"Heaven, to me, is the complete synchronization with higher frequencies and vibrations of creation being totally entrained. In other words, being at-one-ment." - David Hulse, D.D.
The trail was slick from the previous night’s rain, and the dark grey clouds in the sky didn’t promise to bring anything better.
“An easy trail?” I huffed-and-puffed, “Didn’t they say this was an easy three and a half hour walk, at most four, to Dunche?” We had learned early on that if the native’s say it’s a one and a half hour walk, that it really meant a three hour walk for the white-man. The trail climbed up steeply from the ridge town, and our boots kept slipping on the hardened packed earth.
Upon rounding the corner at the top of the incline, a herd of cattle stood grazing along the path. I looked around for the herder and my heart leapt as I spotted a man in tattered clothing, a strip of cloth wrapped around his forehead, crouched behind the sitting wall we had just passed, holding a long knife in his hand, a wide-eyed crazy expression across his face. Justin looked around as well and noticed him immediately. When the man realized that we were looking at him, he slowly hid his knife amongst the folds of his clothing, and began to rise slightly.
“Just keep walking.” Justin said firmly while keeping one eye on the stranger.
I wasn’t about to disagree with him, and we continued along the leaf strewn path glancing occasionally back along the trail.
The sun peaked out from beneath the clouds as we walked ankle deep in mud through a small village. A horse stood with its filly in a mud-pit and whinnied at us as we walked by. The villagers peeked out from their homes, and we trekked on with Dunche in mind.
“I’m getting hungry again.” I updated Justin.
“We'll stop at the next village to eat. There is supposed to be something only an hour from here.”
Our late start that morning and our slow methodical footsteps told me that we weren’t going to make it to Dunche before dark.
“I’m getting hungry again.” I updated Justin.
“We'll stop at the next village to eat. There is supposed to be something only an hour from here.”
Our late start that morning and our slow methodical footsteps told me that we weren’t going to make it to Dunche before dark.
The next village consisted of all of three homes that served as lodges as well, and although they had a breathtaking view of the valley below we were hesitant to stop and eat, but we chose to anyway. A tiny girl no older than 19 took our order, as two children ran around in the yard chasing the dog and hitting him with sticks. While eating partially cooked moo-moo (potato stuffed dough that is supposed to be fried), overcooked soggy rama noodle soup, and a hardly edible unrecognizable dish we were happy to wash it all down with a Sprite. While pushing our food around our plates we discussed our options.
“At this rate we won’t make it to Dunche before it gets dark, and it looks like it’s going to start pouring again. We don’t want to be trekking in these conditions at night, especially when there isn’t a clearly defined path, and we’ve never been here before. So, what do you want to do?” Justin posed.
“I don’t want to stay here.” I said continuing to pick at the worst food that we had eaten in Nepal. A grimace on my face, I looked up to see if he agreed.
“Me either, but this is the last place before Dunche.”
We sat in silence, as we often do when we need to come to a decision, and waited for an answer to come. If we had the same ‘feeling’ – even if it was really strange – than that was our answer. Within moments I knew I would rather push on in hopes of finding another place, even though it meant we could end up trekking in the dark again.
“Keep going?” Justin said more as a statement than a question. I nodded in agreement and we continued down the trail.
“At this rate we won’t make it to Dunche before it gets dark, and it looks like it’s going to start pouring again. We don’t want to be trekking in these conditions at night, especially when there isn’t a clearly defined path, and we’ve never been here before. So, what do you want to do?” Justin posed.
“I don’t want to stay here.” I said continuing to pick at the worst food that we had eaten in Nepal. A grimace on my face, I looked up to see if he agreed.
“Me either, but this is the last place before Dunche.”
We sat in silence, as we often do when we need to come to a decision, and waited for an answer to come. If we had the same ‘feeling’ – even if it was really strange – than that was our answer. Within moments I knew I would rather push on in hopes of finding another place, even though it meant we could end up trekking in the dark again.
“Keep going?” Justin said more as a statement than a question. I nodded in agreement and we continued down the trail.
