The Brown Bear

    My wife Laura and I were on the beach, with three of our children, taking pictures of shore birds near our home in Alaska when we spotted a bear. The bear was thin and small, moving aimlessly.

    Just a few minutes later, I heard my daughter shouting, “Dad! The bear is right behind us!” An aggressive bear will usually rush forward to frighten away its enemy but would suddenly stop at the last minute. This one was silent and its ears pinned back—the sign of an animal that is going in for the kill. And it was a cold April day. The bear behaved abnormally, probably because of hunger.

    I held my camera tripod (三脚架) in both hands to form a barrier as the bear rushed into me. Its huge head was level with my chest and shoulders, and the tripod stuck across its mouth. It bit down and I found myself supporting its weight. I knew I would not be able to hold it for long.

    Even so, this was a fight I had to win: I was all that stood between the bear and my family, who would stand little chance of running faster than a brown bear.

    The bear hit at the camera, cutting it off the tripod. I raised my left arm to protect my face; the beast held tightly on the tripod and pressed it into my side. My arm could not move, and I sensed that my bones were going to break.

    Drawing back my free hand, I struck the bear as hard as I could for five to six times. The bear opened its mouth and I grasped its fur, trying to push it away. I was actually wrestling (扭打) with the bear at this point. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fight ended. The bear moved back toward the forest, before returning for another attack—The first time I felt panic.

    Apparently satisfied that we caused no further threat, the bear moved off, destroying a fence as it went. My arm was injured, but the outcome for us could hardly have been better. I'm proud that my family reminded clear-headed when panic could have led to a very different outcome.

    Poet William Stafford once said that we are defined more by the detours (绕行路) in life than by the narrow road toward goals. I like this image. But it was quite by accident that I discovered the deep meaning of his words.

For years we made the long drive from our home in Seattle to my parents' home in Boise in nine hours. We traveled the way most people do: the fastest, shortest, easiest road, especially when I was alone with four noisy, restless kids who hate confinement (限制) and have strong opinions about everything.

    Road trips felt risky, so I would drive fast, stopping only when I had to. We would stick to the freeways and arrive tired.

    But then Banner, our lamb was born. He was rejected by his mama days before our planned trip to Boise. I had two choices: leave Banner with my husband, or take him with me. My husband made the decision for me.

    That is how I found myself on the road with four kids, a baby lamb and nothing but my everlasting optimism to see me through. We took the country roads out of necessity. We had to stop every hour, let Banner shake out his legs and feed him. The kids chased him and one another. They'd get back in the car breathless and energized, smelling fresh from the cold air.

    We explored side roads, catching grasshoppers in waist-high grass. Even if we simply looked out of the car windows at baby pigs following their mother, or fish leaping out of the water, it was better than the best ride down the freeway. Here was life. And new horizons (见识).

    We eventually arrived at my parents' doorstep astonishingly fresh and full of stories.

    I grew brave with the trip back home and creative with my disciplining technique. On an empty section of road, everyone started quarreling. I stopped the car, ordered all kids out and told them to meet me up ahead. I parked my car half a mile away and read my book in sweet silence.

    Some road trips are by necessity fast and straight. But that trip with Banner opened our eyes to a world available to anyone adventurous enough to wander around and made me realize that a detour may uncover the best part of a journey—and the best part of yourself.

    There were smiling children all the way. Clearly they knew at what time the train passed their homes and they made it their business to stand along the railway, wave to complete strangers and cheer them up as they rushed towards Penang. Often whole families stood outside their homes and waved and smiled as if those on the trains were their favorite relatives. This is the simple village people of Malaysia. I was moved.

    I had always traveled to Malaysia by plane or car, so this was the first time I was on a train. I did not particularly relish the long train journey and had brought along a dozen magazines to read and reread. I looked about the train. There was not one familiar face. I sighed and sat down to read my Economics.

    It was not long before the train was across the Causeway and in Malaysia. Johore Baru was just another city like Singapore, so I was tired of looking at the crowds of people as they hurried past. As we went beyond the city, I watched the straight rows of rubber trees and miles and miles of green. Then the first village came into sight. Immediately I came alive; I decided to wave back.

    From then on my journey became interesting. I threw my magazines into the waste basket and decided to join in Malaysian life. Then everything came alive. The mountains seemed to speak to me. Even the trees were smiling. I stared at everything as if I was looking at it for the first time.

    The day passed fast and I even forgot to have my lunch until I felt hungry. I looked at my watch and was surprised that it was 3:00 pm. Soon the train pulled up at Butterworth. I looked at the people all around me. They all looked beautiful. When my uncle arrived with a smile, I threw my arms around him to give him a warm hug (拥抱). I had never done this before. He seemed surprised and then his weather-beaten face warmed up with a huge smile. We walked arm in arm to his car.

