6 . More than 25 years ago, Saroo Brierley lived in rural（农村）India. One day, he played with his brother along the rail line and fell asleep. When he woke up and found himself alone, the 4-year-old decided his brother might be on the train he saw in front of him-so he got on.

That train took him a thousand miles across the country to a totally strange city. He lived on the streets, and then in an orphanage（孤儿院）. There, he was adopted by an Australian family and flown to Tasmania.

As he writes in his new book, A Long Way Home, Brierley couldn't help but wonder about his hometown back in India. He remembered landmarks, but since he didn't know his town's name, finding a small neighborhood in a vast country proved to be impossible.

Then he found a digital mapping program. He spent years searching for his hometown in the program's satellite pictures. In 2011, he came across something familiar. He studied it and realized he was looking at a town's central business district from a bird's-eye view. He thought,   “On the right-hand side you should see the three-platform train station”—and there it was. "And on the left-hand side you should see a big fountain"-and there it was. Everything just started to match.

When he stood in front of the house where he grew up as a child, he saw a lady standing in the entrance. "There's something about me, " he thought—and it took him a few seconds but he finally remembered what she used to look like.

In an interview Brierley says, "My mother looked so much shorter than I remembered. But she came forth and walked forward, and I walked forward, and my feelings and tears and the chemical in my brain, you know, it was like a nuclear fusion（核聚变）. I just didn't know what to say, because I never thought seeing my mother would ever come true. And here I am, standing in front of her. ”

7 . About five weeks ago, I noticed the skin of our pet lizard was growing dusty. It worried me. I reported the strange surface on the skin of the lizard to my husband and children the next morning. Seconds later, our lizard emerged from its tank with its old skin flowing behind it.

I didn't think about it much until a morning last week when I knocked my favorite teapot off the table. It burst into hundreds of pieces. As I swept up the mess, I wondered why we had been breaking so many things over the months.

The destruction started three months ago. It was my husband's birthday. He had just lost his job. The uncertainty was starting to wear on us, so I wanted to do something special.

“Let's make a cake for Dad!” I cried.

My kids screamed with joy. We baked, iced and sprinkled for most of the day. Candles on the cake! Balloons on the walls! Flowers on the table!

Two hours before my husband came back home from another job interview, my daughter climbed up to grab a glass vase from a high shelf. It fell and crashed beside the cake. Tiny pieces of glass were everywhere. She sobbed loudly as I threw the cake away. My husband had banana pudding for his birthday.

Three days ago, the light in our living room suddenly went out. After several frustrating hours of unsuccessful attempts to fix it, my husband suggested watching the Michael Jordan documentary series The Last Dance.

The poignancy of Jordan retiring from his beloved basketball to play baseball and what had pushed him to make such a tough decision took me by surprise. As I watched him take off his basketball uniform and replace it with a baseball uniform, I saw him leaving behind the layer that no longer served him, just as our lizard had. Neither of them chose the moment that had transformed them. But they had to live with who they were after everything was different. Just like us. I realized that we have to learn to leave the past behind.

Humans do not shed skin as easily as other animals. The beginning of change is upsetting. The process is tiring. Damage changes us before we are ready. I see our lizard, raw and nearly new.

Jordan said that no matter how it ends, it starts with hope. With our tender, hopeful skin, that is where we begin.

8 . I was in the middle of the Amazon (亚马逊) with my wife, who was there as a medical researcher. We flew on a small plane to a faraway village. We did not speak the local language, did not know the customs, and more often than not, did not entirely recognize the food. We could not have felt more foreign.

We were raised on books and computers, highways and cell phones, but now we were living in a village without running water or electricity It was easy for us to go to sleep at the end of the day feeling a little misunderstood.

Then one perfect Amazonian evening, with monkeys calling from beyond the village green, we played soccer. I am not good at soccer, but that evening it was wonderful. Everyone knew the rules. We all spoke the same language of passes and shots. We understood one another perfectly. As darkness came over the field and the match ended, the goal keeper, Juan, walked over to me and said in a matter-of-fact way, “In your home, do you have a moon too?” I was surprised.

After I explained to Juan that yes, we did have a moon and yes, it was very similar to his, I felt a sort of awe (敬畏) at the possibilities that existed in his world. In Juan’s world, each village could have its own moon. In Juan’s world, the unknown and undiscovered was vast and marvelous. Anything was possible.

