the moments that change your life

It was in this dark little room that my life changed, five years ago. I remember that first art class as though it were yesterday— the room full of shy kids eager to draw, who scarcely uttered a word for the first few days. We had copier paper and pencils, the erasers were cut into four pieces so everyone could have their own, and we drew whatever was around— ink bottles, keys, each other.

It's funny how you never know what moment will change your life until time has settled in. I never knew that the kids in front of me would become so dear to me that they would be my family, and that I would return to Nepal year after year.



Our group grew larger, and we moved to the cafeteria balcony. Some students got scholarships to study abroad, some returned to their villages to do service, some went to college, and some got jobs. Pedro and I got married. It's amazing, all the things that can happen in five years.



It's amazing how kids turn into young adults when you're not looking!

those familiar eyes

fly away

And so I bring this blog closer to the present day, to the last week of February to be exact, when I flew away to a place that is dear to my heart.

juniper man

Nearly every afternoon for the past three summers, I could rely upon a certain cloud of white smoke following the crowd around the Stupa. Often, it was the scent of juniper branches that it carried with each dissipating puff, and because Kathmandu is home to a variety of offensive stenches, I breathed its whiteness in deeply, feeling the juniper sweep my head clean.



We called him 'Juniper Man', the man who swung the censer like a pendulum, muttering mantras through lips barely parted. He wore a turmeric jacket and a pointed beard, his hair neatly tied back in a bun. I have never drawn him because every time I see him, I find myself caught up in his wake, mesmerized by the movement, by the scent. This year, we came to the point of mutual recognition— I would place my hands together in greeting, and he would nod with a slight smile, never breaking his swing or a syllable of his prayer.

On the night of the full moon, I followed him for several circumambulations, camera in hand. Knowing precisely what I wanted, he slowed down and kindly paused until I got a few blurry shots, smiled and continued on. I asked the older kids at school who he was, but no one knew.



Seeing him was always uplifting. It's funny how a perfect stranger can have such an effect on you.
Thank you, Juniper Man.

colour among the rice paddies

I never knew how green green could get before I started my relationship with Nepal. Sometimes the rice paddies are so bright, you can feel their colour in the back of your skull. Forgive me for my scarce posts, I am in the midst of a much needed uprooting. Soon, I'll be smelling salt air instead of smog.

sankhu

the colours of pullahari

We decided to take a left instead of our usual right while birdwatching around Kapan one day, and came upon the beautiful golden gate of the Pullahari Gompa complex. Trees shaded the short winding road (I was so grateful for this little bit of darkness, as the sun felt like it was slapping my skin through my umbrella) which lead to another ornate gate, this one decorated in fading painted relief. Little monks played in pockets of shadow, while an old hippie from the West wafted around in white muslin, fingering some prayer beads.



After stopping at the monastery canteen for cold soda and a rest for our complaining feet, we wandered through the complex, where I was struck by wildly-coloured and complex murals of the shrine hall exterior.

sometimes the road becomes a dirt path

art class

If you've been following my blog for the past four years, then you are probably aware of the reason why I spend summer after summer in Nepal:



On the balcony of Shree Mangal Dvip School's lunchroom, under violet-grey and charcoal monsoon skies, I teach art to some extraordinary kids.

for the eyes and nose

on the bus

I will admit that hopping on a local Nepali bus is a bit intimidating— you have no idea what the curly symbols on the window say, and can't decipher what on earth the fare boy is bellowing out the door. You are utterly foreign, and at the mercy of those around you. You hope that you won't get ripped off, and that someone might be able to let you know when your stop is up.



It's so often a tight squeeze, bumpy as hell and quite sweaty— but then again, bus rides tend to be everywhere. If you have the opportunity while in Nepal, give it a try!