AN AWAKENING OF FEELING
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Tibet’s mystical allure was a siren call to Helen Brown. Snow cap mountain grandeur, fluttering prayer flags, and bells rung by monks hidden behind dark brown cloaks in monasteries with beautiful names like Rongbuk. Helen felt like a fly drawn to a spider’s nest, and that particular nest stood below the northern side of Mount Everest at 16,434 feet above sea level, and five miles from the base camp. Her dream, or was it pure fantasy, was to be wrapped in a spiritual blanket of wonderment, filled with love and acceptance.
A broken relationship, work without pleasure, and strain within the family had left her as numbed as one might feel being caffeine deprived. This sudden desire drove her imagination wild and the hasty planning, or better said, a lack of planning was the result. While in her euphoria, were early warning signs completely ignored?
An outfitter was concerned that Helen was ill equipped for the harsh climate. Her best friend Rachel was alarmed that she would travel alone without others. Sipping a buttered tea outside the cafe in Kathmandu, Helen felt both satisfaction and anticipation of accomplishment. She appreciated the apprehension of others. Yet who knows one’s limit until you take that first step and seize the moment to begin. The server spoke a broken English and offered to take her to a travel store that provided airplane tickets to Lukia for $300, and he said that his cousin could meet her at the airport and act as a personal tour guide for the 35 mile jeep ride to Rongbuk.
If you seek a new and deeper experience of life, what if anything gets left behind. For Helen, it was the desire to free herself from the digital world of texts, emails, and web searches. “I want to reclaim the simplicity of my childhood.” She told Rachel “Don’t be shocked when my letters arrive with beautiful flowing strokes of cursive.” She bought her ticket for $155 and was pleased to get it cheaper than the one advertised in the window.
There were an abundance of serious trekkers in the city as always. But Helen was either too shy to ask questions or so caught up in her dream and not wanting to be dissuaded. What would a web search of Lukia Airport disclose? For starters, it was the world’s most dangerous airport, surrounded on all sides by steep, mountainous terrain. The short runway is perched on little more than a mountain shelf, and at such an altitude, the low air density causes a challenge for the plane to slow down on landing. Further inquiry might add troublesome wind shifts and fatal accidents.
The turbulence started almost immediately. It was dark outside; she could see her own reflection in the window: loose dark curls above a furrowed brow, pale facial coloring, a thick wool scarf tight around her neck, and if honest, a frightened look of apprehension. The steward never left his seat near the cockpit, but occasionally shouted commands back to the passengers. The high pitch sound of engines lessened, and Helen felt the sensation of a drop in altitude. Looking at her watch, she noted that 25 minutes of the 30 minute flight had elapsed and guessed they must be soon landing. A moment later a terrific wind gust shook the airplane and it rocked violently from side to side. Someone a few rows ahead of Helen cried out, “I see the pilots yelling at each other, and one is saying ‘Turn back. Turn back.” There was a cacophony of voices rising in alarm, when the steward’s voice rose above the others, “Brace! Brace! Brace! Head down between your knees.” Seconds later the plane landed hard on the runway, lifted off and immediately banged down once again as the aircraft thrust reversers sounded as if the aircraft was soon to explode. Time disappears as one might wonder how long is a short runway in the dark. The plane suddenly stopped dead on the tarmac with a shrill screech and rocked forward, the cabin erupted in cheers. Helen’s face was still locked between her knees as she whispered to herself “Thank you. Thank you. I am so grateful.”
Once inside the small terminal building, she expected to see a younger man. Mingma looked like a grandfather rather than a cousin. His cardboard sign was almost legible and the letters resembled “Ms Brown.” His smile was infectious, and he bowed slightly as he handed her a steaming butter tea while repeating “Welcome misses. Welcome misses.” He led her to a wooden bench below a window and pointed out to swirling snow in the dark early morning. “We wait. New road is bad road. Need sun; maybe yes, maybe no.” He handed her a sandwich of yak meat, wrapped in butcher paper, saying, “Eat. Give you energy.”
The Jeep had clearly seen better days as evidenced by the numerous areas of rust and dents. But again, Mingma lifted her spirits with his constant chatter and laughter. “No worry no sun. I know way even if blind” he cackled while storing her backpack in the back seat. It took several tries to start the engine before catching, and with a jolt forward, they were on their way. Helen shared a private laugh with herself thinking of her “Private tour guide” as heavy falling snow and wind gusts blocked any view beyond five feet in any direction.
