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强大而神秘。至于那陡峭的河岸，那曾是孩子们的禁地，对我们充满危险的吸引力。
我的个性和对世界的认识正是在这二者中间形成、发展起来的。这曾经是我的摇篮，是我从未走出过的摇篮，尽管我们一直在否定它。
随着我内心的创伤在逐渐痊愈，我的眼中充满了泪水。40年来的第一次，我体会到了什么叫完整。
A place where I had never expected to find myself： the ancient city of Philippopolis； capital of Thrace。 A well preserved amphitheatre； golden in the morning sun。
All alone； I look around： Row upon row of concentric stone circles divided into equal sectors。 Lines radiating – some reaching for infinity； others anchored by the transversal of the stage。 Light and shadow playing over a balanced blend of growth； reality and potential。
Hovering somewhere near the centre of the circle； I try to work out why it all seems so familiar。 Like being back in my very own landscape。 Though I know that I have never been in Thrace before。 Not in this life – or any other。
No – it’s not the location； it’s the configuration。 The geometric concept that produced the amphitheatre： a Greek marriage of structure and drama； perfectly arranged。
Ever since it first entered my consciousness – whenever that may have been – this figure has persisted as my guiding star。 The ideal I always reached for。 Definition of my aims。 It led to architecture； theatre； astrology； conditioned every word I wrote。
The essence of my mind in three dimensions； graphically depicted by the amphitheatre。 It took a long time to arrive at that picture。 But it was worth waiting for。
I am a transnational。 One of those people who leave their country of origin； sacrifice the security of birth right； give up an established identity honed by background and education。
All for the dubious pleasure of starting anew； unconditioned； unencumbered； naked as the day you were born； even at the price of being relegated to the bottom rung of the social ladder。 Everyone； down to the beggar in the street – provided he is in his own country – is better placed than a recently arrived immigrant。
Initially you struggle along； ignorant of procedures that all others take for granted； stuttering in flawed idioms； unable to assert yourself； unwittingly violating established codes and customs。 You behave； and you are treated； like someone mentally and socially deficient。 Courtesy and respect are in short supply。
As a clever immigrant you pick up the challenge and do your best to assimilate； fast and furiously； until your new countrymen can no longer tell that you’re not ‘one of them’。 But is that really what you want？ Go through life masquerading as something you are not； and never will be： ‘one of them’？
Identity 身份（3）
The whole point of migrating； which by far outweighs the hardship； is the wonderful freedom it brings。 The privilege of not being expected to conform。 The advantage of belonging to all cultures and none。 Choosing the best from each one you sample but at heart remaining your true unaffected self。
We all love people who represent an image： who take to life as if it were a stage。 Acting out impressions we can easily interpret； taking their bow from the rest of us。
Some of them bee cult figures： James Dean； Kennedy； Elvis； Grace； Diana – the list is long。 But there are also modest examples of people pursuing symbolic lives in relative obscurity。
I’m sure you can think of a few examples of people who have successfully invented themselves： the perfect housewife ensconced in her colour…matched home； the businessman in a tailored suit taking his seat in the board…room。 The bearded bohemian； the stern intellectual； the sweet…smiling bimbo； and so on。 All helping us decipher the mystery of human nature by labelling themselves unequivocally。
In my younger days I worshipped such people； mistaking for self…realisation masks cultivated by their owners to the point where they lost touch with their own reality。
Perhaps that was the reason why they all died young？
I didn’t see the connection。 Mourning my lost idols； I did my best to follow in their footsteps。 Until the day when a wise person told me：
“Dear girl； don’t be tempted to live by an image。 It’s a much too dangerous game。 To survive in this world you need substance。 And an image is no more substantial than a dream。”
When did you last hear someone sighing： “Those were the days。” Was it a middle…aged woman in clothes too young for her； humming her favourite golden oldie； or a weathered man who still wears his hair long and speaks in the idiom of twenty years ago？ Or – was it your own voice you heard？
You may well be one of many who are caught in a time warp maintaining an old…fashioned style； as if； at some stage； your inner watch had stopped； and everything since passed you by。
We all have traces of it； this urge to halt the passage of time； whether it is a wish for eternal youth； a nostalgic hankering for things gone by； or a vain attempt to defer the final curtain。
But then there are those who cling to an outgrown persona； because it is the only one they trust。 They seem to be afraid to mature and develop； accept that each given moment offers and adds something new。
What deep insecurity lies behind such fear？ Was there in their past but one occasion； when they came vibrantly alive？ When they felt； finally； that they were loved and valued： someone with a right to be？
Whatever the reason； there is no escaping the fact that life is all about change and growth。 You are now a somewhat different person from when you started reading this text。
‘No one can bathe in the same river twice。 Because everything flows。’
At six years of age； stunned by grief； I left my first home； not expecting to return。
In those days it was considered healthy to turn your back on pain。 Never look back； but build a bright new future with whatever was at hand。
I grew up with a void in my heart： an ever…present sadness that I did not understand。 I thought it had always been there。 Part of my constitution。 Until I went back。
The land between the lakes looked the same： on one side； Little Lee； frosty surface glittering in sunlig