The the the the Battle

TRIPtych : Nepal 2

Jun 25, 2017

“the. the. the.”

Two whole pages of the same word. And on the last line: “a new cind of flush”

As I opened the old journal the sight of those words brought back a flood of memories.

It had been an epic battle of wills. Neither of us willing to cede.

On one side of the room stood my 8-year-old. Defiant. Wanting nothing more than to head out with his younger siblings to see how many more elements the local artist in Pokhara had incorporated into the thangka that we were watching him paint.

On the other, I had dug in my heels.

At stake: A journal entry. A simple two-page summary documenting some of the highlights from what we thought would be a high point in our family trip: a 5-day trek, climbing the Annapurna range in the Himalayas.

“Just two pages!” I yelled in frustration, “I don’t care what you write.” “I can write anything?” he asked with a cheeky smile, and locked himself in the bathroom to deliver on his promise to me:

I wanted him to preserve the memories while they were still fresh. He was having none of it.

I was worried that he would forget.

I wanted him to write about the well-trudged mud path, punctuated with cow patties.

I wanted him to write about climbing 3000 stone steps — to discover that we had only covered ¼ of our journey for the day. And watching kids his own age run the 1000 feet up and down the mountain using those 3000 stairs, twice both ways daily so that they could attend their classes and still help with family chores and fieldwork.

About spraining his wrist at 10,000 feet above sea level, where the closest form of transportation for 50 miles was a donkey caravan that made its way down the mountain in the early morning and back with supplies at dusk.

Or the rugged shoulders of a Sherpa.

Or the 60-year old man who overtook us on treacherous mountain streams, carrying a 25 inch TV on his forehead.

I wanted him to recall all the other (in)conveniences that looked uncivilized to him, but reminded me of growing up in a little village in India: the aromas of delicious food cooked over a wood-burning stove, bucket baths with steamy water that evaporated off your skin into the frigid mountain air in the lean-to bathroom, searching for ‘western’ toilets so they wouldn’t have to squat, kerosene lamps for when the electricity failed.

Of learning to play snooker on a pool table that must have been carried up slate by slate, and rebuilt to perfection at that altitude.

Or the freshest meal he ever ate — with a zero carbon footprint. Where the rice was grown in the field next to the tea-house, the owner walking into his garden to harvest the spinach that he would eat as he placed his order, and then leaning into the tree over the balcony to pluck him a juicy orange for dessert.

Of eating dal-bhat. And drinking steamy cups of hot milky cocoa.

Of finding Pringles in the Himalayas.

Or watching his younger brother play catch with a chicken — because he had never seen one roaming free before.

And the time his dad changed his meal order when he realized the host would have to kill a whole live egg-laying chicken just so he could enjoy one ‘roast chicken leg’ from the menu.

Of dancing at the tribal marriage festival. Learning to sing Ma ta Hi-deh Pokhara from the Sherpas and admiring the bright red poinsettias growing wild up and down the mountain paths.

I wanted to know that this momentous event would not be just another walk in the ~~park~~ mountains for this child, lost in his memory banks.

I wanted assurances that he had paid attention, that he had absorbed the generosity of these hard-working people, the laughter, the culture, the thirst for education, and yes, the scenery.

On that day, in that battle, I convinced myself that if he did not write it down, right there, right then, he would forget.

I “wanted”.

But he remembered all that.
And 8 years later, I would discover that he had remembered so much more. Far from forgetting, he remembered how he had created communication and relationship. With sport and play.

And a little red ball. Its impact etched in his memory banks. Waiting to bounce back into his mind’s peripheral vision when he needed it.

As parents, we sometimes insist on one single clear path of action for them to follow, based on our own experience. Because we only see the world through grown-up, experienced, parent eyes.

If we hold too tightly to one idea, we could miss that one casual conversation that could become a pivotal moment, and be cheated out of the real beauty of self-discovery.

Because it is in the ‘space’, in the in-between, that great things are discovered and new ideas come along that disrupt the status quo.

Because little things can have a big impact.