Not able to see the terrain, Helen could only guess their position on the road. Were they riding in the center of a broad plateau, inches from a steep cliff with a thousand foot drop, or nearing a sharp turn? What was certain were the large rocks on the road that Mingma expertly dodged with quick yanks of the steering wheel. Helen found solace in closing her eyes and murmuring a Tibetan chant she learned, the Om Mani Padme Hum, known as the “Universal Mantra” that focuses on giving and receiving compassion for happiness.
A loud frightening noise like a metal pipe snapping broke her trance, and the jeep coasted for perhaps 15 feet before stopping in dead silence. She turned toward her guide. His eyes were closed and his lips moved with unspoken words. “Mingma,” Helen shouted while shaking his arm, “what has happened?” Without speaking, or turning her way, he simply dropped his head and took several deep breaths, before turning the key to restart the engine. The only sound was a clicking noise. For minutes Mingma tried repeatedly, without success, until the clicking noise and headlights joined together in fading to a dead battery silence. “Car no good. Lousy car no good,” he muttered looking her way.
Strong, gusty, surface winds rocked the car, howling like the shrill cry of a chorus of ghosts. “Rongbuk near. Too dangerous to stay in car. Freeze. Need to walk,” said Mingma. “Maybe two miles. We okay.” It was difficult to open the car doors against the wind and blowing snow. Once outside, he tied a rope around his waist and fastened the opposite end to Helen with perhaps 10 feet of space between them. By now it was a whiteout condition with snow drifts forming over large rocks making hideous shapes they often stumbled upon. Above the howling wind, Helen could hear Mingma cough and curse to the weather gods. For brief moments there would be a partial clearing when you could see the ground and nearby surrounding area, with puddles of ice and tufts of coarse grass rimed with frost. They traded stumbling and falling, each lifting up the other, and then moving once again. Suddenly the jeep appeared before them. Helen cried out in anguish. They had gotten turned around and were back to where they had started.
Two frozen mummies sat in the front seat awaiting death. Helen no longer felt the cold, and with closed eyes, her mind freely roamed. She clearly saw the homes of her childhood, the gatherings of aunts and uncles on festive occasions, other times of joy, or moments of regret and sadness. Her relationship with her father was forever distant and cool. But one event now stood out in her mind that reflected his love and commitment. She was 10 years old and ill with fever, weakness, and vomiting. The doctor was concerned that she might have polio and wanted a spinal tap performed at the hospital. Only the neurologist and nurse were allowed in the room. The pain of the sharp needle was superseded by the uncertainty and her loneliness. It was perhaps 3:00 a.m. when she awoke to find a nurse sitting by a wall reading a book under the yellow glow of a table lamp. “Is my Daddy here?” she called out. “Yes,” was the answer. “He’s sitting just outside your door. He’s been there all the time.” She called out “Daddy, Daddy, can you hear me. Don’t leave me. I need you.” She called again “I need you! I need you!” She felt someone squeezing her hand and repeating “Here I am little one. Here I am.”
The smell of incense permeated the room. She opened her eyes to see the face of a dark skinned monk leaning from a chair beside her bed. A mala of brown beads was draped around his neck, and his bald head glistened in the soft morning light. “Good morning young woman. My name is Tenzin. I have been counting mantra for you little bird, and now you awake and chirp like a Red Billed Chough.” “Mingma, is Mingma here,” she now whispered in a strained horse voice?” “Yes, he is the one who banged on our door in the storm and led us to you sleeping like an angel in a blanket of snow by the side of the car.” This sweet man had a beautiful speaking voice that immediately calmed Helen and caused her to involuntarily stretch her limbs and sigh, gratefully thanking him for saving her life.
Against procedure, Helen was allowed to stay for seven days to regain strength before returning to Kathmandu and home. Her daily routine was heavenly, a favorite word she applied to wonderful discoveries and practices. Waking with the monks at 4:30 a.m., Helen knelt on the floor of her room to perform the Five Tibetan Rites, a series of yoga exercises for health, energy, and strength. Breakfast was a simple but delicious oat porridge with fruits and nuts, and finished with the most flavorful butter tea she had ever experienced. Once back at her room on a clear day, the sun would break through the stained glass window casting a striking rainbow on the back wall which was shimmering from the fluttering wind chime hanging down from the roof eave.