Fifteen minutes later it began to downpour, we put on our ponchos and walked on. Soon we began to pass a small house butted up against the trail. A tall man, for Nepali standards, stepped out of his door as we passed. Donned in wrinkle free Tibetan attire, a broad smile greeted us as we began to pass his home. Our determined steps faltered, and Justin stopped to ask in Nepali how far it was to Dunche.
“Three hours.” The man replied in Nepali.
“THREE HOURS!!” The news was shocking to me. “We definitely won’t make it before dark! We have already been walking for three hours. We should be two hours away at the VERY most!” I didn’t try to hide my concern and astonishment, and although I knew we would be getting to Dunche near dark it still came as quite a shock to still be so far away. The rain had stopped momentarily as we conversed.
“Would you like a room?” The man asked glancing up at the once again threatening clouds.
“How much?” Justin asked again in Nepali.
“Free.” replied the man.
We were happy about this response, but not surprised – some places will offer you a free room so you will stay and eat their food because that is where they make their money.
“Are you a good cook?” I asked.
The man’s face once again turned into a broad smile as he nodded enthusiastically and replied in English, “Very good!”
“I’m sold!” I told Justin, “Let’s stay here, and head out in the morning.” He happily agreed.
“Three hours.” The man replied in Nepali.
“THREE HOURS!!” The news was shocking to me. “We definitely won’t make it before dark! We have already been walking for three hours. We should be two hours away at the VERY most!” I didn’t try to hide my concern and astonishment, and although I knew we would be getting to Dunche near dark it still came as quite a shock to still be so far away. The rain had stopped momentarily as we conversed.
“Would you like a room?” The man asked glancing up at the once again threatening clouds.
“How much?” Justin asked again in Nepali.
“Free.” replied the man.
We were happy about this response, but not surprised – some places will offer you a free room so you will stay and eat their food because that is where they make their money.
“Are you a good cook?” I asked.
The man’s face once again turned into a broad smile as he nodded enthusiastically and replied in English, “Very good!”
“I’m sold!” I told Justin, “Let’s stay here, and head out in the morning.” He happily agreed.
Cavd’s place had an amazing view of the Langtang valley below stretching out to the foothills of the Tibetan Hymal. Taking off our boots, we ordered tea to warm us and sat outside reading until it began to rain.
That evening we went to the kitchen to order dinner. Cavd offered to let us sit in the kitchen around the fire as it was quite cold that evening. Raksi, the local apple wine, was on the menu and we had yet to try it so Justin ordered a glass.
“It has a hint of vinegar . .. “ Justin mused. “It reminds me of the applejack my dad use to make or really strong fermented apple juice.”
It was mouthwatering sitting at the fire watching Cavd and his wife cut up carrots, potatoes, and cabbage fresh from his garden. I hadn’t seen fresh vegetables for what seemed like ages, and my expression must have given that away as he offered me slices of carrot. The explosion of flavor, the crisp crunch, and the immediately sigh of relief that my body released as thought it was saying, “Finally! Thank you for eating something nutritious!” rushed through me as I swallowed the carrot enjoying every bite as long as possible. Maintaining a diet consisting mostly of fruits and vegetables at home, my body was constantly craving nutritious food.
“Nepal is not rich in agricultural resources, like Thailand is.” Justin added to my ‘learn something new every day’ quota. “We will eat like this every day in Thailand.” He said munching on the end of a carrot.
“Thailand. The promised land.” I replied dreamily with a sigh.
That evening we went to the kitchen to order dinner. Cavd offered to let us sit in the kitchen around the fire as it was quite cold that evening. Raksi, the local apple wine, was on the menu and we had yet to try it so Justin ordered a glass.
“It has a hint of vinegar . .. “ Justin mused. “It reminds me of the applejack my dad use to make or really strong fermented apple juice.”
It was mouthwatering sitting at the fire watching Cavd and his wife cut up carrots, potatoes, and cabbage fresh from his garden. I hadn’t seen fresh vegetables for what seemed like ages, and my expression must have given that away as he offered me slices of carrot. The explosion of flavor, the crisp crunch, and the immediately sigh of relief that my body released as thought it was saying, “Finally! Thank you for eating something nutritious!” rushed through me as I swallowed the carrot enjoying every bite as long as possible. Maintaining a diet consisting mostly of fruits and vegetables at home, my body was constantly craving nutritious food.
