“Well,” he says as he grabs a chunky green cardigan from the back of the desk chair and pulls it on. “If you’re in the mood for more I’m teaching a karma class this Sunday afternoon.” Mug in hand, he eases onto the bolster across from her and covers his legs with a blanket.

“I saw the poster when I came in.”

“It’s pay what you can. I’m raising money for the bereavement group.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“I’m lucky to be able to give back.” He takes a quiet slurp of tea, declares it’s “Still too hot,” and places the mug on the floor.

She bobs her tea bag up and down. “Teaching must be rewarding.”

“It is most of the time. But teaching’s nothing like taking a class. Sometimes I get a little burned out.”

“At least you’re helping people.”

“Not as much as they help me. I’m hooked on that instant gratification you get from adjusting someone’s pose or seeing them finally get quiet enough to sink into Savasana. It’s awesome.”

“I wish I had that kind of skill. All I seem to know how to do is write briefing notes. I’m a civil servant. Well, I used to be anyway. I’m not sure if I’m going back.”

“What would you do instead?”

“I have no idea.” She pauses. “Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be able to hold down another job. It just seems so…enormous. I don’t know how I ever did it before.”

“That’s just because you’re a little overwhelmed right now. You won’t always feel that way. But it takes some time. It’s supposed to.”

“Time heals all wounds?”

“Personally, I call bullshit on that one.”

She laughs.

“The way I see it,” he goes on. “All time ever gives you is an opportunity. It doesn’t do any of the work. That’s up to you. And it’s the work that matters in the end. It’s the work that’ll save you.”

“Well, that sounds exhausting.”

This time, he laughs. “All I’m saying is when you’re ready, all the things that feel impossible now will start to feel a little less impossible, and bit by bit, you’ll start working towards whatever new goals you’ve decided on, and before you know it, you’ll be a yoga teacher with a beard, who volunteers at a bereavement group once a month, and keeps an apiary on the roof of his apartment building.”

She touches her chin in mock self-consciousness.

“But chances are, you aren’t going to go climb Mount Everest or save the world tomorrow. And that’s fine. You’ve got enough going on. Maybe the day after, though.” He winks at her.