Here there is a promising eight-second pause in thoughts. But then...
此处，思维出现前途光明的八秒钟停顿。可接着……

Mind: Are you mad at me now?
头脑：你还在生我的气？

And then with a big gasp, like I am coming up for air, my mind wins, my eyes fly open and I quit. In tears. An Ashram is supposed to be a place where you come to deepen your meditation, but this is a disaster. The pressure is too much for me. I can't do it. But what should I do? Run out of the temple crying after fourteen minutes, every day?
接着我喘了一大口气，好比浮出水面吸气，我的头脑赢了，我睁开眼睛，投降了。我泪流满面。照理说道场应该是让你加强禅修的地方，然而这却是一场灾难，给我太大的压力。我办不到。可是该怎么办呢？每一天在十四分钟过后跑出寺院痛哭？

This morning, though, instead of fighting it, I just stopped. I gave up. I let myself slump against the wall behind me. My back hurt, I had no strength, my mind was quivering. My posture collapsed like a bridge crumbling down. I took the mantra off the top of my head (where it had been pressing down on me like an invisible anvil) and set it on the floor beside me. And then I said to God, "I'm really sorry, but this is the closest I could get to you today."
然而这天早晨，我未与之作战，只是停了下来。我放弃了。让自己靠在身后的墙上。我背痛，没有力气，脑袋发颤。我的姿势垮掉，犹如崩塌的桥。我卸除脑袋里的咒语（咒语有如无形的铁砧，压在我身上），搁在身边的地板上。而后对神说：“很抱歉，今天我只能靠你这么近。”

The Lakota Sioux say that a child who cannot sit still is a half-developed child. And an old Sanskrit text says, "By certain signs you can tell when meditation is being rightly performed. One of them is that a bird will sit on your head, thinking you are an inert thing." This has not exactly happened to me yet. But for the next forty minutes or so, I tried to stay as quiet as possible, trapped in that meditation hall and ensnared in my own shame and inadequacy, watching the devotees around me as they sat in their perfect postures, their perfect eyes closed, their smug faces emanating calmness as they surely transported themselves into some perfect heaven. I was full of a hot, powerful sadness and would have loved to burst into the comfort of tears, but tried hard not to, remembering something my Guru once said—that you should never give yourself a chance to fall apart because, when you do, it becomes a tendency and it happens over and over again. You must practice staying strong, instead.
印第安部落拉克塔苏族（Lakota Sioux）说，一个坐立不安的孩子是未发展完全的孩子。古老的梵语经文说：“依赖某些迹象，你能得知是否恰当实行禅坐。其中一个迹象是，一只鸟栖息在你头上，以为你是无生命之物。”这尚未在我身上发生。不过，接下来的四十分钟左右，我尽可能保持平静，困在禅坐大堂中，对自身的缺陷深感羞愧，看着周围的信徒体态完美地静坐，闭着完美的眼睛，沾沾自喜的面容散发着冷静，想必正把自己送往某种完美天堂。我充满强烈、巨大的哀伤，很想痛快地大哭一场，却极力阻止自己，想起我的导师曾说过——你永远不该给自己崩溃的机会，因为这会成为一种习惯，一而再、再而三地发生。反而，你必须训练自己保持坚强。

But I didn't feel strong. My body ached in diminished worthlessness.
但我不觉得自己坚强。

I wondered who is the "me" when I am conversing with my mind, and who is the "mind." I thought about the relentless thought-processing, soul-devouring machine that is my brain, and wondered how on earth I was ever going to master it. Then I remembered that line from Jaws and couldn't help smiling:
我的身体毫无价值地疼痛。我怀疑在跟自己的头脑进行对话时，谁是“我”，谁是“头脑”。我思索处理思考、吞噬灵魂的脑袋机器，怀疑自己究竟能否制伏它。而后，我想起电影《大白鲨》里的一句台词，不禁笑了起来：

"We're gonna need a bigger boat."
Eat, Pray, Love
“我们需要一艘大一点的船。”