Bundled with many layers of clothing, walks around the monastery grounds were her late morning rituals, and it always began with meditation outside the main entrance. Looking up to the roof was an exquisite Dharmachakra, the Wheel of Dharma. This wooden wheel with spokes resembling the helm of an ancient sailing vessel was flanked by two deer, one male and one female, indicating harmony, happiness, and fidelity. She would place a heavy rice mat in the snow and sit cross legged first looking up to the Dharma and then over to Mount Everest on her right. From her rugged cotton canvas tote bag, she would remove her journal and meditate before writing down her thoughts for the day, bringing the scattered energies inward to the core. Often, no words written, just a sketch, and on several occasions, a poem.
Helen would enter the courtyard gardens by climbing up shallow steps that twisted in several directions. Flashes of sunlight rained down on the most fragrant shrubs, offering a smell that made Helen feel very tender for the past. Once inside the great hall, a giant golden Buddha reclined, surrounded by a pool of candlelight. Three monks often sat semicircle on the floor and chanting in a beautiful harmony, while one played a chordophone, another pellet bells, and the third, clapper bells. In such a setting, can music be described as luxurious, she so thought.
The 7th day arrived with Tenzin softly knocking on her door. “Good morning little bird. Today you must fly from your nest and return to the greater world. Remember all we discussed in claiming harmony and peace, no matter the circumstance.” He removed his mala and placed it over her head, clasped his hands in prayer, and bowed twice. Helen broke into tears as she repeated his movement, knelt, and placed her palms on the floor before his feet, a gesture signifying his wisdom and kindness. Mingma arrived to drive Helen back to Lukia Airport. He stood at the passenger door of the Jeep with a broad grin and called out “All fixed. No worries Ms. Helen.”
A week earlier the only color was white. Today, Helen felt like Dorothy traveling down the yellow brick road. Trekkers were parading by on their way to Everest base camp in a rainbow of colored parkas and backpacks, while Sherpas led yaks roped together in a long chain mustering the heavier loads. Laying her head out the open window, Helen enjoyed the heat of the sun, the crisp morning air, and stared up at the great blue bowl of the sky, etched by snow covered jagged peaks.
“We stop,” said Mingma as he turned up a narrow rock strewed road. At this altitude, the Himalayan Pine struggles to survive, yet a small little forest surrounded a tea house nestled against the mountain wall. Helen’s first thought was the imaginary ornate home of Hansel and Gretel. An elderly woman stepped out from the front door, hugged Mingma while speaking, and then bowed to Helen. “My mother says welcome” said Mingma with great joy.
A day later, Helen would devote five pages in her journal, remembering, in minute detail, this intensely personal experience of family, culture, and gracious hospitality. Sipping hot lemon tea, feasting on a casserole of rice, potatoes, and egg, interspersed with bites of delicious flatbread chapati. Other family members joined in. Laughter filled the small rooms, mixing with the fragrances of incense, spices, and freshly bathed children.
Later, while Mingma spoke to a brother, Helen wandered out the back door to explore a little garden. A path to the side of the tea house curved upward through the dwarf pines. The thought of stretching her legs before the final drive back was inviting. Helen was careful to walk, looking down to avoid rocks imbedded in the hard packed dirt. Just as she turned toward a steep upward stretch, an unusual sound caused her head to quickly lift. An enormous yak was thundering down the path, snorting and seemingly threatened to see the trail blocked. Helen froze, unable to muster a course of action. At the last possible moment, she was grabbed and pulled into the pines, falling to the ground. Mingma was on his knees, gasping for breath.
