Roach
and Christie McNally have been together—for every single minute. The two
never stray more than 15 feet from each other. When they eat, they share a
plate. When they read, they share the book—the faster reader waiting for
the slower to finish the page. When they do yoga, they inhale and exhale
together. When "he is inspired by an idea in the middle of the night, she
rises from their bed and follows him to their office 100 yards down the road
, so he can work." Oh, and did we mention that 1) they live in a yurt in the
Arizona desert and 2) they're celibate?
Roach and McNally, who are Buddhist teachers (though he also made a fortune
in the jewelry business), consider their partnership a "high form of
Buddhist practice." Roach told the Times, "It forces you to deal with your
own emotions so you can't say, 'I'll take a break.' "
Slate V Video: Watch David and Hanna's day of closeness.
When we read about the couple—separately, because we would never read the
newspaper together—it didn't remind us of a high form of Buddhist practice.
It reminded us of a particularly sadistic reality TV show or the "Love
Toilet," Saturday Night Live's commode built for two. ("Why not share the
most intimate moment of them all? … Because when you are in love, even five
minutes apart can seem like an eternity.")
But then we began to wonder if we could learn something from these Buddhist
claustrophiles. * We've been married (extremely happily!) for almost 11
years, with two children to show for it. But the idea of enforced physical
proximity seemed terrifying—not to mention logistically impossible. How
could we stay 15 feet apart if one of us had to take child A to her school
while the other walked child B to his? Or when David had a meeting in his
office at the same moment Hanna had a meeting in hers across town? It also
seemed masochistic: Given even the briefest reprieve from work or child care
, we're each of us out the door for a fortifying run, shopping expedition,
or Starbucks jaunt. Which in turn led us to wonder if all the solo rushing
around is its own kind of avoidance. Maybe we're crippling our marriage by
neglect. Maybe we've turned it into a tag-team business partnership in which
we mechanically swap off work and kid obligations, each viewing the other
as a shift laborer.
Inspired by Slate's "Human Guinea Pig," we decided to subject our marriage
to the Roach-McNally discipline. We would follow their rules for 24 hours
and see whether it would be an exercise in mutual mindfulness or protracted
torture. We cut a 15-foot length of string. Then we warned the kids that
Wednesday was going to be very weird. Here's what happened:
Midnight
David: I'm flossed, brushed, reading in bed. Hanna, who's putting laundry
away, decides she needs to walk down the hall to deposit some clothes in our
daughter's room, which means I have to get out of bed and follow her. Two
minutes later, she does this again, and again I must get up. I utter some
very un-Buddhalike curses. I can see why Roach and McNally moved into a one-
room yurt—no hallways to negotiate, no kid bedrooms, no kids.
Hanna: "This is annoying." "This is annoying." "This is annoying."
This is the love song that opens our 24-hour experiment in marital harmony.
Right before I get into bed, random, misplaced objects will sometimes catch
my eye. In this case, it was my daughter's clean underwear on the floor and
a gong on David's dresser. David wants to get into bed and read his book,
and I want to put things in their proper places. I win. Thus, naked,
muttering, glasses-free David trudging half-blind behind me into dark rooms
trying not to wake up the kids.
Five minutes in, and I can already see the problem with this experiment: It'
s one thing to stay within 15 feet of your soul mate when you live in a yurt
and do yoga all day. Not so easy when you have kids, two jobs, and a house
with stairs. So far, this feels more like Lucy and Ricky or warring Siamese
twins. But that's OK, right? It's like the few times I've tried (
unsuccessfully) to meditate. They say it takes a while before you stop
fidgeting and running through your to-do list and just settle down and empty
your mind. That's why they call it a journey.
Early Morning
David: First thing in the morning, Hanna gets up and goes to the bathroom.
As couples go, we're not big on privacy, but there are limits. You'll be
relieved to hear there is no Love Toilet action at the Rosinplotzes. The
rope is plenty long. I pace impatiently outside the door.
This is usually when I head downstairs to read the sports section and feed
the kids breakfast, but not today. Instead I have to sit in our bedroom
while Hanna gets ready. This turns out to be a revelation, but of the
annoying sort. I learn that my wife has all kinds of creams and primping
powders that I have never seen. She blow-dries her hair. She doesn't get
dressed just once—which is all I require—she gets dressed three or four
times. One shirt tried and rejected. Pair of pants scorned. Five pairs of
shoes examined. And then, even though she has already blow-dried her hair
once, she goes and does it again! While our kids starve downstairs!
I usually don't eat breakfast, but she does, so I glumly eat a few spoonfuls
from her oatmeal. We briefly and futilely try to read the newspaper
together, scanning the front page of the New York Times. I hate it.
