On one particular trip back from Kathmandu, I arrived home
to a pile of rubble on the front steps and concrete brick pieces plummeting
from the roof of my house. The sky is
falling! I thought, living my own “Chicken Little” reality. Neighbors
shouted warnings from a huddled group across the street where they sat with
cups of afternoon chiya and watched the construction process.
And what a process it has been.
Since my arrival, our house has undergone a dramatic
facelift –inside and out. Metal stair railings have been installed, which has
significantly lowered the risk of falling down six flights during the dark load
shedding hours. Walls have been knocked down, ceilings temporarily removed (not
without the unfortunate downpour of rain) and coats of fresh paint applied to
walls, doors, insides of cabinets –pretty much anything that is smooth enough
for paint to stick to. The rickety bamboo scaffolding attached to the front of
the house has become an important directional landmark when describing where I
live to inquisitive community members.
Despite the dramatic renovations, however, I hardly notice
these changes any more. Although it’s initially surprising to find the kitchen
temporarily moved upstairs for a weekend, I’ve come to expect change. It may be
the result of living in another country with a new language, culture, and
traditions to learn and understand. Arriving in Nepal was a little like shaking
the foundation of a house to check for stability, shedding light on my previous
assumptions and making room for new understanding.
I’d like to think my mentality is like the newly finished
living room that was recently completed. The smell of new paint tickles your
nose. Dirty feet have not yet stained the carpet. Full-length curtains create a
muted, peaceful glow. Instead, my mindset more closely resembles the first
floor entranceway; dark, musty, and loaded with metal luggage trunks, it’s an
unfinished storeroom for things that don’t yet have a place. I’m still making sense
of many of my experiences, which are jumbled in my head like the boxes of rice
cookers among the other shop merchandise. Making meaning is a messy, ongoing
learning process, and like the house construction, one that won’t be completed
by the time I leave.
This week I begin my transition. It is a week of “lasts.”
The last “Tuesday Tea” reflection with the ETAs. My last time doing laundry at
the tap (perhaps this is one I may not miss quite so much). My last morning run
to watch the sun rise from Children’s Park. The last morning assembly at
school.
It’s a transition that my family members, students, staff
and I have a difficult time facing. “Don’t forget about us,” say they all say.
With limited Nepali I try to explain that there is no way I could; they have
been a part of my life for the past seven months and have directly impacted how
I’ve chosen to act and react to things around me. And while transitions are
hard – even when they promise to bring the joy of seeing family and friends
back home – they are a necessary part of life. I return to a quote that I read
when I first arrived in Nepal and ironically is once again applicable as I
prepare to leave:
“Let go of the ways
you thought life would unfold; the holding of plans or dreams or expectations
–let it all go. Save your strength to swim with the tide. The choice to fight
what is here before you now will only result in struggle, fear, and desperate
attempts to flee from the energy you long for. Let go.
Let it all go and flow
with the grace that washes through your days, whether you receive it gently or
with all your quills raised to defend against invaders.
Take this on faith:
the mind may never find the explanations that it seeks, but you will move
forward nonetheless. Let go, and the wave’s crest will carry you to unknown
shores, beyond your wildest dreams or destinations. Let it all go and find the
place of rest and peace and certain transformation.”