A full day in Kathmandu seemed inadequate to capture all the remembrances Helen sought to include in her journal. She kept returning to the sketch of Migma’s mother, filling in lines of her weathered face and feeling pleased to have caught the essence of her soulfulness. Renewed, energized, committed to mending broken fences, Helen had found her caffeine. The stimulant centered on the awareness of beauty in your surroundings, appreciating the lives of others, and an inner peace that can be summoned by reflection and gratitude.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Tibet’s mystical allure was a siren call to Helen Brown. Snow cap mountain grandeur, fluttering prayer flags, and bells rung by monks hidden behind dark brown cloaks in monasteries with beautiful names like Rongbuk. Helen felt like a fly drawn to a spider’s nest, and that particular nest stood below the northern side of Mount Everest at 16,434 feet above sea level, and five miles from the base camp. Her dream, or was it pure fantasy, was to be wrapped in a spiritual blanket of wonderment, filled with love and acceptance.
A broken relationship, work without pleasure, and strain within the family had left her as numbed as one might feel being caffeine deprived. This sudden desire drove her imagination wild and the hasty planning, or better said, a lack of planning was the result. While in her euphoria, were early warning signs completely ignored?
An outfitter was concerned that Helen was ill equipped for the harsh climate. Her best friend Rachel was alarmed that she would travel alone without others. Sipping a buttered tea outside the cafe in Kathmandu, Helen felt both satisfaction and anticipation of accomplishment. She appreciated the apprehension of others. Yet who knows one’s limit until you take that first step and seize the moment to begin. The server spoke a broken English and offered to take her to a travel store that provided airplane tickets to Lukia for $300, and he said that his cousin could meet her at the airport and act as a personal tour guide for the 35 mile jeep ride to Rongbuk.
If you seek a new and deeper experience of life, what if anything gets left behind. For Helen, it was the desire to free herself from the digital world of texts, emails, and web searches. “I want to reclaim the simplicity of my childhood.” She told Rachel “Don’t be shocked when my letters arrive with beautiful flowing strokes of cursive.” She bought her ticket for $155 and was pleased to get it cheaper than the one advertised in the window.
There were an abundance of serious trekkers in the city as always. But Helen was either too shy to ask questions or so caught up in her dream and not wanting to be dissuaded. What would a web search of Lukia Airport disclose? For starters, it was the world’s most dangerous airport, surrounded on all sides by steep, mountainous terrain. The short runway is perched on little more than a mountain shelf, and at such an altitude, the low air density causes a challenge for the plane to slow down on landing. Further inquiry might add troublesome wind shifts and fatal accidents.
The turbulence started almost immediately. It was dark outside; she could see her own reflection in the window: loose dark curls above a furrowed brow, pale facial coloring, a thick wool scarf tight around her neck, and if honest, a frightened look of apprehension. The steward never left his seat near the cockpit, but occasionally shouted commands back to the passengers. The high pitch sound of engines lessened, and Helen felt the sensation of a drop in altitude. Looking at her watch, she noted that 25 minutes of the 30 minute flight had elapsed and guessed they must be soon landing. A moment later a terrific wind gust shook the airplane and it rocked violently from side to side. Someone a few rows ahead of Helen cried out, “I see the pilots yelling at each other, and one is saying ‘Turn back. Turn back.” There was a cacophony of voices rising in alarm, when the steward’s voice rose above the others, “Brace! Brace! Brace! Head down between your knees.” Seconds later the plane landed hard on the runway, lifted off and immediately banged down once again as the aircraft thrust reversers sounded as if the aircraft was soon to explode. Time disappears as one might wonder how long is a short runway in the dark. The plane suddenly stopped dead on the tarmac with a shrill screech and rocked forward, the cabin erupted in cheers. Helen’s face was still locked between her knees as she whispered to herself “Thank you. Thank you. I am so grateful.”
Once inside the small terminal building, she expected to see a younger man. Mingma looked like a grandfather rather than a cousin. His cardboard sign was almost legible and the letters resembled “Ms Brown.” His smile was infectious, and he bowed slightly as he handed her a steaming butter tea while repeating “Welcome misses. Welcome misses.” He led her to a wooden bench below a window and pointed out to swirling snow in the dark early morning. “We wait. New road is bad road. Need sun; maybe yes, maybe no.” He handed her a sandwich of yak meat, wrapped in butcher paper, saying, “Eat. Give you energy.”
The Jeep had clearly seen better days as evidenced by the numerous areas of rust and dents. But again, Mingma lifted her spirits with his constant chatter and laughter. “No worry no sun. I know way even if blind” he cackled while storing her backpack in the back seat. It took several tries to start the engine before catching, and with a jolt forward, they were on their way. Helen shared a private laugh with herself thinking of her “Private tour guide” as heavy falling snow and wind gusts blocked any view beyond five feet in any direction.
