-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Элизабет Гилберт
-
- Ешь, молись, люби
-
- Стр. 180/229
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
(
Little
Ketut
knows
only
that
she
was
born
the
same
year
as
"
the
big
pig
"
in
her
village
;
this
hasn
’
t
helped
the
rest
of
us
establish
a
timeline
.
)
Wayan
has
taken
them
in
and
cares
for
them
as
lovingly
as
she
does
her
own
Tutti
.
She
and
the
three
children
all
sleep
on
the
same
mattress
in
the
one
bedroom
behind
the
shop
.
How
a
Balinese
single
mother
facing
eviction
found
it
in
her
heart
to
take
in
two
extra
homeless
children
is
something
that
reaches
far
beyond
any
understanding
I
’
ve
ever
had
about
the
meaning
of
compassion
.
I
want
to
help
them
.
That
was
it
.
This
is
what
that
trembling
feeling
was
,
which
I
’
d
experienced
so
profoundly
after
meeting
Wayan
for
the
first
time
.
I
wanted
to
help
this
single
mother
with
her
daughter
and
her
extra
orphans
.
I
wanted
to
valet
-
park
them
into
a
better
life
.
It
’
s
just
that
I
hadn
’
t
been
able
to
figure
out
how
to
do
it
.
But
today
as
Wayan
and
Armenia
and
I
were
eating
our
lunch
and
weaving
our
typical
conversation
of
empathy
and
chopsbusting
,
I
looked
over
at
little
Tutti
and
noticed
that
she
was
doing
something
rather
odd
.
She
was
walking
around
the
shop
with
a
single
,
small
square
of
pretty
cobalt
blue
ceramic
tile
resting
on
the
palms
of
her
upturned
hands
,
singing
in
a
chanting
sort
of
way
.
I
watched
her
for
a
while
,
just
to
see
what
she
was
up
to
.
Tutti
played
with
that
tile
for
a
long
time
,
tossing
it
in
the
air
,
whispering
to
it
,
singing
to
it
,
then
pushing
it
along
the
floor
like
it
was
a
Matchbox
car
.
Finally
she
sat
upon
it
in
a
quiet
corner
,
eyes
closed
,
singing
to
herself
,
buried
in
some
mystical
,
invisible
compartment
of
space
all
her
own
I
asked
Wayan
what
this
was
all
about
.
She
said
that
Tutti
had
found
the
tile
outside
the
construction
site
of
a
fancy
hotel
project
down
the
road
and
had
pocketed
it
.
Ever
since
Tutti
had
found
the
tile
,
she
kept
saying
to
her
mother
,
"
Maybe
if
we
have
a
house
someday
,
it
can
have
a
pretty
blue
floor
,
like
this
.
"
Now
,
according
to
Wayan
,
Tutti
often
likes
to
sit
perched
on
that
one
tiny
blue
square
for
hours
on
end
,
shutting
her
eyes
and
pretending
she
’
s
inside
her
own
house
.
What
can
I
say
?
When
I
heard
that
story
,
and
looked
at
that
child
deep
in
meditation
upon
her
small
blue
tile
,
I
was
like
:
OK
,
that
does
it
.
And
I
excused
myself
from
the
shop
to
go
take
care
of
this
intolerable
state
of
affairs
once
and
for
all
.
Wayan
once
told
me
that
sometimes
when
she
’
s
healing
her
patients
she
becomes
an
open
pipeline
for
God
’
s
love
,
and
she
ceases
even
thinking
about
what
needs
to
be
done
next
.
The
intellect
stops
,
the
intuition
rises
and
all
she
has
to
do
is
permit
her
God
-
ness
to
flow
through
her
.
She
says
,
"
It
feels
like
a
wind
comes
and
takes
my
hands
.
"
This
same
wind
,
maybe
,
is
the
thing
that
blew
me
out
of
Wayan
’
s
shop
that
day
,
that
pushed
me
out
of
my
hung
-
over
anxiety
about
whether
I
was
ready
to
start
dating
again
,
and
guided
me
over
to
Ubud
’
s
local
Internet
cafe
,
where
I
sat
and
wrote
-
in
one
effortless
draft
-
a
fund
-
raising
e
-
mail
to
all
my
friends
and
family
across
the
world
.
I
told
everyone
that
my
birthday
was
coming
up
in
July
and
that
soon
I
would
be
turning
thirty
-
five
.
I
told
them
that
there
was
nothing
in
this
world
that
I
needed
or
wanted
,
and
that
I
had
never
been
happier
in
my
life
.
I
told
them
that
,
if
I
were
home
in
New
York
,
I
would
be
planning
a
big
stupid
birthday
party
and
I
would
make
them
all
come
to
this
party
,
and
they
would
have
to
buy
me
gifts
and
bottles
of
wine
and
the
whole
celebration
would
get
ridiculously
expensive
.
Therefore
,
I
explained
,
a
cheaper
and
more
lovely
way
to
help
celebrate
this
birthday
would
be
if
my
friends
and
family
would
care
to
make
a
donation
to
help
a
woman
named
Wayan
Nuriyasih
buy
a
house
in
Indonesia
for
herself
and
her
children
.