In our society, we know that Earth has only one moon. We have looked at our planet from every angle and found all of the wildest things left to find. I can, from my computer at home, pull up satellite images of Juan’s village. There are no more continents and no more moons to search for, little left to discover. At least it seems that way.

Yet, as I thought about Juan’s question, I was not sure how much more we could really rule out. I am, in part, an ant biologist, so my thoughts turned to what we know about insect life and I knew that much in the world of insects remains unknown. How much, though? How ignorant   (无知的) are we? The question of what we know and do not know constantly bothered me.

I began collecting newspaper articles about new species, new monkey, new spider…, and on and on they appear. My drawer quickly filled. I began a second drawer for more general discoveries: new cave system discovered with dozens of nameless species, four hundred species of bacteria found in the human stomach. The second drawer began to fill and as it did I wondered whether there were bigger discoveries out there, not just species, but life that depends on things thought to be useless, life even without DNA. I started a third drawer for these big discoveries. It fills more slowly, but all the same, it fills.

In looking into the stories of biological discovery, I also began to find something else, a collection of scientists, usually brilliant occasionally half-mad, who made the discoveries. Those scientists very often see the same things that other scientists see, but they pay more attention to them, and they focus on them to the point of exhaustion (穷尽), and at the risk of the ridicule of their peers. In looking for the stories of discovery, I found the stories of these people and how their lives changed our view of the world.

We are repeatedly willing to imagine we have found most of what is left to discover. We used to think that insects were the smallest organisms (生物), and that nothing lived deeper than six hundred meters. Yet, when something new turns up, more often than not, we do not even know its name.

I’ve always been creative since I was a little girl. My childhood was filled with arts, crafts (手工) and music, and every day was an exciting adventure of creation.

Somewhere along the way, however, I lost touch with my creative self. At 21, I landed a job at a big insurance company out of my business degree. I would go to the office, sit at my desk and repeat the same work five days a week 9 to 5. The days were long and tedious. Working this way for one year was painful enough, let alone a lifetime. Before long I decided to make a change.

One thing I had developed an interest in was sewing, so I took a sewing course at a community college. It was only a five-week course but it awakened my interest and got my confidence up.

As I dreamt bigger, I began looking into college courses for Fashion Design and three months later I signed up for a part-time design course. I attended classes two nights a week. Although exhausting, it gave me energy, enthusiasm and happiness.

As it became clearer that fashion was what I wanted to do full time, the reality of my day-to-day work at the insurance company became harder. I felt bored. No energy, no motivation and zero fulfilment (满足感).

I knew I needed to make a bigger change. After struggling for quite a while, I made a difficult decision—leaving my job and studying my design course full time. Two years later I got my diploma.

The last few years have been exciting because I’ve been following my heart to do what I love. Today I am living a creative life as the designer of my own fashion brand.

Sometimes it’s hard to make a change, but I’m so glad I set the wheels of change in motion with that very small first step because it has led me to where I am today.

10 . My First Marathon（马拉松）

A month before my first marathon, one of my ankles was injured and this meant not running for two weeks, leaving me only two weeks to train. Yet, I was determined to go ahead.

I remember back to my 7th year in school. In my first P.E. class, the teacher required us to run laps and then hit a softball. I didn’t do either well. He later informed me that I was ＂not athletic＂.

The idea that I was ＂not athletic＂ stuck with me for years. When I started running in my 30s, I realized running was a battle against myself, not about competition or whether or not I was athletic. It was all about the battle against my own body and mind. A test of wills!

The night before my marathon, I dreamt that I couldn’t even find the finish line. I woke up sweating and nervous, but ready to prove something to myself.

Shortly after crossing the start line, my shoe laces(鞋带) became untied. So I stopped to readjust. Not the start I wanted!

At mile 3, I passed a sign: ＂GO FOR IT, RUNNERS!＂

By mile 17, I became out of breath and the once injured ankle hurt badly. Despite the pain, I stayed the course walking a bit and then running again.

By mile 21, I was starving!

As I approached mile 23, I could see my wife waving a sign. She is my biggest fan. She never minded the alarm clock sounding at 4 a.m. or questioned my expenses on running.

I was one of the final runners to finish. But I finished! And I got a medal. In fact, I got the same medal as the one that the guy who came in first place had.

Determined to be myself, move forward, free of shame and worldly labels(世俗标签), I can now call myself a ＂marathon winner＂.