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Growing up， my life was layered[形成层次] with the experiences of two different worlds： one the chaos[混乱] and diversity[多样性] of New York， and the other a small， tranquil[安静的] island in the Gulf of Mexico where the city pavement[人行道] was replaced with roads of sand， and instead of insane taxi drivers were golf-carts driven by children.
I was born to parents who were not bonded by place， culture， or lifestyle. My mother is a dancer and the director of her own dance theater company in New York City； my father is a musician and craftsman[工匠] in Mexico.
Though I went to school in New York for the most part， I spent almost every vacation in Mexico， where my father has always lived. In the 4th grade I decided to live with him for a year.
The island where my father lives is called Isla Holbox， and it sits at the very tip of the Yucatan Peninsula[半岛]. Our house wasn’t much—four small rooms under a palm-thatched[用茅草覆盖屋顶] roof， with scorpions[蝎子] on the walls and no running water or electricity. Standing only a few yards away from the ocean， those rooms were my remote[偏僻的] escape from the city.
That house， which we called the Blue House， was a place that my mother found not long before I was born. It sat on the outskirts[市郊] of the island’s small town—separated from civilization by almost a mile of beach. My mother was drawn to its serenity[平静]. She figured it would be the ideal place for reflection[沉思]， a place to sketch[素描] and dream and dance， away from her busy life in New York City.
After I was born， the house became a pleasure to be shared with a family. It was a place to forge[铸造] memories and laugh together in the hammocks[吊床]. My mother wanted me to inherit[继承] it. The house was meant to be an eternal[永恒的] guardian[护卫者] of memories.
That was before Hurricane Wilma.
Devastated[毁坏]
Isla Holbox has been hit by countless hurricanes. In 2005， when I was ten， I arrived at my Blue House a few weeks after Wilma roared[怒号] through the Gulf of Mexico. My mother and I had come to see the damage.
I could barely breathe as I realized that so many artifacts[人工制品] of my first ten years had disappeared. The roof was gone. The closet had been picked up by the wind and used like a battering ram[（古代）攻城槌] to smash[打碎] the south-facing wall to pieces. The bed lay several hundred feet away in the grass. Our home was now a skeleton that swayed[摇动] in the breeze[微风]—breathing calmly while the remaining walls stood as fragile survivors of the harsh winds and ocean that had taken everything else away. I sat on the floor with a pit[深坑] in my chest. Over and over I thought， “Nothing will ever be the same again—everything I grew up with， the place that made me who I am， is gone.” It wasn’t just my home； it was the park that I had loved—where I had played since I could walk， along with the homes of all my friends， and my father’s workshop and home.
Despite my feelings of loss， I had in that moment the most powerful sense of hope I have ever felt. The empathetic[感同身受的] human spirit， the love of those around us， and the beauty that exists even in the worst of times—all of this holds the potential to balance out the horror of loss.
Hope Remains
Every few years Holbox is smashed to pieces. Each time， the town recovers， rebuilds， and eventually[最后] goes on， celebrating[庆祝] with another fiesta[节日]. The people never fail in doing whatever they can to help each other out. They remove fallen beams[横梁] and structures， and comfort and mourn[哀悼] with each other when they uncover the bodies of their loved ones.
In the Blue House， we had a painting of a beautiful spirit in a forest， kneeling down with her hands on her knees to converse with the other fairies of the woods. She was the light on a dark canvas[油画布]， her gentle aura[光环] bringing joy from a two-dimensional plane. For many years during my childhood， she watched over me from the blue walls， bringing me health and happiness， my parents said.
There was very little left of my old home. The winds had swept away almost everything， but washed back up on the shore was none other than that smiling fairy queen herself.
To me， this felt like a kind of miracle. Or， if not a miracle， then a clear reminder from Mother Nature. Nothing lasts forever or even as long as we want it to， but each loss gives way to something new.
Rebuilding is never easy， and recovery is an arduous[艰巨的]， lengthy， bitter task， especially when the only culprits[犯人] are the winds whose breeze we long for and the waves we run to bathe in. But as the ocean promised when it carried our fairy back to the sands， there is always hope. That is the engine behind recovery， behind rebuilding and remembering.
The painting of the fairy queen now hangs above my bed in my room in New York， watching over me with care. Every time I look at her I can taste the salt， feel the breeze， feel the space where my home used to be. When I catch her eye， I feel hopeful again.