“Nepal is not rich in agricultural resources, like Thailand is.” Justin added to my ‘learn something new every day’ quota. “We will eat like this every day in Thailand.” He said munching on the end of a carrot.
“Thailand. The promised land.” I replied dreamily with a sigh.
A unique instrument hung on the wall. It looked to me as the crossbreed of banjo and a violin but much more ornate with an intricately carved dragon head at the top, three thin strings with a pick that hung by another string, and carvings of an unfamiliar Asian design swirled down the sides on to the bulbous bottom.
Our flute having gone missing, my madal (drum) being back in Kathmandu, and Justin’s guitar at home we couldn’t help but stare lusting after the beautiful instrument only feet away from our able playing fingers. A dream of ours is to bring home an instrument from every country we visit and one day have a music room full of instruments from all around the world where people can come, play, and enjoy. Before I realized what I was doing I made motion toward the instrument and simultaneously Justin asked in Nepali what its name was.
Our anticipation mounted as he pulled it down from the wall. “Dramyin.” A Tibetan lute. The name dripped from his mouth like sweet honey and it continued to fall onto the strings as he began to pick and strum.
Our flute having gone missing, my madal (drum) being back in Kathmandu, and Justin’s guitar at home we couldn’t help but stare lusting after the beautiful instrument only feet away from our able playing fingers. A dream of ours is to bring home an instrument from every country we visit and one day have a music room full of instruments from all around the world where people can come, play, and enjoy. Before I realized what I was doing I made motion toward the instrument and simultaneously Justin asked in Nepali what its name was.
Our anticipation mounted as he pulled it down from the wall. “Dramyin.” A Tibetan lute. The name dripped from his mouth like sweet honey and it continued to fall onto the strings as he began to pick and strum.
He played the dramyin for us, and allowed us to attempt to play it as well. We sat in awed amazement listening to him as he performed a song to us in his Tibetan tongue, a song that seemed to be written alongside the dawn of an ancient civilization. Our nutrition and music deprived souls shuddered from the melodious sensation, as he handed us the dramyin our fingers trembled nervously as though holding a new born.
When it was Justin's turn to play the dramyin he fell in love with each pluck of its strings. I guess now we'll have to go to Tibet to get our own dramyin. I can't wait!
When an instrument like the dramyin is in tune with itself, the strings vibrating in perfect harmony, the vibrations compliment and build on each other in a way you can’t describe but can definitely feel. I believe this is the same with our soul, there are certain physical vibrations (music, food, love, art, being in nature, being one with another . . .) that when played in the soul’s corresponding key it causes us to (harmonize with the vibrating energy and) awaken. When we are deprived of what makes our soul sing, the moment we experience it our soul shakes of the dust of un-use and sings as though for the first time. Your body, having forgotten what it feels like to resonate with song, will gasp for a breath of fresh clean air that immediately floods its lungs and brings new life and warmth to every sinew. Rebirth, new life . . . these moments I call ‘renovatio’.
When it was Justin's turn to play the dramyin he fell in love with each pluck of its strings. I guess now we'll have to go to Tibet to get our own dramyin. I can't wait!
When an instrument like the dramyin is in tune with itself, the strings vibrating in perfect harmony, the vibrations compliment and build on each other in a way you can’t describe but can definitely feel. I believe this is the same with our soul, there are certain physical vibrations (music, food, love, art, being in nature, being one with another . . .) that when played in the soul’s corresponding key it causes us to (harmonize with the vibrating energy and) awaken. When we are deprived of what makes our soul sing, the moment we experience it our soul shakes of the dust of un-use and sings as though for the first time. Your body, having forgotten what it feels like to resonate with song, will gasp for a breath of fresh clean air that immediately floods its lungs and brings new life and warmth to every sinew. Rebirth, new life . . . these moments I call ‘renovatio’.
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