A question that changed how I see everything
Two years ago, during one of the first mornings of my third year volunteering at Yoga Mela, I was walking towards the kitchen to help prepare breakfast. A participant — someone who had arrived only the day before — fell into step beside me and asked, simply: “Can I come too?”
He had not been asked. No one had assigned him a task. He had simply seen people moving with purpose toward something, and something in him wanted to be part of it. By the time we reached the kitchen, one more person had joined us. We spent the next hour chopping vegetables together, laughing, talking lightly, learning each other’s names. That morning, I understood something I have carried with me ever since.
Yoga Mela does not divide people into those who give and those who receive. It never has. That division is something we bring with us from the outside world — and this gathering, beautifully and persistently, invites us to lay it down.
The story we arrive with
Most of us have spent our lives in environments where roles are clearly defined. There are those who organise, and those who attend. Those who serve, and those who are served. We sit in audiences. We purchase experiences. We wait to be entertained, guided, nourished — and we assume that someone else has arranged all of this for us, invisibly, behind a curtain we are not meant to look behind.
When people arrive at Yoga Mela for the first time, they sometimes carry this story with them. There is nothing strange in this — it is the rhythm most of us have known for a long time. But something happens here, usually quite quickly, that begins to dissolve it.
You notice that the person who guided the morning yoga session is also the one setting up chairs in the afternoon. You notice one of the singers — whose voice you are still carrying somewhere inside your heart — standing at the sink, sleeves rolled up, happily washing pots alongside someone they have only just met. You notice that the most senior members of the community — people who have walked this path for years — are also the first to offer their hands when something needs to be done.
And slowly, the curtain disappears. Because there was never a curtain. There is only life, being tended to, together.
What it actually feels like
I want to be honest about something, because I think it matters — and I say this as someone who has now returned to serve here for several years in a row.
Contributing does not always feel immediately natural. For some, it requires a small inner step — an overcoming of the habit of separateness, the voice that says this is not my responsibility, or I wouldn’t know what to do, or someone else will handle it. I remember that voice in myself, during my very first days here.
But I have watched, again and again — and I have felt it in my own body — what happens the moment that small step is taken.
A participant picks up a broom and begins to sweep the floor, not because anyone asked, but because she saw the necessity of it. Within minutes, her whole posture has changed. There is a lightness in her. A sense of belonging that no workshop or lecture could have given her, because it arose from within herself, through her own action. She is no longer visiting Yoga Mela. She is, in that moment, a co-creator.
This is what I want everyone to know: contribution is not expected or a duty. It is a gift you give yourself.
The lunch that walked across the grounds
One afternoon — I believe it was the fourth day of the last Yoga Mela — word passed from person to person that lunch would be served in a new location. The idea had come just before the meal was to begin: to carry everything across the lake and share it together in the garden. Someone hearing this for the first time might reasonably wonder — can you really move over a thousand people, just like that, with almost no notice in advance?
But that, perhaps, is precisely the magic of Yoga Mela.
There had been no formal announcement. No list of names, no assigned roles, no one standing at the door with instructions. And yet, before the idea had even fully settled in the air, something was already moving.
Some people had simply noticed — the stacked crates, the filled containers waiting near the kitchen, the readiness of things — and had already taken something into their arms and started following others to the garden before consciously deciding to do so. As if the body understood before the mind had caught up. Others came forward with that particular quality of offering I have come to treasure here — hesitant in manner, generous in spirit, quietly stepping beyond their own reserve —”where do you need me, what would help?”. And then there was the ice cream wagon. That wonderful, delightful ice cream wagon, which required a small and laughing group to coax it tenderly along the path across the lake, tilting and steadying it over the uneven grass, cheered along by the people they passed.
I remember standing still for a moment and watching it all — not because I had nothing to do, but because something in me needed to receive what I was seeing. There was no chaos, no friction, no question of who was responsible for what. There was only a current of shared intention, moving everything gently in the same direction.
When we arrived at the garden, the food had already been laid out with great care and beauty on long tables — as though it had been planned for weeks. And standing behind them were the participants who had signed up to serve, bright-eyed and smiling, as if the spontaneity of it all had lit something in them too. There was a festivity in the air that a perfectly scheduled meal could perhaps never quite conjure.
And I think that is the deeper gift hidden inside moments like these. When the familiar is set aside, when the known path gives way to an unexpected one, something opens in us — a lightness, a readiness, a sense of beautiful adventure. The child within, who is always closer than we imagine, lifts its head and looks around with wide and wondering eyes.
Sitting together that afternoon in a sea of flowers and herbs, the scent of the garden mingling with the warmth of a shared meal, with the lake shimmering nearby and laughter moving between the people, the meal felt like more than a meal. It felt like a small and luminous reminder that life, when met with openness, is full of grace — and that the most beautiful things are sometimes the ones that nobody planned.
This, I think, is what Yoga Mela is teaching me, year after year, in ways that no lecture could quite reach. That care, when it is genuine, does not need to be organised. It only needs to be present.
You are already needed
Perhaps you are wondering: but what can I actually do? I have no special training. I do not know the routines or the people. I do not want to get in the way.
I heard those same words in my own mind the first time I came here. I want to respond now, having returned several times, with great certainty: you will not be in the way. You will be exactly where you are needed.
There is always a table that needs to be wiped, a child who needs someone to sit with, a flower arrangement that wants fresh water, a lost participant who simply needs someone to walk with them to the right place. There are dishes that carry the warmth of a meal shared by hundreds of people, and they are waiting to be washed with the same love with which the meal was cooked.
None of these tasks are small. Every single one of them is the gathering itself. Every single one of them is an act of love made tangible.
And if you are ever unsure what is needed, look around you with open eyes. Life will show you. It always does.
What we are building together
I am often asked by colleagues and friends, what it is that brings me back to the festival. People expect a complicated answer. But the truth is quite simple.
I come back because I have seen what happens when human beings genuinely take care of one another. Not as a theory. Not as an aspiration written on a wall. But as a lived, breathing, laughing, sometimes-dishwashing reality. I have seen it grow in this place. And once you have seen it, you cannot unsee it.
Yoga Mela does not happen by itself. It happens because each person present — including you — chooses, in large and small ways, to offer something of themselves. That is what stays with me throughout the year, and makes me return.
The festival is not an event, but a proof. A proof that a different way of being together is possible.
FAQ:
What does volunteering at Yoga Mela actually feel like?
It is a way of being part of the festival from the inside. Volunteers do not stand outside the event looking in; they help shape it through everyday acts of care, teamwork, and shared responsibility.
How much time do volunteers contribute?
Volunteers are asked to contribute 5 hours on each festival day and 8 hours on each setup day. Volunteers arrive three days before the festival begins, including the setup days on 9 and 10 July.
What do volunteers receive in return?
You receive a full festival ticket, three daily meals, and a camping spot, allowing you to fully live and experience the gathering.
Do I need special experience to volunteer?
No special role is required for the spirit of volunteering. Many tasks are simple, practical, and shared among people already present: helping in the kitchen, setting up spaces, washing dishes, guiding participants, or taking care of small details that keep the festival flowing.
Can I still attend classes and concerts?
Yes. Your schedule allows time to participate in the program while also contributing to the collective experience.
Which volunteering areas can I apply for?
Special areas for experienced volunteers are the Children Camp and support for Café – Barista incl. Anyone knowledged with Pizza making, juice making etc. Others can apply for All Rounder volunteering.
Why do people return to volunteer year after year?
Because volunteering becomes more than support work. It becomes participation in a living community, where service, celebration, and connection are woven together.
Follow the Journey
