This phrase--Tibetan for "a storm is coming"--is becoming increasinglyapplicable to my life. For the past few days, thunderstorms have comerumbing in for a brief visit during the afternoon or evening. Lightning putsthe silhouettes of the mountains into stark contrast, and the thunder sounds so close that we wonder if the Chinese militia aren't firing heavy artillery down in Jian Za. To me it seems as though someone made a mistake and put the ocean where the sky goes. Aereal tides.
Yesterday, after dinner and post-storm, three of us Americans followed goat-tracks up into the foothills. In the half-light of evening, we stopped at the edge of a giant ravine to lay in goat poop and look at the sky. The grass smelled like chamomile, and I felt as though I might fall in (to the ocean?).
Aside from thunderstorms and gloam-time walks, there have been other developments since my last update. Most notably, a group of seven Americans, along with one of the founders of the Home of Hope and her son, arrived to volunteer. If I felt like a conspiciously foreign 'big-nose' when I first
got here, now I am among a true gaggle of awkward, camera-toting, cleanliness-bearing Americans. Today all of the girls were washed and given new clothes (assembly line style), and all of the children are sporting shiny pencil cases.
Also, I have discovered that I am a crack shot with a crossbow, and yesterday I believe I may have been wearing an entire yak.
I will conclude with a poem-ish thing I wrote today in the office while taking a break from the energy of the children:
Mountains like old faces
For all I know, they might not exist
I haven't touched them
But, then again, these mountains seem like the most likely of all things
To be real
Maybe its because they're so far away
And so old
Weathered peaks--grey, red, and brown
I drape words upon them
Like so many colored prayers
They flap in the wind
Yesterday, after dinner and post-storm, three of us Americans followed goat-tracks up into the foothills. In the half-light of evening, we stopped at the edge of a giant ravine to lay in goat poop and look at the sky. The grass smelled like chamomile, and I felt as though I might fall in (to the ocean?).
Aside from thunderstorms and gloam-time walks, there have been other developments since my last update. Most notably, a group of seven Americans, along with one of the founders of the Home of Hope and her son, arrived to volunteer. If I felt like a conspiciously foreign 'big-nose' when I first
got here, now I am among a true gaggle of awkward, camera-toting, cleanliness-bearing Americans. Today all of the girls were washed and given new clothes (assembly line style), and all of the children are sporting shiny pencil cases.
Also, I have discovered that I am a crack shot with a crossbow, and yesterday I believe I may have been wearing an entire yak.
I will conclude with a poem-ish thing I wrote today in the office while taking a break from the energy of the children:
Mountains like old faces
For all I know, they might not exist
I haven't touched them
But, then again, these mountains seem like the most likely of all things
To be real
Maybe its because they're so far away
And so old
Weathered peaks--grey, red, and brown
I drape words upon them
Like so many colored prayers
They flap in the wind
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