With a Pep In My Step

My favorite Aussie mama in all of her wisdom recently reminded me of something.  Something important, and something true.  That perhaps my heart was broken, but my spirit, my person, my deep parts, were not.  Are not.  The truth is, I’m worn out.  I don’t know if I’ll last another month on the road, much less another year.  And so, I’ve made a plan.  A plan!  I’m on a mission, not to save the world or understand the intricate complexities of things I know very little about, not to educate every bonehead man who crosses my path, but to just be.  To remember how to do that.  India was a unique experience certainly, but finding myself in this position of total burnout is a well-traveled road for me.  In some ways, I did it to myself.  Wherever you go, there you are.  Blurg.

This is some of the best trekking in the world, people come from all over to face the Himalayas, to take on elevation sickness in hopes of a glimpse of Everest.  Not me, nope.  I’ve trekked my tail off, and I’m tired.  Also, as much as I hate to admit it, my achilles have yet to forgive me for the Camino.  So instead of trekking because I’m here, or because I “should”,  I’m going to pat these eager young hikers on the back while telling them how strong and brave they are, all from the cozy little perch of my floor pillow.  I am donedonedonedonedone with the shoulds.

Oh coffee, my love.  Instead of worrying about budget, or fighting to palate watery Nescafe or chicory, I’m going to splurge.  Every day, twice if I want to.  I’m going to double-shot my way through this country, because it’s finally, gloriously, wondrously, easily accessible and I love it so much, and I am a nicer person after I drink it.  Also, as my hostel is under construction, and deafening during daylight hours, napping is impossible and I am a shameless napper.  I’ve come to love the dopey feeling that arrives unannounced, that feeling of sinking into myself regardless of what’s going on around me.  So to honor my sleepy self, I’m going to get my own room; it’s easy here, and usually not more than a few dollars more.  Beauty in a cup of coffee, and silence and solitude.

I’m going to look into this ‘shopping’ thing I’ve heard so much about.  I love the colors and sparkles and detail of handmade wares, and until now I’ve largely avoided paying them much attention; I wasn’t in the market for the extra weight of souvenirs, my pack is heavy enough.  But dang.  I’ve missed out, and I know it.  So now I’m going to haggle the mess out of these vendors, learn about their art, and maybe even buy up some beauty: there is a postal service, after all.  I consider my first venture a success, befriending two lovely elderly Tibetan refugees.  Of course I didn’t haggle them at all, (girl power!), but they were warm and chatty, and shared with me life stories and friendship bracelets: I am bedazzled.  Beauty in sequins.

I am going to invest in some self care, from the bottom on up.  I will spare the details, but suffice it to say my feet were buried beneath 10 months of trekking before the poor girl at the spa got ahold of them.  Apart from a mild aversion to hepatitis, I did my best to relax and not kick her teeth out as she tickled my digits with the razor blade she was using in her desperate attempts to beautify my tired tootsies.  Also, my knots have knots, and I suspect my chakras are full up: show me what you got, eastern massage.  I don’t know if I look tired or 35, but I need a boost.  So I will learn to treat my hair like the locals with coconut oil.  I don’t know what I’m doing: my hair is a slippery silky mess, but I smell delicious.  Beauty in beautifying. 

I’m going to read my eyes off.  This isn’t new, books remain the closest thing I have to a travel partner.  But now, at least for a bit, instead of focusing on post-apartheid violence, or institutional poverty, or corruption in the developing world, or gender inequality, I’m going to read about things that are hopeful, and funny, and maybe even salacious: until I discover an Asian comfort food, I will gobble words.  And I’m going to write.  Write my ass off.  Write to my family, write to my friends, write out all that happened this last month, these last 10 months.  At least until my computer dies: electricity here is limited to a few hours a day.  Beauty in words.

Today for lunch I ate my Nepalese go-to, momo.  I was joined by a Nepalese gentleman, the same age as my dear old dad back in Pennsylvania.  We talked for hours about work, and life, and the state of women in the world.  And he shared, as earnestly as anyone I’d ever met, how he’d grown to understand the value of women.  He was equally startled and convicted by this recent revelation, and even a little sad that he’d had only sons.  Here in Nepal the birth of baby boys is celebrated on their 6th day of life.  Not so with girls.  But this fellow, Uday, said that when his granddaughter arrived, he’d changed the game.  He’d thrown a party, a grand celebration for the baby girl lucky enough to be born into his family.  Of course as much as I tried to tell him, he couldn’t possibly understand what an encouragement he was to me, what a source of hope.  But he was, and I’m better for having met him.  Beauty in people.  Still, always, irrefutably: beauty in people.