Hanna: I never thought of myself as a "private" person or someone who keeps
secrets from her husband. I do, however, want to put on makeup and fix my
hair without David standing outside the bathroom tapping his foot and
glaring. I have never much valued my two and a half minutes of morning
mirror time. Now I feel like an angry grad student, defending sacred female
space from the overbearing male gaze.
Breakfast brings a bit of unexpected peaceful togetherness. David can't
sneak off to read the sports section, and I can't run around hanging up
raincoats and sifting through mail. Instead we operate as a tranquil machine
—one cooks the oatmeal while the other pours the milk. One brushes hair
while the other puts lunchboxes in backpacks. We eat from the same small
bowl, which is actually pleasant, and try to read the same section of
newspaper together. Which is not.
Midmorning
David: Upon arrival at the Slate office, Hanna strikes up a conversation
with one of my colleagues about the school our daughter and his sons attend.
Since I had precisely the same conversation with him the day before, I am
bored. I interrupt to tell her so. She ignores me and keeps talking. I try
to leave, but Hanna won't budge. I'm not allowed to break the 15-foot
barrier. It's the first moment when I actually understand the Roach-McNally
project. Because I can't leave, I have no choice but to listen to the
conversation: I force myself to pay attention. I force myself to suppress my
interior monologue about work I have to do and e-mails I must answer.
Instead, I will myself to tune into her world. This discipline brings a
reward, albeit a tiny one: a sense for those few moments that we're deeply
together.
Eventually, the conversation ends, and we settle into my office. She opens a
laptop on the right side of my desk; I work on my computer on the left side
. It's incredibly lovely, for a while. We tip-tap away on our keyboards. She
sits on my lap while we compose an Evite for a party we're hosting. I need
to photocopy a form, so we convoy down the hall to the photocopier and
photocopy together. She has to go to the bathroom—not to complain, but she
always has to go to the bathroom, like 10 times a day—and I wait, red-faced
, outside the ladies' room, trying not to look like a perv. As we photocopy
and work, we chat about all the stuff we usually talk about only at night,
the state of the children, our work anxieties, our morale.
Pretty cute, right? But am I unbothered by her invasion of my space? No!
Reader: She talks to her computer. When she types e-mail addresses, she
speaks them aloud: "Peter underscore Jones at gmail dot com." And her phone
voice! She spends a bunch of time on her cell phone interviewing sources for
a story she is writing. Here are my notes from this dark period: "Hanna
talking on the phone loudly. Loud loud loud loud loud. She talks too loud on
the phone. Talk talk talk. Talk all the time. Talk talk talk. Always
talking."
Hanna: When McNally told the Times she followed Roach to his work yurt in
the middle of the night, any modern working girl would have winced. It
merely confirms our suspicions about their student/teacher, young-hot-girl/
old-rich-guy relationship and makes us wonder about who is doing most of the
humbling in this saintly duo. This is what I am thinking again as I follow
David into his office this morning. I am an annoying appendage, like those
wives who come in to show off new infants while everyone's trying to work.
This karmic resentment I send out comes right back at me, leading to our
first minor explosion of the day. Little did I know that the first thing my
husband does upon arriving at work each morning is open the fridge and reach
for a cold Fresca. It's not even 10 a.m., and Mr. Farmers'-Market-Cruelty-
Free-Meat-I'll-Have-a-Decaf-Thanks is having his first soda of the day.
Tragically, there is no cold Fresca because "who the hell forgot to put the
Frescas in the fridge," and "how hard is it to remember," and I can actually
feel him grow hot with anger because I am standing so close. Did I really
need to know that the man I love is the office kitchen diva?
The petty toxins multiply. I engage in a conversation with one of his
colleagues, a fellow dad at our school, about the latest principal flap. I
keep this conversation going just a little too long. I know David is eager
to get to his office, which is all the way down the hallway, and turn on his
computer. But, to bring him down a notch, I make him stay and listen to
this conversation. I know this is wrong. Submitting ourselves to the other's
will is not supposed to resemble a tug of war, but rather a soundless,
tilting seesaw of recycled bamboo, slowly erasing our egos. (Him. Me. I. Her
. We. Whee! or something like that.) Nonetheless, balance is restored. For
the next couple of hours, David and I work peacefully together in his office
. We do not share much psychic space but we do create a collegial work
environment on a cramped desk, which is not nothing. (David, by the way,
will write that I make too much noise—talking loudly on my cell phone or
saying e-mail addresses out loud as I type them. This first part is called "
reporting," which is my job. The second part is delusional. Don't believe
him. We had a lovely time, and I even sat on his lap for a bit.)
