【推荐1】Abebe Bikila stared at the athletes from his own country, who were competing in the Olympic Games. The name Ethiopia (埃塞俄比亚) was written across the back of each athlete’s uniform (衣服). As Abebe Bikila watched, he made up his mind to become one of those athletes.

In 1932, Abebe Bikila was born in a poor family in a small town near Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. As a child, he always ran to school a few kilometres away from his home. After leaving school, Abebe Bikila went into the army. He was later found to be excellent as a marathon (马拉松赛跑) runner. In 1960, he was on his way to Rome as a member of the Ethiopian Olympic team.

In Rome, Abebe Bikila succeeded in completing things that no runner had ever achieved before. When he won the Olympic marathon, he became the first black African to win a gold medal. And he set a new world record. Another thing that made people surprised was that he ran the race in his bare (赤裸的) feet. When asked why he ran barefoot, Abebe Bikila said, “I wanted the world to know that my country Ethiopia has always won with determination and heroism.”

By 1964, Abebe Bikila had become well­known as a barefoot runner. In the same year, he headed for the Tokyo Olympics. But six weeks before his big race, Abebe Bikila suffered an attack of appendicitis (阑尾炎). When he arrived in Japan, he was still recovering from the operation to remove his appendix. But Abebe Bikila ran the marathon — this time wearing shoes — and won it! He beat his own record in 1960 by more than four minutes. That made him the first runner to continuously win two Olympic marathons.

In 1968, a car accident left the great runner unable to walk for ever. Abebe Bikila died in 1973. A huge crowd, including the then ruler of Ethiopia, Atse Haile Selassie, gathered as he was laid to rest. Abebe Bikila will always be remembered for his great ability, love of country, and true Olympic spirit. In the heart of all sports fans, Abebe Bikila remains an excellent Olympic athlete.

【推荐2】Gautam Shah had spent 20 years working in IT—and his whole life caring about nature. He saw advances in conservation that got mentioned only in science journals, “but the story lines within that data are amazing; they’re fascinating,” Shah says. ‘They’re absolutely things that can engage an audience. ”

Eager to use his techie skills for wildlife conservation, Shah—a National Geographic explorer—founded a game company called Internet of Elephants in 2016. The Kenya-based start-up designs digital experiences to tell real conservation stories based on real data. One example: Wildeverse, an improved reality mobile app like Pokemon Go, launched in April 2020. In the game, players can “track” apes (类人猿) by collecting environmental samples such as fruit and animal waste. Rather than putting lots of high-tech tricks in a game, Shah says, the company prioritizes (优先) telling an interesting, true story through whatever technology is best suited to it.

Shah believes that gaming has a unique ability to connect audiences with wildlife in a deep, personal way that will show much concern and advocacy. His goal is for Internet of Elephants to reach more than 50 million people by 2027.

Hopefully, he says, “we can create an entire industry where creating games and these types of digital experiences about wildlife conservation becomes as common things as creating a wildlife documentary. ”

【推荐3】Years ago, I appeared on stage with the Royal Melbourne Philharmonic Choir in the Town Hall. There I was, my feet in plain shoes, sweat dirtying my clean white shirt, singing my heart out in front of the big organ. I still have a tape recording of that performance somewhere, where I swear I can hear myself singing, high and thin and possibly off-key.

But life got in the way and I stopped singing. Then, in the summer of 2019, I found myself facing some gloom in my own life. It felt as if it had been a long time between songs, as if there was something unsung, some absent music in my ears. I began to fear I might be making myself ill and unable to breathe in a normal way.

Could singing help me reclaim my voice and calm my fast-beating heart? Research from the Royal Society noted that “group singing can improve physical and mental health, as well as promote social bonds”. So, rather than letting my unsung tunes strangle (扼杀) me, I decided to take on a new choral experience, one being in the Big Feminist Sing, a community choir.

“If you don’t know what to sing,” the choir director said, “find someone who looks confident and go and stand next to them.” Find a friend if you’re in trouble; take a risk; use your voice; be part of something bigger than yourself. I’ve been singing in the choir ever since, because group singing gives me a sense of safety — and each rehearsal (排练) is a lifeline, a connected thread, an intake of air working toward a collective voice. It doesn’t matter if I am a bit off-key to start with. Decades of unsung situations have changed, and I have flown.

【推荐2】My mother was never truly happy in Connecticut finding the winter bitter cold and the culture provincial (偏狭的). Though she grew up in New Jersey, she moved to San Francisco in her early twenties, met and married my dad out there. After I was born, they decided to return east, closer to their own parents. But she never let go of her love for the Bay Area.

California was always part of the conversation when I was a kid. I ate meals off a map-of-the-world placemat (餐垫), and Mom taught me to identify San Francisco before I learned where Hartford was. She told us stories of perfection on a single city, fantasizing about retiring out west. My dad would play along, but his heart wasn’t in the same place.

While my mother’s status in the nonprofit world advanced, her desire to move back to her favorite place grew strong. She applied for jobs in the Bay, underwent bicoastal Skype screenings, even traveled out for a couple of interviews on a whim (心血来潮). Sometimes her cover letters disappeared, other times she made it down to the final two candidates. With each rejection, she promised to make her next job application even stronger.

This past May, I relocated from San Francisco to New York for a job. A few weeks later, Mom called me. Her pursuit had finally paid off. She’s been offered a vice president position at a public health nonprofit in Oakland. A few weeks later, she packed up her baggage and left Connecticut for good.

Our lives are more semblable than ever these days. We’re both discovering our new homes, making friends. We’re looking for a good yoga studio to join, reading the same books and chatting about the plots by text message. I emailed her photos from my trip to Burning Man and she replied with stories about her new coworkers who go every year.

There’s even time for the occasional dating disaster.

Perhaps that’s the paradox (悖论) of growing older. Things will always change, and they can change immediately—my mother is proof. But an individual’s own power to create change always stays the same. Everything can change, and therefore nothing ever really changes.

Now when I’m out west for a visit, Mom meets me at a station with her big bag. We stop by the Grand Lake farmers market, picking out the freshest seasonal ingredients, before hiking up the hill to her new apartment. One of these days, I’ll actually cook her dinner.