Not able to see the terrain, Helen could only guess their position on the road. Were they riding in the center of a broad plateau, inches from a steep cliff with a thousand foot drop, or nearing a sharp turn? What was certain were the large rocks on the road that Mingma expertly dodged with quick yanks of the steering wheel. Helen found solace in closing her eyes and murmuring a Tibetan chant she learned, the Om Mani Padme Hum, known as the “Universal Mantra” that focuses on giving and receiving compassion for happiness.
A loud frightening noise like a metal pipe snapping broke her trance, and the jeep coasted for perhaps 15 feet before stopping in dead silence. She turned toward her guide. His eyes were closed and his lips moved with unspoken words. “Mingma,” Helen shouted while shaking his arm, “what has happened?” Without speaking, or turning her way, he simply dropped his head and took several deep breaths, before turning the key to restart the engine. The only sound was a clicking noise. For minutes Mingma tried repeatedly, without success, until the clicking noise and headlights joined together in fading to a dead battery silence. “Car no good. Lousy car no good,” he muttered looking her way.
Strong, gusty, surface winds rocked the car, howling like the shrill cry of a chorus of ghosts. “Rongbuk near. Too dangerous to stay in car. Freeze. Need to walk,” said Mingma. “Maybe two miles. We okay.” It was difficult to open the car doors against the wind and blowing snow. Once outside, he tied a rope around his waist and fastened the opposite end to Helen with perhaps 10 feet of space between them. By now it was a whiteout condition with snow drifts forming over large rocks making hideous shapes they often stumbled upon. Above the howling wind, Helen could hear Mingma cough and curse to the weather gods. For brief moments there would be a partial clearing when you could see the ground and nearby surrounding area, with puddles of ice and tufts of coarse grass rimed with frost. They traded stumbling and falling, each lifting up the other, and then moving once again. Suddenly the jeep appeared before them. Helen cried out in anguish. They had gotten turned around and were back to where they had started.
Two frozen mummies sat in the front seat awaiting death. Helen no longer felt the cold, and with closed eyes, her mind freely roamed. She clearly saw the homes of her childhood, the gatherings of aunts and uncles on festive occasions, other times of joy, or moments of regret and sadness. Her relationship with her father was forever distant and cool. But one event now stood out in her mind that reflected his love and commitment. She was 10 years old and ill with fever, weakness, and vomiting. The doctor was concerned that she might have polio and wanted a spinal tap performed at the hospital. Only the neurologist and nurse were allowed in the room. The pain of the sharp needle was superseded by the uncertainty and her loneliness. It was perhaps 3:00 a.m. when she awoke to find a nurse sitting by a wall reading a book under the yellow glow of a table lamp. “Is my Daddy here?” she called out. “Yes,” was the answer. “He’s sitting just outside your door. He’s been there all the time.” She called out “Daddy, Daddy, can you hear me. Don’t leave me. I need you.” She called again “I need you! I need you!” She felt someone squeezing her hand and repeating “Here I am little one. Here I am.”
The smell of incense permeated the room. She opened her eyes to see the face of a dark skinned monk leaning from a chair beside her bed. A mala of brown beads was draped around his neck, and his bald head glistened in the soft morning light. “Good morning young woman. My name is Tenzin. I have been counting mantra for you little bird, and now you awake and chirp like a Red Billed Chough.” “Mingma, is Mingma here,” she now whispered in a strained horse voice?” “Yes, he is the one who banged on our door in the storm and led us to you sleeping like an angel in a blanket of snow by the side of the car.” This sweet man had a beautiful speaking voice that immediately calmed Helen and caused her to involuntarily stretch her limbs and sigh, gratefully thanking him for saving her life.
Against procedure, Helen was allowed to stay for seven days to regain strength before returning to Kathmandu and home. Her daily routine was heavenly, a favorite word she applied to wonderful discoveries and practices. Waking with the monks at 4:30 a.m., Helen knelt on the floor of her room to perform the Five Tibetan Rites, a series of yoga exercises for health, energy, and strength. Breakfast was a simple but delicious oat porridge with fruits and nuts, and finished with the most flavorful butter tea she had ever experienced. Once back at her room on a clear day, the sun would break through the stained glass window casting a striking rainbow on the back wall which was shimmering from the fluttering wind chime hanging down from the roof eave.