Early Afternoon
David: After lunch we walk over to Hanna's office at the Atlantic. She has
to talk to her editor about the story she's writing. The editor is a good
sport and allows me to come in. It's a joy to watch her at work. I see her
best professional self, proposing, scheduling, clarifying, explaining—
building a picture of the thrilling article to come. And my presence there
contributes just what I'd hoped. I propose ideas. I bounce thoughts off her.
Her editor and I agree about a major element of the story, and we change
Hanna's mind. She and I are engaged, alive to the same subject. At 3:30, I
have to do a conference call, and she deposits me in the cubicle next to
hers. We're only 8 feet apart—way within the rules—but I can't see her. It
freaks me out. I've been looking at her nonstop for nine hours: Not seeing
her for five minutes makes me jittery. What's she doing over there?
Hanna: Back at my office, David gets to be the appendage. When we explain to
my colleagues what we are up to, the women, especially, react with horror.
"Yuck," "Creepy," "Suffocating," "I would die after two hours." One person
mentions the Saturday Night Live "Love Toilet" parody commercial, which,
when you watch it again, is really quite devastatingly apt, especially given
how many times David has had to wait for me outside the bathroom.
Late Afternoon
Hanna: After a quick trip to the Foggy Bottom Farmers' Market, we head off
to pick up the kids at ballet class. (I am intentionally skipping the half-
hour I waited around for him in his office while he and a couple of Slate
boys watched soccer. Because this is an outrageous thing to do in the middle
of a workday, and I want to be positive.)
David: When we return to the house in the evening after picking up the kids,
we have our only rule violation of the day. I stop just inside the door to
check my e-mail. Hanna keeps walking through to the kitchen—25 feet away—
to get food for the kids. I look up and yell at her for breaking the barrier
. She barks back: "You're spaced out on your BlackBerry!" The point being, I
guess, that it was my unmindfulness that caused the split. If I had been
paying attention to her and to my family's needs, I would have been heading
to the kitchen, too. Instead, I isolated myself in the electronic world,
fleeing to my BlackBerry island. My mental separation was the real crime,
not her physical one.
Evening
David: By the time we finally get the children bathed and bedded, I'm
exhausted, much more than on a usual day. It is draining to be watched all
the time, even by your wife. Weirdly, we have nothing to say to each other.
We don't have any stories to tell each other about our day because we lived
the same day. We don't have questions for each other because we know the
answers. We can't lie and exaggerate and twist the day's happenings to gain
sympathy—the usual evening activity for most married couples, I suspect—
because the other will call foul. This is where the Buddhism may come in. We
lived in the moment: Being together all the time eliminated the need for
the usual daily reflection because we already spent every minute of the day
reflecting.
The experiment was not nearly as disturbing as I expected it to be. I hope
that's partly a tribute to the strength of our marriage—we find it easy to
keep company with each other, thank God. I'm sure it's partly a tribute to
the routinized banality of our lives, which ensured no melodrama. On the
other hand, I don't think I could have made it another 24 hours. The next
morning, as soon as I woke up, I grabbed the sports section, fled to the
downstairs bathroom—one flight of stairs, 50 feet, and a psychological mile
from Hanna—and locked myself in.
Hanna: At ballet, I notice that some harmony has snuck up on us. I have to
admit that this day has not been creepy or yucky or suffocating. All in all,
it's been quite pleasant. It's been admittedly exhausting to be watched all
day, even if the witness is your beloved familiar husband. But the constant
scrutiny has saved us from a layer of artifice. Many a married couple runs
through the what-did-you-do-today ritual at the end of the day. This is the
marriage's last vestiges of the awkward first date. It often includes
elements of theater, drama, self-consciousness, self-pity, and bragging. It'
s often unsatisfying because it gets interrupted by the kids. Today, we got
to skip this strained ritual. I know what David did today because I was
there. This feels more like the happy, silent pauses at dinner after a day
spent alone, together. We leave the ballet class for the car, holding hands.
The next morning, I have to admit, I feel slightly disappointed when I wake
up and David has already snuck away.
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xuexue (xuexue) 于 (Fri Sep 28 02:55:24 2012, 美东) 提到:
哪里不是道场?
对婚姻来说: 首先要有责任. 婚前,更要找到合适的人--- 对彼此才是负责. 婚后,要会
爱,要知道怎么执行爱. 其次,才是贯彻所有事情的修行.
把婚姻首先看成是道场,不看到责任,是主次不分,是非常危险的 |
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