    I looked forward to the return journey.

The story of the movie Inside Out mostly takes place inside the mind of 11-year-old Riley as she moves from Minnesota to San Francisco. The main characters are Riley's emotions—Joy, Sadness, Disgust Anger and Fear, which guide her decisions and often compete with one another for control of her brain.

    Fear is tall, thin, looks like a frayed（焦燥的）nerve and is purple. Not only that, this eyes are purple, too. Anger, which is red, looks like a brick and has red eyes. Disgust, who is green, has green eyes. Sadness, not surprisingly, is completely blue, and even looks like a teardrop. But Joy, who is mainly yellow, has more than one color in her. She has blue eyes and blue hair. Why? Well, if blue represents sadness, then the message is clear: there is no such thing as “pure joy”. Instead, even in our most joyous times, there is often sadness mixed in.

    After all, one of the most joyous moments we can experience is a wedding, but it may end with the breaking of a glass. It reminds us that our world is still broken. In other words, even at our highest moments, there is always a little sadness.

    But the comfort is that the reverse is often true. Think about how you feel after crying. When you cry, your body is releasing some chemicals that often make you feel good. And that's why you feel at ease after a good cry.

    Indeed, Inside Out reminds us that even the emotions that appear “negative” have value.in other words, Inside Out shows us that the goal of life isn't “to be happy”. We will feel sad, angry or frightened. But we need our whole range of emotions for developing our sense of self and our relationship with others.

    The Great Fire of London started in the very early hours of 2 September 1666. In four days it destroyed more than three-quarters of the old city, where most of the houses were wooden and close together. One hundred thousand people became homeless, but only a few lost their lives.

    The fire started on Sunday morning in the house of the King's baker(面包师)in Pudding Lane. The baker, with his wife and family, was able to get out through a window in the roof. A strong wind blew the fire from the bakery(面包房)into a small hotel next door. Then it spread quickly into Thames Street. That was the beginning.

    By eight o'clock three hundred houses were on fire. On Monday nearly a kilometer of the city was burning along the River Thames. Tuesday was the worst day. The fire destroyed many well-known buildings, old St Paul's and the Guildhall among them.

    Samuel Pepys, the famous writer, wrote about the fire. People threw their things into the river. Many poor people stayed in their houses until the last moment. Birds fell out of the air because of the heat.

    The fire stopped only when the King finally ordered people to destroy hundreds of buildings in the path of the fire. With nothing left to burn, the fire became weak and finally died out.

    After the fire, Christopher Wren, the architect(建筑师), wanted a city with wider streets and fine new houses of stone. In fact, the streets are still narrow; but he did build more than fifty churches, among them new St Paul's.

    The fire caused great pain and loss, but after it London was a better place: a city for the future and not just of the past.

    I had a teacher who used to wake up in class by shouting: "The early bird gets the worm!" I say "let him have the worm". I hate food that doesn't stay still, and avoid Japanese restaurants for that very reason. Anyway, I stopped eating worms at the age of three, switching to regular breakfasts of cereal(谷物), to which I would add extra sugar.

    Recently I was thinking about early birds and the competitive spirit after receiving a letter from a reader in Malaysia: "My son deliberately throws away marks because he doesn't like to be top of the class. What shall I do?" Give him a round of "applause" for being smart! Actually many children in Asia tend to be the focus by performing better.

    Placed into a very competitive class when I was 11, I quickly learned the ideal position was second to last. The top three performers and the very last person are highlighted; the second-to-last contestant is INVISIBLE. And it's an easy position to get—just deliberately underperform at every test. I could do that. I once came second to last in eight straight sports day races. No one suspected anything. I was so invisible that I could have robbed a bank in my street and no one would have noticed.

    At the London Olympics a few months ago, badminton pairs from three Asian countries deliberately tried to lost matches to draw good lots in later rounds. It was funny to watch, but they were all thrown out for poor sportsmanship. What they really needed were acting lessons, their moves were so unconvincing. "Oops, I hit the ball in entirely the wrong direction."

    The other day, I took the children out and they raced for the car. "I'm first," said one. The second said: "First is worst, second is best." Together they sang at the last one: "And third's the one with a hairy chest."

    It struck me that the organizers of sports matches could use this song when people deliberately lost matches. "I lost," the delighted loser will say. The judges could still declare them winners, pointing to a new, optional regulation: "First is worst, second is best, third's the one with a hairy chest."