Bundled with many layers of clothing, walks around the monastery grounds were her late morning rituals, and it always began with meditation outside the main entrance. Looking up to the roof was an exquisite Dharmachakra, the Wheel of Dharma. This wooden wheel with spokes resembling the helm of an ancient sailing vessel was flanked by two deer, one male and one female, indicating harmony, happiness, and fidelity. She would place a heavy rice mat in the snow and sit cross legged first looking up to the Dharma and then over to Mount Everest on her right. From her rugged cotton canvas tote bag, she would remove her journal and meditate before writing down her thoughts for the day, bringing the scattered energies inward to the core. Often, no words written, just a sketch, and on several occasions, a poem.
Helen would enter the courtyard gardens by climbing up shallow steps that twisted in several directions. Flashes of sunlight rained down on the most fragrant shrubs, offering a smell that made Helen feel very tender for the past. Once inside the great hall, a giant golden Buddha reclined, surrounded by a pool of candlelight. Three monks often sat semicircle on the floor and chanting in a beautiful harmony, while one played a chordophone, another pellet bells, and the third, clapper bells. In such a setting, can music be described as luxurious, she so thought.
The 7th day arrived with Tenzin softly knocking on her door. “Good morning little bird. Today you must fly from your nest and return to the greater world. Remember all we discussed in claiming harmony and peace, no matter the circumstance.” He removed his mala and placed it over her head, clasped his hands in prayer, and bowed twice. Helen broke into tears as she repeated his movement, knelt, and placed her palms on the floor before his feet, a gesture signifying his wisdom and kindness. Mingma arrived to drive Helen back to Lukia Airport. He stood at the passenger door of the Jeep with a broad grin and called out “All fixed. No worries Ms. Helen.”
A week earlier the only color was white. Today, Helen felt like Dorothy traveling down the yellow brick road. Trekkers were parading by on their way to Everest base camp in a rainbow of colored parkas and backpacks, while Sherpas led yaks roped together in a long chain mustering the heavier loads. Laying her head out the open window, Helen enjoyed the heat of the sun, the crisp morning air, and stared up at the great blue bowl of the sky, etched by snow covered jagged peaks.
“We stop,” said Mingma as he turned up a narrow rock strewed road. At this altitude, the Himalayan Pine struggles to survive, yet a small little forest surrounded a tea house nestled against the mountain wall. Helen’s first thought was the imaginary ornate home of Hansel and Gretel. An elderly woman stepped out from the front door, hugged Mingma while speaking, and then bowed to Helen. “My mother says welcome” said Mingma with great joy.
A day later, Helen would devote five pages in her journal, remembering, in minute detail, this intensely personal experience of family, culture, and gracious hospitality. Sipping hot lemon tea, feasting on a casserole of rice, potatoes, and egg, interspersed with bites of delicious flatbread chapati. Other family members joined in. Laughter filled the small rooms, mixing with the fragrances of incense, spices, and freshly bathed children.
Later, while Mingma spoke to a brother, Helen wandered out the back door to explore a little garden. A path to the side of the tea house curved upward through the dwarf pines. The thought of stretching her legs before the final drive back was inviting. Helen was careful to walk, looking down to avoid rocks imbedded in the hard packed dirt. Just as she turned toward a steep upward stretch, an unusual sound caused her head to quickly lift. An enormous yak was thundering down the path, snorting and seemingly threatened to see the trail blocked. Helen froze, unable to muster a course of action. At the last possible moment, she was grabbed and pulled into the pines, falling to the ground. Mingma was on his knees, gasping for breath.
A full day in Kathmandu seemed inadequate to capture all the remembrances Helen sought to include in her journal. She kept returning to the sketch of Migma’s mother, filling in lines of her weathered face and feeling pleased to have caught the essence of her soulfulness. Renewed, energized, committed to mending broken fences, Helen had found her caffeine. The stimulant centered on the awareness of beauty in your surroundings, appreciating the lives of others, and an inner peace that can be summoned by reflection and gratitude.
RICHARD SWAIN