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Awake from a short sleep in her chair, my grandmother ran her fingers through her wavy white hair, looked out her window at the blue sky, and asked me what I would wish for if I had just one wish.

She often asks this, and I always answer the same way—"To have Granddad back" —which usually gets her reminiscing about him. Memories of their 67-year life together would always make her smile.

My grandmother was born in Ireland. In her teens, she moved to a poor village in England. At 28, my grandmother walked herself through the snow to birth her first child. When she was 50, she survived an emergency surgery. In her 60s, she suffered from arthritis(关节炎)but still managed to climb Snowdon, Wales's tallest peak.

About a decade ago, I noticed that she began to lose her hearing. If I asked what she had for lunch, she might say, "Oh, the weather has been lovely today. " She seemed to recycle the same handful of answers to my questions.

In recent years, I've been trying to show up for her more, in person. One day after I made us coffee, I asked her: "What's the secret to being successful in your 90s? "

"Oh Richard, so many people are old at 60. They just want to sit all day. You won't make it to 90 like that. You have to try. "

"Try what? "

"Try walking, " she said. "Try gardening. Try cooking. Trying doesn't require a lot of trying. Just try a little . Like, with this coffee you've made us. I know you tried . "

Even at 93, my grandmother still knits blankets for the local hospital's babies and buys books to continue with her French. "Age is just another bot- her attempting to convince you of the impossible in the world, but actually the world is filled with possibilities," she once said.

You might think these lakes would be expanding, not disappearing. As climate change warms the region — melting（融化）surface snow and ice as well as the permafrost（永冻层）— there should be more surface water, forming larger lakes and even new ones. Recently, however, scientists have observed not just shrinking（缩小的） lakes but lakes that have completely gone away.

Many scientists shared the commonsense expectation that as permafrost melted, lakes would at first expand with meltwater flowing into them. Eventually, researchers made a prediction that progressive warming during the 21st and 22nd centuries would dry out the Arctic, and lakes would begin to shrink. But now it looks as if Arctic lakes are disappearing a century sooner than predicted. A case in point is that some large, age-old lakes shrank dramatically in what appears to have been a matter of months. Scientists have labeled this phenomenon "disastrous lake loss"

What caused this? The frozen solid ground actually contains bits of rock, mineral and organic matter, leaving spaces in between. And because these spaces are filled with solid ice, liquid water cannot readily get inside, but it can when the permafrost melts, allowing more water to get through. Soon after that, around 192 lakes in northwestern Alaska are gone from sight.

Why did scientists miss this? One probable reason is that most climate models assume that the melting of permafrost is driven only by warming air.

New evidence suggests, however, that rainfall — particularly increasing autumn rain — is now contributing significantly to permafrost loss. The rainfall carries heat into the ground. Yet none of the existing models includes such processes.

That is a good example of why — no matter how complex our models are or may one day be — we need direct observation of the natural world.

That's what happened the day my club was reading aloud a poem by Henry Longfellow. I guess I was better than the others, for Miss Chevalier asked a while later, "Addie, I was wondering if you would recite the whole poem to the Saturday evening's club." She said a famous professor was going to give a lecture about the poet, and a presentation of that poem would be a fresh way to start.

She asked me to memorize it. "But that shouldn't be a problem for a child of your ability," she added. I'm telling you, my happy feet barely touched the ground all the way home. To me, that was the biggest thing ever and I soon learned the whole poem by heart, well prepared for our first rehearsal.

I was desperately nervous when I went to her office the next day. But the good thing was she always had the smile that would make you feel like you just did something right.

Halfway through the poem, Miss Chevalier stopped me and asked if I knew what "impetuous" meant. Despite her encouraging smile, I wanted to sink through the floor because I was unsure about its pronunciation as well as its meaning. Miss Chevalier pretended not to have noticed my red face and handed me a dictionary, asking me to read its definition aloud. "Impetuous has two definitions: rushing with great force or violence; acting suddenly, with little thought. "

She asked me which one fitted the poem. I read both definitions over again, trying to figure it out, but Miss Chevalier must have read my mind. "There is no wrong answer," she said, "I want to know your opinion, Addie." Hesitantly, I said, "Maybe… both."

She liked that. "One has to be impetuous both ways or they wouldn't dare to face up to any challenge. Would you call yourself impetuous?"

I knew she was asking for an opinion. "My mother thinks being impetuous for girls is improper, anyway."

She said my mom was somewhat right about that. "But girls should also be wise to take up challenges when needed. I believe you are such a girl."

After that, I would never call Miss Chevalier "Poodle" again.

The first book I picked up was Montaigne's Essays. To my surprise I discovered in the margins (页边空白) what clearly was my own faded hand-writing. So I was actually reading it again, but what I was rereading seemed entirely new. I also found sentences underlined. Only this time I wondered: Why did I underline this sentence? It's the next one that is important!

Clearly, my way of reading the text had shifted, and I myself had changed over the years. This raised the larger question of rereading. It comes in many forms. There's voluntary rereading, the result of a willful decision to revisit a book one has admired, or a book that has left one with some unanswered questions. This kind of planned revisit could also be for confirming certain details in the text, or for checking on the moves of a given character. A devoted teacher might also wish to refresh his closeness to a work, and thus avoid teaching through the same old written notes with soporific (让人瞌睡的) effects.

