October 25, 2010

The perfect timing of Umesh’s arrival at my hotel is a confirmation that I am in Divine timing. Waking before the rooster’s call, I had time to record a significant dream, make my last offering at the shrine to Shiva and chant. I swung for a few minutes trying to find joy to balance the great sorrow I feel in leaving my heart behind. I offer up one last prayer at our Medicine Wheel where I replace a stone that has attracted me with each visit.

It looks like hematite, a lesson I need to focus on as I leave my clove cigarette addiction behind. I arrive back at the hotel to edit the piece I completed at 2am and watch the rings of smoke merge with the gray, misty morning. I am embarrassed to have Umesh catch me with a cigarette in hand, and I am relieved to crush out the last embers as I hear his motorcycle arrive.

Umesh flagged a taxi and met me at the airport to carry my bag and see that I was set. The security people rushed our goodbye. Already I miss his protection. It was ok to feel less capable in his presence, and I relaxed into a stance of surrender. Practice for the potential of meeting a male companion someday. I wishfully wonder what my time would have been like if both of us were in a position to be romantic. There was safety in calling him my son.

Now, I am waiting for my plane. I was lucky to get a seat in the crowded room. The din of noise drowned out by my music. It is nice to have the familiarity of songs that bring me back to places and people from the past. I always associate Liz Barnez as our hometown talent and a tune comes on to point me in the direction of home.

I am nervous about what to do next. The local airport is more like a bus station. I stay alerted to the occasional announcements on loud speakers but the accent and static make it impossible for me to understand. The logistics of traveling is the worst stressor. It escalates until I make it safely to my destination.

I rehearse a plan in my mind to find a hotel near the international airport. Praying for a taxi driver who speaks English and can guide me to a safe, thousand rupee a night place to stay. Perhaps a person on the plane will share the next part of the journey with me? My money has dwindled to just enough for food, lodging and transportation. The days of having more than enough to be generous are gone.

The lessons learned about my relationship to money is the Dharma discipline I have discovered in Nepal.

I notice people getting in line with tickets that match mine. On the other side of security, I strike up a fun conversation with some familiar faces from the Habitat project. I tell them of my rooftop bus ride. I ask if I can tag along and one of them replies that their guide may be able to help me when we arrive at the Kathmandu airport, but their luggage arrives before mine and they take off saying good luck. I feel disappointed, but trust that I have a different experience awaiting me.

I pay the extra for a prepaid taxi and help in finding a hotel. The taxi driver’s heart opens when we begin talking about Shiva. He asks me questions, and I am eager to provide the information I have gleaned. He pulls the taxi over to show me the most famous Shiva Temple in all of Nepal. It is within trekking distance from my hotel.

He tells me that my hotel is more like a house and the owner will take good care of me. I can hear a baby’s cry and the every day noises outside as he opens my door with a skeleton key. He offers to return tomorrow to take me to the airport. He gives me his card and writes down his cell phone telling me to call if I run into any trouble.

I count my money and regret having gotten a cart for my bags. I could have done without it and the guy ripped me off. Is the cup half empty? I have half a bag of almonds, two granola bars and half a candy bar in my pack to tide me over until I can work up the courage to go in search of food.

My hotel room feels more like Harlem than the Hilton. I am in the heart of the city at $15 a night and only 100 rupees from the airport. I stay optimistic noting the upgrade in toilet paper. My shower, a bucket of cold water and measuring cup to rinse with. It is reminiscent of bathing at Parbati’s house and imagining the sweet scent of tangerines and flowers calms me.

If not for the newly found info about the Shiva temple, I would be tempted to stay in my room until the taxi driver returns for me tomorrow. I plug in my rechargeable batteries in the hopes that they will give me just enough charge to capture the Shiva temple. I snack on my goodies for lunch and feast on my photos. I take out the hotel business card to see if there is Wi-Fi, and I am delighted to find that there is a map to the Pashupati temple on the back.

I go to the garden to see if I can get Wi-Fi. No luck. The manager of the hotel comes to visit. When he inquires about my husband, I tell him he is working in the U.S. He is pleasant and brings me a cup of masala (Chai) to welcome me. I am feeling more secure as the hotel is filling with families and a Shaivite.

It turns out to be anything but restful. Kitchen pots bang, children cry and parents yell. The volley of the ping-pong ball is annoying. Lights flicker outside my window grabbing my attention. Even my pillow cannot provide the deep dark cave necessary for me to surrender to sleep in this unfamiliar place.