Volunteer Explorer

The temperature rose as more people filed into the small room. Just when I thought no other yogis could fit, people shuffled and scooched their mats closer together, making room for one more, two more, three more. We hadn’t even started our yoga practice, and I was already coated in sweat. I like to come to this 5:30 a.m. Wednesday class specifically because there are typically only a handful of people in it. I love the peaceful feeling of flowing through asanas in enough open space to pretend I am alone. Not today. At least 30 people filled the studio with their body heat and breath. I started to panic. My heart rate climbed as beads of sweat formed on my upper lip. I felt my breath shorten and catch in my throat. “Run!” my mind screamed. “All the air is outside! Go outside and breathe!” But just then, Nikki came to the front of the crowd and began our practice. “Let’s start in child’s pose today,” she said. I have difficulty keeping my face planted on the mat ...

This morning I awoke 50 years old. I saw diamonds in the snow, and a robin alit on my balcony. A wave of gratitude washed over me before I could lament my age, and the beauty of another ordinary day quelled the fear nipping at my ankles. Clouds passed by. Weak winter sun fell on familiar objects I hold very dear, giving them a fresh glow. My deceased father smiled from a frame as if to say, “You got this, kid. Make me proud.” I have sucked the marrow from each of my 50 years, leaving dry husks of memory in my wake. I have laughed and loved and left marks on my skin. I have taken in the stories of countless strangers, making friends along the way. I have shared stories of love and loss and suffering and redemption. I have wrestled with words until their skinny black shapes united in some kind of meaningful pattern that speaks a bit of truth. I have loved with every cell in my imperfect body. I have given myself with mindless passion and accepted the crumbs of a...

What can I say about love that hasn’t already been said? The word has as many different meanings as there are hidden messages in a Kubrick film. I don’t think I have much special insight into the state or nature of true love, but I’ve known many kinds of love, which makes me very lucky indeed. The really weird thing about love is how it is simultaneously the most commonly shared feeling in the world and the one feeling we can never manage to describe accurately. But we keep on trying to, don’t we? A red, red rose. An ocean. A raging inferno. Little heart attacks that aren’t enough to kill you but are just enough to make you walk funny. A heat wave. The sun. Quicksand. I’ve been working on loving myself better for a while. And by that, I mean treating myself with the same compassion and care I treat other people I love: my mom, my best friend, my boyfriend. It’s a little bit like being forced to play nice with the kid who used to be your best friend until she s...

What they don’t tell you about the whole “try, try again” adage is that sometimes trying again feels like a surefire way to fail again. Sometimes your brain gets so attached to its history of failure that it sees failing as inevitable, maybe even as success. What they don’t tell you about accepting failure and moving on is that the failure sometimes becomes part of your very fabric. Sometimes the fabric of failure starts to feel like whole cloth. Sometimes that shirt gets so comfortable that you can hardly tell it from your own skin. What they don’t tell you about falling in love is that sometimes the falling is so terrifying that you’ll grab onto anything to break your fall. Sometimes falling feels like flying until you look down and see the ground rushing up toward you, covered in the broken pieces of last year’s fall. What they don’t tell you about getting older is that sometimes you forget to act your age and your heart reminds you there’s still a little child inside ...

For the third time, the wind turned my umbrella wrong side out. Nearly frozen raindrops lashed at my hair while I pivoted into the blast to get the thing right way round again. Despite my earmuffs, gloves and warm boots, a chill was settling into my bones. It was only 6:30 on New Year’s Eve, and already I was done being outdoors. Turns out, the dazzling promise of the Big City could not change who I am at heart: an introvert who loves her creature comforts. My considerably younger companion concurred, and we made our way through the soggy streets to a bus that would carry us back to within blocks of warm, cozy shelter. My only New Year’s Eve triumph was the fact that I managed to remain awake until I could hear the faint boom of fireworks at midnight while my youthful companion snoozed intermittently. I stepped out onto the icy balcony to catch a glimpse of rosy blooms above the dark silhouette of large buildings. A neighbor wished me a happy new year as he tended to h...