by Jan Risher
Lessons I’ve learned through traveling have largely defined my adulthood. For two weeks in November, eight other ladies and I have traipsed around India and Nepal. I was reminded of old lessons I thought I had down pat — and learned new ones that I didn’t see coming.
I love being in foreign places. I love that feeling of not really knowing what’s going on and working hard to connect the dots to make a new environment or cultural peculiarity make sense. For me, that environment offers the greatest sense of story — it’s unpredictable, often full of warmth, compassion and connection.
Having just returned home, I will admit that as wonderful as the company I kept on this trip was — and it was wonderful, this trip had some tough moments.
We were in India for Diwali — a celebration akin to a Christmas/Fourth of July combination. Everything was at full cylinder — street music, dogs barking, roosters crowing, horns honking, bells gonging, cars idling, firecrackers popping, motorcycles revving. Our hotel was not a nice, sterile retreat for ex-pats. Nope, we were in the thick of it with paper-thin walls. Every shouted conversation, plus all the other din and clamor, came pouring throughout the night. As much as I enjoy international travel, my American-ness was shining.
On the flip side of all of that, I am grateful to have experienced India and Nepal. People tried to prepare me for the madness of India, and they did a good job. Its chaotic streets and traffic didn’t come as a surprise to me. However, to grasp fully the exquisite symphony of tuk-tuks, rickshaws, diesel trucks, taxis, bicycles, cows, pedestrians, carts pulled by donkeys or the occasional camel making six lanes of traffic on a street designed for three, one has to witness it in person. The adrenaline rush is real.
Maybe it’s motherhood, but on this trip, more than ever in my life, I felt near-constant gratitude tinged with befuddlement as to how I got the life I got. My story is full of cushy comfort. I barely move my hand an inch on a faucet and enjoy water so pure and clean — at whatever temperature I desire. I have a giant bed and room that I share with my husband only. Each of my daughters has her own room. If we need new shoes or jackets, we get them. Certainly, we have plenty to eat and drink. All in all, even on our worst days, our cups runneth over.
Our lives are so easy that realizing, even for brief glimpses, the hardships that others endure and don’t seem to notice, plays havoc with our heads. How did we get these lives of plenty and comfort? What is our responsibility to those with less than — at home and abroad?
Our host and guide was my friend, Lama Tsering Phuntsok, a Buddhist monk from Nepal. He has spent a lot of time in the States and appreciates the lives we lead. We have talked a lot about reconciling the seeming unfairness of the hands different people have been dealt. His explanation of reincarnation makes more sense and leaves my soul at peace far more than anything else I can come up with.
In Delhi, India, Lama Tsering has worked with the sisters at Mother Teresa’s Home for the Sick and Dying. He was able to arrange a short visit for us there. Our guide was a nun who knew and worked with Mother Teresa. She took us around the humble center and explained about the work they do. I asked what she remembered most about Mother Teresa. She said, “The kindness and compassion she conveyed through her beautiful face and smile.”
Our time here has been full of high highs — we had a prayer flag ceremony at a nunnery on top of a mountain in Nepal with a Buddhist monk. We rode elephants and canoed past crocodiles. We walked the “kora” pilgrimage around ancient temples. We saw the devastation of the April Nepali earthquake. We watched the ceremonies of Hindu cremations on the Bagmati River. We took a plane to see Mount Everest and saw it standing there majestically, covered in white against a clear blue sky. We walked through the Taj Mahal. We’ve done and seen a lot.
But as I sit here and try to take it all in, without kindness and compassion, it is all meaningless.
As Mother Teresa said, “We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty.”
During this season, may we each listen to new stories and strive to make all of those we meet or hear about feel cared for, loved and wanted.
Image credit: Jan Risher. Coconut water vendor asleep in Indian market.
This article originally appeared in the holiday edition of our e-newsletter, Beyond the Keyboard. Sign up to get our content marketing and PR tips delivered straight to your inbox monthly.
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