Pashupatinath

Where bodies go to die.
To burn up in orange marigold flames.
Do not cry, my son.
Your tears might cause the departing soul to remain,
tortured and restless: wandering.
Women, you wail and walk circles around the shrine.
Cry hard so the men set fire without weeping.
Burning flame of the mouth, creep slowly onto the pyre.
Burn hot and whole on the wings of the wind.
Carry father's ashes away home.

Spigot dripping

Spigot dripping brown.
Child drinking: I thirsty, Ma.
Sore belly, bright eyes.
Courage cracks a smile, even so.

Helen chuckles

Helen chuckles and says sweetly: "if I didn't know I was in the Kathmandu Valley, I could be in the Peruvian Andes." I return her smile and agree, surprised at how familiar the village footpaths feel after living beneath banana trees in Guatemala. Men and women who work like pack-horses to carry feed and grain and fuel up rocky trails, all the while smiling and looking radiant in colorful clothes. I have seen this before, in another time and place. Three year-olds walking the streets without a care -- negotiating the ebbs and flows of the day with peculiar confidence. And back in the city, wading through exhaust and the blaring traffic orchestra: the garbage smells and screech-owl sounds, the juxtaposed beauty and ugliness. Immaculate women walking and scrambling street children who hang on your arm and beg you for coins: this, too, familiar. But moments do not have to be novel in order to teach. The begging child opens a space in which to offer compassion and loving eyes: a firm, kind hand and a crayon drawing of a flower. "I know this isn't the money you ask for, love, but take a glimpse of color as a blessing. Maybe a whisper of beauty in the harshness you know?"