Chapter 7 start of school

I flew to London in a few weeks to cover Wimbledon, the best tennis tournament in the world and one of the few tournaments I know that doesn't have spectators booing or drunken fans in the parking lot one of the games.The weather in England is mild and cloudy. Every morning I take a walk in the tree-lined streets near the stadium, passing young people queuing up to buy the remaining tickets, and street vendors selling strawberries and cheese.There was a newsstand at the entrance of the stadium, selling six or seven colorful British tabloids, the selling point of which was nothing more than aerial girl photos, paparazzi photos of royal family members, astrology, sports, lottery tickets, plus a little factual news .Leaning against stacks of newspapers was a small blackboard at the newsstand with the headlines of the newspapers, which were usually nothing more than Diana and Charles feuding!Or get a gold medal, a lot of money and so on.

People are hungry for these tabloids, and they receive all kinds of gossip news. I have been in the UK a few times before, and I am not immune.But this time, for some reason, whenever I read anything stupid or brainless, I think of Murray.A scene keeps popping up in my mind: him counting his breaths trying to spend every second with his beloved family and friends in his home of Japanese maple trees and hardwood floors, while I spend countless hours reading about My own nonsense: movie stars, supermodels, or Diana, Madonna, Little Johnny.The latest Kennedy gossip.Strangely enough, although I lamented Murray's little life left, I envied his quality of time.Why do we spend so much time on irrelevant things?At that time in the United States, the trial of Simpson's murder of his ex-wife was in full swing. Some people stared at the TV during lunch time, and even recorded what they couldn't finish watching at night.They didn't know Simpson at all, or anyone connected to the case, but they enjoyed the drama of other people's lives and spent days, if not months, of their own on it.

I think of what Murray said to me: Our culture makes it impossible to know who you are.You have to be very strong to reject this wrong culture. Murray kept his word, and long before his illness, he had his own culture of living: discussion groups, walks with friends, solo dances in Harvard Square church.He promotes a Greenhouse project to bring mental health services to poor families.He browsed the books, injected new ideas into the classes he taught, reciprocated with colleagues, contacted former students, and wrote letters to friends far away.He'd rather spend his time eating and enjoying nature than watching a TV comedy or movie pick of the week.He established a small world of interpersonal activities, talking, socializing, caring, and these activities filled his life.

I also have my own living culture.Work.I was working for four or five outlets in the UK at the same time, playing airdrops like a clown.I have to sit in front of the computer for eight hours a day and send the written reports back to the United States.I also do shows for TV and travel all over London with a crew.I also do phone reports for the radio every morning and afternoon.This is a normal workload for me.For many years, I have been inseparable from work, and everything else has been put aside. At Wimbledon, I'm used to shoveling my fill in my little wooden workshop.Once there was a large group of reporters chasing Andre Agassi and his girlfriend Brooke.Brooke Sshields, I was knocked over by a British photojournalist, he apologized, and passed like the wind, with his long camera lens dangling from his neck.I thought of another passage Murray said: Too many people are like walking dead. Even when they are doing what they think is important, they seem to be half asleep because they are chasing the wrong goals.For life to be meaningful, you have to invest in loving others, invest in caring for those around you, and invest in creating something that makes your life purposeful and meaningful.

I knew in my heart that he was right. But I'm not into it. By the time the game was over (I survived on cup after cup of coffee), I turned off the computer, packed up and left the workshop, and went back to the apartment to pack my bags.It was late, and the TV programs were lackluster. I flew back to Detroit and arrived in the evening. I dragged my exhausted body and fell asleep when I got home.After waking up, I got an unexpected news: the labor union of my newspaper went on strike, and the whole newspaper was closed. Employees stood guard to monitor the entrance of the building, and a parade was launched back and forth on the street.I was in a union so had no choice, and for the first time in my life, I was suddenly out of work, out of pay, and pitted against my employer.The union leader called my home and warned me not to contact any of my supervisors.I'm friends with many editorial executives, but H will tell me to hang up on them and not listen to what they have to say.

The union leaders vowed: Fight to the end and you will win!It sounds like soldiers are at war. I felt overwhelmed and devastated.Although there are TV or radio errands that can replace it, the newspaper has always been my source of power, my oxygen supply; every morning I open the newspaper and see my manuscript printed in words, I have a certain feeling, at least know that I still alive. Now that comfort is gone.As the strike dragged on, day one, day two, day three, phone conversations began to reveal unease and rumors that things could drag on for months.My old life was all disrupted.The sports are still going on every night, and I would have been interviewing, but now I just stay at home and watch the TV.I always thought that readers would need to read my sports column on a daily basis, and the world goes on as usual without me, which makes me uncomfortable.

After about a week of this, I picked up the phone and dialed Murray's number.Connie called him to answer the phone. He said: You want to see me.He doesn't ask questions, he makes statements. Well, when is it convenient to see him? how about tuesday I said, Tuesday is good, Tuesday is fine. ◇◇◇ In my sophomore year, I took two more courses from him.We are no longer just a teacher-student relationship in the classroom, we will meet every now and then to find a place to chat.I hadn't seen anything like this before with any grown-up other than my own family, but I felt comfortable with Murray, and he seemed to be generous with the time he gave me.

When I walked into his office, he would happily ask: Where are we going today? We would sit under a tree outside the Sociology College in the spring break, and at his desk in the bitter winter, me in a color-weary cotton sweater and Adidas, and Murray in Rockports and wickers .Every time we chat, he first listens to what I have to say, and then tries to tell his own life experience.He reminded me that money is not the most important thing, which is not the same as most people in the school think.He said, I have to be a whole person.He talks about the alienation of young people, about the need to relate to the society around us.Some of the things he said I understood and some I didn't, but that was okay.These discussions are an excuse for me to have heart-to-heart talks with him that my dad and I can't because he wants me to be a lawyer

Murray hated lawyers. He asked: What do you want to do after college? I said, I want to be a musician and play the piano. Very well, he said: it's just that it's hard to live like this. yes. There will be many obstacles. Thank you for your enlightenment. However, he said: If you really want to, you will make your dreams come true. I wanted to hug him and thank him for saying that, but I wasn't that open so I just nodded. He said: I dare say you play the piano very well. I laughed.Energetic? He smiled back at me.Be energetic.What's the matter?Is there no such way of speaking now?