让人奇怪的是，和别人的过错比起来，我们自身的过错往往不是那样的可恶。我想，其原因应该是我们知晓一切导致自己犯错的情况，因此能够设法谅解自己的错误，而别人的错误却不能谅解。我们对自己的缺点不甚关注，即便是深陷困境而不得不正视它们的时候，我们也会很容易就宽恕自己。据我所知，我们这样做是正确的。缺点是我们自身的一部分，我们必须接纳自己的好和坏。
但是当我们评判别人的时候，情况就不同了。我们不是通过真实的自我来评判别人，而是用一种自我形象来评判，这种自我形象完全摒弃了在任何世人眼中会伤害到自己的虚荣或者体面的东西。举一个小例子来说：当觉察到别人说谎时，我们是多么地蔑视他啊！但是，谁能够说自从未说过谎？可能还不止一百次呢。
人和人之间没什么大的差别。他们皆是伟大与渺小，善良与邪恶，高尚与低俗的混合体。有的人性格比较坚毅，机会也比较多，因而达个或那个方面，能够更自由地发挥自己的禀赋，但是人类的潜能却都是相同的。至于我自己，我认为自己并不比大多数人更好或者更差，但是我知道，假如我记下我生命中每一次举动和每一个掠过我脑海的想法的话，世界就会将我视为一个邪恶的怪物。每个人都会有这样的怪念头，这样的认识应当能够启发我们宽容自己，也宽容他人。同时，假如因此我们得以用幽默的态度看待他人，即使是天下最优秀最令人尊敬的人，而且假如我们也因此不把自己看得过于重要，那是很有裨益的。
Cookies
As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon， my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day I’d looked forward to for weeks： Miss Pace’s fourth-grade， end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week， and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated “party Friday” had arrived.
I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom’s chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block， and I knew they’d be a hit with my classmates. But two o’clock passed， and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone， dropping off their offerings of punch and crackers， chips， cupcakes and brownies. My mother was missing in action.
“Don’t worry， Robbie， she’ll be along soon，” Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past.
Around me， the noisy party raged on， but I wouldn’t budge from my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax me away， but I stayed put， holding out hope that the familiar family car would round the corner， carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm.
The three o’clock bell soon jolted me from my thoughts and I dejectedly grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled out the door for home.
On the four-block walk to our house， I plotted my revenge. I would slam the front door upon entering， refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me， and vow never to speak to her again.
The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother’s absence， but found none. My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage. For the first time in my life， my mother had let me down.
I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.
“Robbie，” she called out a bit urgently. “Where are you？”
I could then hear her darting frantically from room to room， wondering where I could be. I remained silent. In a moment， she mounted the steps—the sounds of her footsteps quickening as she ascended the staircase.
When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed， I didn’t move but instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.
“I’m so sorry， honey，” she said. “I just forgot. I got busy and forgot—plain and simple.”
I still didn’t move. “Don’t forgive her，” I told myself. “She humiliated you. She forgot you. Make her pay.”
Then my mother did something completely unexpected. She began to laugh. I could feel her shudder as the laughter shook her. It began quietly at first and then increased in its velocity and volume.
I was incredulous. How could she laugh at a time like this？ I rolled over and faced her， ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.
But my mother wasn’t laughing at all. She was crying. “I’m so sorry，” she sobbed softly. “I let you down. I let my little boy down.”
She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl. I was dumbstruck. I had never seen my mother cry. To my understanding， mothers weren’t supposed to. I wondered if this was how I looked to her when I cried.
I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when I’d skinned knees or stubbed toes， times when she knew just the right thing to say. But in that moment of tearful plight， words of profundity abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.
“It’s okay， Mom，” I stammered as I reached out and gently stroked her hair. “We didn’t even need those cookies. There was plenty of stuff to eat. Don’t cry. It’s all right. Really.
My words， as inadequate as they sounded to me， prompted my mother to sit up. She wiped her eyes， and a slight smile began to crease her tear-stained cheeks. I smiled back awkwardly， and she pulled me to her.
We didn’t say another word. We just held each other in a long， silent embrace. When we came to the point where I would usually pull away， I decided that， this time， I could hold on， perhaps， just a little bit longer.
