Marking One Quarter of a Century

My 25th birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks.  I never wrote down specific goals or even thought about what I would have hoped to do or experience or accomplish during my first 25 years on planet Earth, but looking back, I can say that I'm quite content with the journey thus far.

Many people, in their mind's eye, stop growing older after a certain age.  The years pass by, but their identity is frozen in time; they continue to perceive themselves as that one ultimate age.  My mom always thinks of herself as a 24-year-old.  It seems to have worked well for her because now, at almost double that, she can still pass for 30.   As a kid, I always wanted to be 17.   It seemed magical in my imagination, and I truly felt invincible as I lived that year out in Belgium, Bosnia, the US, Australia, and China.  In fact, that year went so well, I didn't easily move on.  I've continued to think of myself as a 17-year-old out exploring the big, wide world.  Until now.

Twenty-five is a big marker in my mind.  One quarter century.  I want to do something extraordinary to kick off this year, so I begin to scheme, with 12 days left to come up with a proper celebratory plan.


Meanwhile, my past few weeks haven't been the easiest: Full of philosophical brooding, a lot of questions for myself, a bit of self-doubt at times.  I've been waking up wondering: Is anything I do today really going to make a difference in the world?  It's a daily cycle:  Questions, Temporary Depression, Long Walk, Prayer, Praise, Encouragement, Meaningfulness, Enthusiasm for the day ahead, Excitement for my present work.   At first it took a full day to come around to a place of peace, but has become progressively shorter.  As I found the rhythm, wrote out the script that I need to read every morning, the process has been reduced to something I think about over my morning tea.  I've found solace in the small opportunities to make a difference, like listening to friends and encouraging them as they go through their own transitions; helping my brother and new sister-in-law organize their new home.

I know many, many of you, my dear readers, are much more mature in years, wisdom, and experience than I, and I'd love to learn from all the skills and perspective you've honed over the years.  It would be an honor to receive some words of advice, encouragement, warning, counsel, or anything else you would like to suggest as I move into this next season.
Your messages will reach me at shiraheden@gmail.com.  I look forward to hearing from you!

Season of Rest

I've had an increasing sense during this year that now is a season of rest for me:  mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually.  After years -- a full decade, actually -- of super-human self-expectations and unsustainable activity levels, I'm coming to a better understanding of what rest really means.  In order to get to this point, I had to rewrite the internal script that told me I'm only worth as much as I can accomplish.  I still haven't figured out how I developed that philosophy, but it doesn't really matter; what matters is that it's been replaced with a healthier script, one fueled by a sense of identity rooted in the truth that I am valuable because of who I am, not because of what I've done. As are you.

With that re-scripting has come a wonderful release, a longed-for freedom to just enjoy and not produce.  Of course I still work.  But with limits.  Healthy limits that allow for ensure renewal and rejuvenation at the end of each day.  Everywhere I turn, people and events keep reminding me that this is the time to reap the rewards of my hard work and truly enjoy them.  For once, I have not argued.  The results are worth sharing.

Happy April Fool's Day!

Having followed lots of internet pranks today, including this list, here's my pick of the day...

Stay young! Don't forget to laugh a little. Or a lot :)

Volleying at 3,000 Meters

I took this photo during my last weekend in the Himalaya this past August. It was the last festival of the summer, and the entire village below the monastery hiked up to this clearing, where the guys measured off and marked out a volleyball field. The monks tied their monk-skirts up around their waists (obviously wearing shorts), and felled a few trees, ripped off the branches, dug holes, and planted stakes to hold up the net. All in about 15 minutes. Pretty impressive.

A match of monks vs. villagers

Meanwhile, I did cartwheels across the mountainside, played with cute little Sherpa toddlers, and took a few snapshots - like this one - with the hopes of forever capturing a moment of absolute care-free enjoyment in this incredible place I'm honored to have called home.

Birthday Pulahdus

I just celebrated my first birthday.

In Finland, that is.

The 23-year milestone called for something radical, so I took to the beach in southern Helsinki and - having successfully convinced only one other person (my cousin & roommate, Maya) to join me - splashed around in the waves for a quick dip. Or, as we say in Finnish: pulahdus!

It was a high of 5 degrees Celsius today (41 F) and something like 7 degrees in the water.  We took beach towels, sunglasses and tanning lotion to accessorize our bikini ensembles, but ended up getting too cold to care about those.  It was windy and the weather channel's "Feel's Like" estimate was 3 degrees.  So it was a quick in and quick out birthday swim, but the kite surfers in full neoprene bodysuits wanted photos with us and kept telling us "what brave girls" we are.

Overall a chilly experience but definitely worth the memories!

