Daily Affairs Against Aging

Fire from the Temple of Hera at Olympia—
an ancient flame crossing oceans,
gathering the scattered hearts of the world
into a single trembling bowl of light.

The sacred mirror bends toward the sky,
and for a moment
you see yourself as if from beyond—
radiant, unguarded,
a center of awareness
opening like a star.

Something cries out within—
not new,
but older than memory—
a first fire moving through all creatures,
calling you back
to what you have always carried.

So at sixty-five
I began to write each day.

Before sixty,
I had only skimmed the surface of life—
words came,
but they had not yet ripened
in sorrow,
in wonder,
in the long patience of becoming.

At forty,
we climbed the first hills,
dreaming of a full marathon.

At fifty,
we made our peace with the body—
ten miles would be enough.

At sixty,
we walked three miles
for a grandson’s Cub Scout troop—
the heart still eager,
the knees quietly speaking their limits.

At seventy,
a treadmill entered the room—
a small, faithful circle,
three measured miles
that go nowhere
and yet remain.

After seventy-five,
the rituals grow simple,
almost like prayer.

Before rising,
I breathe deeply,
turn my hands,
wake my feet—
as one might gently wake a child.

Thought and word
begin to recognize each other again,
and from that quiet meeting
the day unfolds—

a journal
flowing out
like a thin stream of light
from a hidden spring.

O fire from the ancient temple,
you still burn
in this aging frame.

Teach me again—
each decade a doorway,
each breath a veil lifted,
each small act
a step deeper
into the mystery
of being alive.

—TaeHun Yoon
March 25, 2026