She reminds me that although my village is different now， and though the Blue House breathes with new walls void[没有的] of old smells and memories， both what was and what is remain important. Things in this life survive for such little time， but their presence[存在] floods into what follows. 在我成长的过程中，我的生活层叠着两个不同世界的体验：一层是纽约的嘈杂混乱与参差多态，另一层则是一个墨西哥湾小岛的静谧安宁——在这里，城市的街道变成砂子铺成的道路，没有疯狂的的士司机，取而代之的是开着高尔夫球车的孩子。
我的父母亲并非通过地域、文化或者生活方式等纽带而结合的。我的母亲是一名舞蹈演员，在由她开办的一家纽约舞蹈剧团担任团长；而我的父亲是一名墨西哥音乐家和手工艺人。
虽然我大部分时间在纽约上学，但是几乎每个假期，我都是在父亲一直居住的墨西哥度过。四年级时，我决定和他一起住一年。
我父亲所住的岛屿叫做奥尔沃克斯岛，坐落于尤卡坦半岛的最顶端。我们的房子不大，茅草屋顶下有四个小房间，墙上不时有蝎子爬过，没有自来水，也没有电。这些房间离海只有几码远，它们是我逃离城市的幽僻庇护所。
我们把那座房子叫做“蓝屋”。在我出生之前不久，我的母亲才发现了这个地方。它位于岛上小镇的郊区，绵延近一英里的海滩把它与现代文明隔绝开来。它的宁静深深地吸引了我的母亲。她想，这里远离她在纽约的繁忙生活，是一处进行省思的理想场所，一个可以写生、放飞梦想和跳舞的地方。
在我出生之后，这座房子成为一家人共享天伦之乐的地方，一个铸造回忆、一起在吊床上欢笑的地方。我的母亲希望我能够继承它。这座房子原本应该永远守护我们的回忆。
而那一切都是在飓风威尔玛来临之前的事。
满目疮痍
奥尔沃克斯岛受过无数次飓风的摧残。2005年，我10岁的时候，在飓风威尔玛怒吼着扫过墨西哥湾几个星期后，我来到了我的蓝屋。我和妈妈过来察看房屋的受损情况。
当我发现我人生头十年的那么多物品都不见了的时候，我几乎无法呼吸。屋顶不见了；衣柜被风卷起，像攻城槌一样把朝南的那面墙砸得粉碎；床躺在几百英尺远的草丛里。我们的家现在只剩下一个骨架，在微风中摇晃——平静地呼吸着，而剩下的墙壁则像肆虐的狂风和扫荡一切的海洋手下脆弱的幸存者一样，依然屹立着。
我坐在地板上，胸中仿佛空了一个洞。我一遍又一遍地想：“这里再也不会和从前一样了，伴随着我长大的一切，造就如今的我的那个地方，已经一去不复返。”这里不只是我的家，它也是我曾经深爱的乐园——自从我会走路开始，我就在这里玩耍；它也是我所有朋友的家，是我父亲的工作室和家园。
尽管我感觉若有所失，但是在那一刻，我也感到了前所未有的最强烈的希望。为人设想的人性之光，对周围的人的爱，以及即使在最坏的时代也依然存在的美——这一切使我们有可能与损失所带来的恐惧相抗衡。
希望仍在
每隔几年，奥尔沃克斯岛便要经历一次摧残。每一回，城镇都会恢复、重建，最终得以继续，随着另一个节日的到来再次举行庆典。人们总是竭尽全力互相帮助。他们一起清除倒塌的梁木和（房屋）结构，在发现亲人的尸体时也会互相安慰，一同哀悼。
在我们的蓝屋里有一幅画，画上是森林中一个美丽的精灵，她双手抚膝地跪着，在与林中的其他仙女交谈。她是幽暗画布上的光，她温柔的光环从一个二维平面上为我们带来喜悦。据我的父母所说，在我童年的很多年里，她都从蓝色的墙壁上看着我，为我带来健康和快乐。
我的老家已经所剩无几，飓风几乎把所有的东西一扫而光，只有那微笑的精灵女王被冲回了岸边。
对我而言，这就像是一个奇迹。或者，如果不是奇迹，那也是来自大自然母亲的一个明确提醒。没有什么会永垂不朽——即使只是如我们所期望的那样长久也不可能，然而，每一次的失去都是为某种新的东西让路。
重建绝非易事，恢复是一项艰巨而漫长的痛苦差事，尤其是那唯一的罪魁祸首是风浪——我们渴望微风，我们奔向海浪戏水。但是，当海洋把我们的仙女带回到沙滩上，向我们许下承诺，便永远都有希望。这就是在背后推动恢复、重建和纪念的动力引擎。
现在，这幅精灵女王的画就挂在我纽约房间的床头上方，用关切的眼神看着我。每当我看着她，我总能尝到盐的味道，感觉到丝丝微风，感觉到我家曾经的那个空间。当我看到她的眼睛，我总会再次充满希望。
她提醒我，虽然我的村庄现在已经不复如故，虽然蓝屋在用新的墙壁呼吸，不再沾有旧日的气息和记忆。然而，无论过去如何，现在怎样，两者都同样重要。事物在此生之中留存的时间虽然短暂，但它们的存在却将汇入那奔流不息的时间之海。
I was born to parents who were not bonded by place， culture， or lifestyle. My mother is a dancer and the director of her own dance theater company in New York City； my father is a musician and craftsman[工匠] in Mexico.
