Finding Hope

E ver hear the phrase “the eye of the needle”? Of course you have. We all have. I always assumed it meant something fierce — like Eye of the Storm, or Evil Eye, or that Eye of the Tiger montage that convinces you that you, too, could climb 72 flights of stairs in sweatpants and  emotional turmoil. Turns out? None of that. It’s... a gate. Which feels like disappointing branding. Every morning I walk my dogs into the woods. There’s a giant metal gate blocking the path — probably to keep nitwits from hosting unsanctioned monster-truck baptisms or whatever grown adults do after dark when left unattended. But on the right side of the gate? There’s a tiny opening. And by tiny, I mean: If I gain three pounds, this becomes a rescue situation. I could walk around it, but poison ivy is basically the woodland welcoming committee. So every morning, I do the same ritual: Hold my breath. Suck in my gut. Let the dogs barrel through like they have brunch reservations. And then I shimmy after them,...