Contrarily, there's involuntary rereading. The original reading was either forgotten or so totally absorbed that the new chance encounter with the text produced surprise and astonishment. My reaction to the renewed reading no longer corresponded to the original experience, and I was no longer sure that I recognized myself as the same reader.

Then there are what one might call subconscious (潜意识的) rereadings, those that occur without the specific act of reading, much as the memory of a tune can keep coming back to the mind without its actually being heard again. This form of remembered contact with a book can accompany us during a lifetime and continue to strengthen and shape us. Much in the same manner, we may over the years recite to ourselves poems learnt by heart long ago, which have become part of our self-recognition.

All of these ways of reading are valuable. Renewed contact with a novel or a poem can activate the search for a better knowledge of the self. The new reading, a form of revision, uncovers the change in us. The newness is not in the text. It is we who have evolved. In the process of rereading, our outlook has also been significantly changed. Rereading makes it possible for us to see the world around us, ourselves included, in a new light.

Evolving an ability doesn't automatically mean we'll want to use it. While physical exercise isn't that bad, it's still typically unpleasant. It has to be: you're pushing your body to its physical limits, which leads to significant discomfort.

Another issue is that the human brain is highly sensitive to wasted effort. Studies have shown that it calculates the effort required for actions and tends to stop us fromsquandering vital resources on fruitless efforts, like walking over 30 km for a handful of berries.

The thing is, regular exercise to get "in shape" requires constant and considerable effort — all for gradual progress and uncertain rewards. So, your brain's tendency to ask, "Is it worth it? " will be hard to quieten. This particular feature also means we typically prefer things which offer minimum effort for maximum reward.

Thankfully, the human brain is a complex organ. It isn't ruled by its more primitive drives. While many species' thought processes are limited to "Food, eat it!", "Danger, run!", "Pain, avoid!", we've evolved beyond that. Our brains can form multiple long-term goals and ambitions. We can imagine a desirable future scenario (情况), figure out how we'd achieve it, and do just that. Or at least work toward it. This directly impacts how our brain processes motivation and willpower. It makes us capable of delayed gratification (满足): we can recognize that rejecting a reward now can lead to a greater reward later, and act accordingly.

So how does the brain process motivation? The self-discrepancy (自我差异) theory suggests we have several "selves" active in our minds at any given time: our "actual" self, our "ideal" self, and our "ought" self. Your "actual" self is how you are right now. Your "ideal" self is what you want to be. And your "ought" self is the self that does what you ought to be doing to become your "ideal" self. So, if your "ideal" self is a professional footballer, and your "actual" self isn't, your "ought" self is the one that spends a lot of time training, exercising, and getting better at football.

As far as your brain is concerned, there are processes that discourage exercise, and processes that encourage it. Ideally, you'll end up putting more weight on the latter than the former.

Mr. Dena kept an unforgettable5 by Sir Isaac Newton on his chalk board: "If I have been able to see further, it is only because I stand on the shoulders of giants." He reflected on that throughout the year and was6 to teach us more than math.

Mr. Dena occasionally gave partner tests, believing that we could solve hard problems together. He drew names out of a hat to7 partners. Students were8 out loud that they wouldn't be paired with me. As the "lucky" name was9, the class burst into laughter. My partner joked about being10 with me. However, we worked well together and surprised everyone with our11 on this test. I learned so much from my classmates and I realized this was really12 we had partner tests.

The final exam was Mr. Dena's final13 to us, but I failed it. I told him I didn't understand how I could do so14 on a test when I had studied so hard. He explained it's not about the grades; it's about true understanding. If studying didn't15 on a test, it would someday. I knew then that16 passing or failing tests, studying was about hard work and effort. And I17 myself harder than I ever had.

To be challenged in math really changed the way I18 other challenges in life. I wasn't going to let a grade stop me from learning some of the best lessons of my life. Mr. Dena is one of the giants that Newton19. He has helped me see not only more20 ideas than I thought possible, but who I can be.

Months later, after a job interview at another company, I got a call From the manager. "3 , we decided to offer the job to someone else," he said. "Would you like to hear the feedback (反馈)?"

The manager went on to tell me I hadn't expressed my4 for applying for the position. The feedback was5 to hear, but he was right. As I just wanted a job in my home city, I didn't6 much whether it fit my interests. The job at the company was something I was capable of doing, but I didn't feel7 about it — and that showed in the interview.

From then on, I decided to carefully evaluate each job opening and only8 at I was interested in. In my applications, I also began9 clearly why I wanted that particular job. Soon my effort10 , as I got an offer I was truly excited about.

Years later, I found myself on the other side of the table, interviewing11 for a position in my lab. One of them got my attention. On paper, his application looked12 , but the interview went badly. He didn't seem to have done any reading13 about my research, which made me wonder14 he was truly interested in working with me.

When I called to tell him, I couldn't offer him the15 , he was disappointed. I then told him where he could16 in future interviews. As the17 went on, I got the sense that he was grateful for what I said.

Nowadays, when my own trainees apply for positions else where, I encourage them to18 feedback. It's never pleasant to19 constructive criticism, but if we are told where we are lagging (落后), we are more likely to avoid making the same20 in the future.

—Well, _________, but I can't quite think who he is.