Though I went to school in New York for the most part， I spent almost every vacation in Mexico， where my father has always lived. In the 4th grade I decided to live with him for a year.
The island where my father lives is called Isla Holbox， and it sits at the very tip of the Yucatan Peninsula[半岛]. Our house wasn’t much—four small rooms under a palm-thatched[用茅草覆盖屋顶] roof， with scorpions[蝎子] on the walls and no running water or electricity. Standing only a few yards away from the ocean， those rooms were my remote[偏僻的] escape from the city.
That house， which we called the Blue House， was a place that my mother found not long before I was born. It sat on the outskirts[市郊] of the island’s small town—separated from civilization by almost a mile of beach. My mother was drawn to its serenity[平静]. She figured it would be the ideal place for reflection[沉思]， a place to sketch[素描] and dream and dance， away from her busy life in New York City.
After I was born， the house became a pleasure to be shared with a family. It was a place to forge[铸造] memories and laugh together in the hammocks[吊床]. My mother wanted me to inherit[继承] it. The house was meant to be an eternal[永恒的] guardian[护卫者] of memories.
That was before Hurricane Wilma.
Devastated[毁坏]
Isla Holbox has been hit by countless hurricanes. In 2005， when I was ten， I arrived at my Blue House a few weeks after Wilma roared[怒号] through the Gulf of Mexico. My mother and I had come to see the damage.
I could barely breathe as I realized that so many artifacts[人工制品] of my first ten years had disappeared. The roof was gone. The closet had been picked up by the wind and used like a battering ram[（古代）攻城槌] to smash[打碎] the south-facing wall to pieces. The bed lay several hundred feet away in the grass. Our home was now a skeleton that swayed[摇动] in the breeze[微风]—breathing calmly while the remaining walls stood as fragile survivors of the harsh winds and ocean that had taken everything else away. I sat on the floor with a pit[深坑] in my chest. Over and over I thought， “Nothing will ever be the same again—everything I grew up with， the place that made me who I am， is gone.” It wasn’t just my home； it was the park that I had loved—where I had played since I could walk， along with the homes of all my friends， and my father’s workshop and home.
Despite my feelings of loss， I had in that moment the most powerful sense of hope I have ever felt. The empathetic[感同身受的] human spirit， the love of those around us， and the beauty that exists even in the worst of times—all of this holds the potential to balance out the horror of loss.
Hope Remains
Every few years Holbox is smashed to pieces. Each time， the town recovers， rebuilds， and eventually[最后] goes on， celebrating[庆祝] with another fiesta[节日]. The people never fail in doing whatever they can to help each other out. They remove fallen beams[横梁] and structures， and comfort and mourn[哀悼] with each other when they uncover the bodies of their loved ones.
In the Blue House， we had a painting of a beautiful spirit in a forest， kneeling down with her hands on her knees to converse with the other fairies of the woods. She was the light on a dark canvas[油画布]， her gentle aura[光环] bringing joy from a two-dimensional plane. For many years during my childhood， she watched over me from the blue walls， bringing me health and happiness， my parents said.
There was very little left of my old home. The winds had swept away almost everything， but washed back up on the shore was none other than that smiling fairy queen herself.
To me， this felt like a kind of miracle. Or， if not a miracle， then a clear reminder from Mother Nature. Nothing lasts forever or even as long as we want it to， but each loss gives way to something new.
Rebuilding is never easy， and recovery is an arduous[艰巨的]， lengthy， bitter task， especially when the only culprits[犯人] are the winds whose breeze we long for and the waves we run to bathe in. But as the ocean promised when it carried our fairy back to the sands， there is always hope. That is the engine behind recovery， behind rebuilding and remembering.
The painting of the fairy queen now hangs above my bed in my room in New York， watching over me with care. Every time I look at her I can taste the salt， feel the breeze， feel the space where my home used to be. When I catch her eye， I feel hopeful again.
