How great would it be to hop in one of these small wooden boats and just let yourself drift out into the middle of this lake surrounded by green hills in Pokhara, Nepal? I'd like to return to this exact spot one day.]]>How great would it be to hop in one of these small wooden boats and just let yourself drift out into the middle of this lake surrounded by green hills in Pokhara, Nepal? I'd like to return to this exact spot one day.]]>
I maneuvered myself around these powerful women seated in a circle high up on a hill in the Doti district of Nepal as we shot images for CARE with a focus on their CRADLE Support project. You can feel their strength.
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Happiness. Is it a want or a need? I posed this question to my Twitter followers the other day and received some thought-provoking results. I expected people to pick one or the other. A few did, but several did not. They suggested that happiness is "a choice."
'A choice?' I thought. If happiness is a choice, who wouldn't choose it? And just because you chose it, doesn't mean you'd get it. Right? Or would you?
The idea of happiness being a choice never really occurred to me. I don't choose to be happy. I just am or I am not. Happiness often occurs for me as a partially unexpected result. I was insanely happy sitting in the back of a bumpy vehicle driving through the hills of Nepal. I knew I was happy because a huge grin appeared (and stayed) on my face, and I felt a total sense of contentment – like I was exactly where I was meant to be at that moment in time. I could dissect that experience and point to a set of actions and choices that made that happiness possible – the result of something – but I didn't choose happiness. It chose me.
But my friend and fellow iPhoneographer Charlotta Kratz shared an interesting response about the idea of happiness being a choice. She wrote, "I had cancer treatment and learned to make the choice. Grateful for that." And that's when the idea of happiness being a choice began to make sense for me. If happiness is a choice, choosing it (particularly under difficult circumstances) could put you in a position of strength. It could place you in a position of power not possible without making that choice. Happiness, like a catalyst, could actually initiate your actions or guide your reactions. This intrigues me.
Inside the dark room, there's an open window with bars letting in light that is almost too bright.
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I'm learning that hope requires trust - a firm belief in the reliability, truth, ability or strength in someone or something. A belief that doesn't require evidence or extensive analysis. Trust asks you to let go, and admit that you can't do everything on your own. Trust forces you to be open and vulnerable, opening the door for missed expectations, failure and loss.
Trust has never come easily for me, so in the past, I've limited my actions to minimize the need for trust. I drew an invisible line around "the knowns" in my life and stayed within that boundary. But I'm finding now, the more often I cross that line, my requirements for trust have increased. I have to trust the person who took my passport, will give it back to me. I have to trust that the driver will take me to a destination I can't pronounce or find on a map. I have to trust that the people I meet and photograph will accept me with open arms. I have to trust that my children are safe when I'm far from home.
But most importantly, I've learned that I have to trust myself – to trust my intuition, well ahead of anything that my mind might process and direct. I've learned that I don't need a lot of evidence or extensive analysis to guide me. Naturally, there are times when I feel weak and wonder if my intuition is worthy of such trust, when the calculations of my mind don't equal that of my heart. But I can't recall a time when my intuition has failed me. Even when it's lead me into the dark.
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About the image: Students at Koseli School, founded by Renu Shah Bagaria, enjoy the day at the Central Zoo in Kathmandu, Nepal. Renu's trust in her own intuition builds hope for these children who come from families living below the poverty line in Kathmandu's slums.
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I like being a little smushed in the center of the backseat. I like the visual complexity of a busy street in a faraway land. I like watching people move. I like being lead by someone I trust. I sometimes like not knowing where I'm going. I like listening to people speak a language I don't understand. I like the bumps and beeps. I like asking questions. I like not knowing most of the answers.]]>
She's on my mind. I'd like to do something for her and the small group of children we met at the hotel that day in Pokhara. Some expression of gratitude for sharing a look at their life. I don't have the right idea just yet, and in fact, I'm not the right person to propose the idea, but it will come. Perhaps we can do something together. I'll keep you posted.]]>
Shortly after we arrived to Pokhara, Nepal, a friend introduced us to several children known as "street kids" living in the hotel downstairs. As I watched these young girls washing dishes outside the restaurant, they seemed content, even happy on first glance. Intrigued with our interest and big cameras, they giggled and exposed henna designs on the palms of their hands. I was relieved to see them smile because it helped me convince myself that they were okay.
Our friend explained that these children were sent away from their homes to work at this hotel... to earn a place to live, food to eat, and money that would be saved on their behalf when the time came for them to go out on their own. She explained that some street kids are sent to school. Others are not. It broke my heart to learn about this way of life. To really see it and look in their eyes. To wonder what it feels like... to be far from home, to accept what's been given to you without question, to have a job at age 10, to appreciate what little you have, to wish you had been given the chance to wear a school uniform and walk to school.
"But this is a way of life," they say. "It's just the way it is." And who am I to judge? I'm just a curious American woman with a camera who stepped in for a closer look one day. What do I know? Just because my children don't live this way, does it make it wrong? If these children didn't have this chance to live and work at this hotel, what would become of them? Is there hope in this scenario? Does someone love them? How do we help poor families keep their children at home and make it a priority to send them to school? What should I do? I have the questions, but none of the answers at this moment. I have to trust they will come.
This young girl is one of 65 students attending Koseli School. She lives here at home with her family in one of Kathmandu's largest slums and walks nearly 30 minutes to school each day. When it rains heavily during monsoon season in Nepal, her home is likely to flood, making it difficult for her to attend school despite her sincere desire to be present. You can see that her physical possessions may be limited, but her wealth of knowledge and relationships are growing... thanks to my friend Renu Shah Bagaria (founder of Koseli School), her teachers, and a fledgling group of local supporters making the gift of education possible for these children.
I dreamed about this place several months ago... stepping slowly through mud and feeling a little tentative on broken ground. In my dream it was dim. I walked with people I didn't recognize and sensed curious eyes upon me, but I felt comfortable. Like I was meant to be there. I felt peace.
So it was oddly familiar when Jen and I walked with new friends, Renu (pictured above), Mukesh, Subhash and Sabi through one of Kathmandu's largest slums, home to many of Renu's students at Koseli, the school she founded. It was a gift to be invited here. To walk on this ground, step in these homes, and hear "Namaste." To share a glimpse of this reality.
I don't really have words yet to describe all that we experienced throughout Nepal. I could relay the sequence of events, identify the geographic destinations, share the motion sequence of steam lifting from a glass of chai on a worn wooden table beside a bumpy road, and show you the lighthearted iPhone images I made along the way... but the real weight of the experience sits in my images of the people who shared their lives with us. I'm eager to introduce these Nepali people to you over the next several weeks, maybe even months... but for now, I want you to picture yourself standing on broken ground. And I want you to imagine what hope might look like.