She reminds me that although my village is different now， and though the Blue House breathes with new walls void[没有的] of old smells and memories， both what was and what is remain important. Things in this life survive for such little time， but their presence[存在] floods into what follows. 在我成长的过程中，我的生活层叠着两个不同世界的体验：一层是纽约的嘈杂混乱与参差多态，另一层则是一个墨西哥湾小岛的静谧安宁——在这里，城市的街道变成砂子铺成的道路，没有疯狂的的士司机，取而代之的是开着高尔夫球车的孩子。
我的父母亲并非通过地域、文化或者生活方式等纽带而结合的。我的母亲是一名舞蹈演员，在由她开办的一家纽约舞蹈剧团担任团长；而我的父亲是一名墨西哥音乐家和手工艺人。
虽然我大部分时间在纽约上学，但是几乎每个假期，我都是在父亲一直居住的墨西哥度过。四年级时，我决定和他一起住一年。
我父亲所住的岛屿叫做奥尔沃克斯岛，坐落于尤卡坦半岛的最顶端。我们的房子不大，茅草屋顶下有四个小房间，墙上不时有蝎子爬过，没有自来水，也没有电。这些房间离海只有几码远，它们是我逃离城市的幽僻庇护所。
我们把那座房子叫做“蓝屋”。在我出生之前不久，我的母亲才发现了这个地方。它位于岛上小镇的郊区，绵延近一英里的海滩把它与现代文明隔绝开来。它的宁静深深地吸引了我的母亲。她想，这里远离她在纽约的繁忙生活，是一处进行省思的理想场所，一个可以写生、放飞梦想和跳舞的地方。
在我出生之后，这座房子成为一家人共享天伦之乐的地方，一个铸造回忆、一起在吊床上欢笑的地方。我的母亲希望我能够继承它。这座房子原本应该永远守护我们的回忆。
而那一切都是在飓风威尔玛来临之前的事。
满目疮痍
奥尔沃克斯岛受过无数次飓风的摧残。2005年，我10岁的时候，在飓风威尔玛怒吼着扫过墨西哥湾几个星期后，我来到了我的蓝屋。我和妈妈过来察看房屋的受损情况。
当我发现我人生头十年的那么多物品都不见了的时候，我几乎无法呼吸。屋顶不见了；衣柜被风卷起，像攻城槌一样把朝南的那面墙砸得粉碎；床躺在几百英尺远的草丛里。我们的家现在只剩下一个骨架，在微风中摇晃——平静地呼吸着，而剩下的墙壁则像肆虐的狂风和扫荡一切的海洋手下脆弱的幸存者一样，依然屹立着。
我坐在地板上，胸中仿佛空了一个洞。我一遍又一遍地想：“这里再也不会和从前一样了，伴随着我长大的一切，造就如今的我的那个地方，已经一去不复返。”这里不只是我的家，它也是我曾经深爱的乐园——自从我会走路开始，我就在这里玩耍；它也是我所有朋友的家，是我父亲的工作室和家园。
尽管我感觉若有所失，但是在那一刻，我也感到了前所未有的最强烈的希望。为人设想的人性之光，对周围的人的爱，以及即使在最坏的时代也依然存在的美——这一切使我们有可能与损失所带来的恐惧相抗衡。
希望仍在
每隔几年，奥尔沃克斯岛便要经历一次摧残。每一回，城镇都会恢复、重建，最终得以继续，随着另一个节日的到来再次举行庆典。人们总是竭尽全力互相帮助。他们一起清除倒塌的梁木和（房屋）结构，在发现亲人的尸体时也会互相安慰，一同哀悼。
在我们的蓝屋里有一幅画，画上是森林中一个美丽的精灵，她双手抚膝地跪着，在与林中的其他仙女交谈。她是幽暗画布上的光，她温柔的光环从一个二维平面上为我们带来喜悦。据我的父母所说，在我童年的很多年里，她都从蓝色的墙壁上看着我，为我带来健康和快乐。
我的老家已经所剩无几，飓风几乎把所有的东西一扫而光，只有那微笑的精灵女王被冲回了岸边。
对我而言，这就像是一个奇迹。或者，如果不是奇迹，那也是来自大自然母亲的一个明确提醒。没有什么会永垂不朽——即使只是如我们所期望的那样长久也不可能，然而，每一次的失去都是为某种新的东西让路。
重建绝非易事，恢复是一项艰巨而漫长的痛苦差事，尤其是那唯一的罪魁祸首是风浪——我们渴望微风，我们奔向海浪戏水。但是，当海洋把我们的仙女带回到沙滩上，向我们许下承诺，便永远都有希望。这就是在背后推动恢复、重建和纪念的动力引擎。
现在，这幅精灵女王的画就挂在我纽约房间的床头上方，用关切的眼神看着我。每当我看着她，我总能尝到盐的味道，感觉到丝丝微风，感觉到我家曾经的那个空间。当我看到她的眼睛，我总会再次充满希望。
她提醒我，虽然我的村庄现在已经不复如故，虽然蓝屋在用新的墙壁呼吸，不再沾有旧日的气息和记忆。然而，无论过去如何，现在怎样，两者都同样重要。事物在此生之中留存的时间虽然短暂，但它们的存在却将汇入那奔流不息的时间之海。