Dumzi Festival - Part IV

It's 6:00 AM.  Sapana and I kick off our shoes and file into the monastery with the monks. As always, I try to inconspicuously refrain from the three prostrations before the Buddha statues which accompany any Buddhist's entry into a monastery.  While the older monks take their seats on the padded wooden benches around the perimeter of the room, Sapana and I take a seat on one of two parallel carpets that have been rolled out in the middle of the room.  The younger boys line up and sit down with us, their prayer book in one hand and metal coffee mug in the other. From my seat in the very back of one line, I watch Ngatar, Tendi, Samten, Dawa, Chimi, Lakpa, Karma, and Pasang get situated, untying and unwrapping the cloth holding together their loose leaf prayer books.

We sit in a line, each person directly behind the person in front of them and so close that our knees touch the back of the one in front of us while our backs are up against the knees of the person behind us. Personal space isn't really a concept here, but that's okay because having grown up together everyone is a brother and even the two older, middle aged monks are called O'Tom Cho and O'Serpa, the "O" meaning "uncle." The handwritten festival schedule posted outside the monastery accurately describes us as the "Pema Choling Monk Family at Thulo Gumela."

It's so cute how excited the boys are; though they practice puja every morning for an hour and a half, they never get to take part in the big monks' puja.  Their participation in the special Dumzi puja is both a privilege and a rite of passage.

My friend Pasang (the older Pasang - 22 years old) must be in charge of the ceremonial rituals because all morning he's been arranging and rearranging things on the altar, lighting and spreading incense, swinging the smokey soul purification pot, and filling the silver offering stands - first with sprinkles of rice and then black tea.

I haven't seen much of him for the past three days. He's been like a hermit, camping upstairs in the tiny 5' x 10' room above the monastery, working tirelessly to create the most intricate of the thorma adornments.  I'd go up periodically to check on him, and there he'd be, always sitting in exactly the same spot, in the same position - legs folded Indian-style, bent over an incredible little butter sculpture.  Colin and Lakpa would be there too, sometimes accompanied by Dorjee or Kagi.  They'd often laugh and joke, but more often worked in silence. Every so often Lakpa would hand his work over to Pasang, who seems to have the final say on the finished work. All of the older monks participate in making thorma, and the craftsmanship is generally good, but Pasang is exceptionally gifted.  I've made him promise to let me take home his floating Buddha sculpture when Dumzi is finished.  Otherwise it would just be disposed of, just as the alter offerings are later eaten by hungry monks and - in the case of the Nyune festival last month - Jenny and I, who were craving chocolate.

Turning my thoughts back to the ceremony taking place before me, I recall the schedule posted outside the monastery.  Puja starts every morning at 6:00 or 7:00 AM, going until our 8:00 breakfast. When the chanting stops I file out of the monastery and into the dining hall with the monks. Breakfast is brought to us immediately by a handful of Sherpa women and kitchen hands who deliver steaming dishes of hot food and mugs of tea, juice, or Coke. The monks eat very quickly and I'm always the last one to finish. They walk right back into the monastery and resume puja until lunch at 12 noon.  After breakfast I stay seated in the dining hall, watching a steady flow of thermoses full of tea being taken into the monastery and Pasang running in and out to fetch new offerings and carry out others.

The chanting stops again and monks eager to stretch their legs pour out of the curtain that hangs over the monastery entrance. They come in for lunch, a beautiful spread including a mountain of boiled rice, potato and cauliflower and chicken curry, lentil soup, a salad of fresh lettuce, tomato, red and green onion, and a sour yogurt drink to finish the meal and cleanse the palate. Eating quickly, we enjoy an hour break after lunch.  Puja resumes at 1:30 PM. "Khaza" - an afternoon snack, also called "second lunch" - is served at 3:00. Yesterday was chow mein; today it's delicious fried chapati - Tibetan round, thick, flat bread made of rice flour - topped with a potato curry. So good! We're truly spoiled this week.

Back to puja at 3:30, and by 6:00 it's finished. Dinner is ready right away: Thukpa! This is a wide, flat traditional Tibetan rice noodle in a clear broth topped with sauteed veggies and dried yak meat. The festival sponsor, Ngawang Dorje, tells me that he had these thukpa noodles specially ordered and made in Kathmandu just for Dumzi. I'm impressed.

After dinner we relax. The monks are exhausted and I am, too. I rejoined puja right after lunch, and five hours of sitting - my legs folded under me, in concentrated meditation and close observation of the sacred rituals unfolding before me - leave me mentally and physically worn out. We drink a thermos of milk tea and then head to our rooms. Our 5:00 AM wake up call will come before we know it!

Dumzi Festival - Part III

Dumzi is the most sacred of all festivals at Pema Choling. Two days are spent simply in preparation: The making of thorma is the primary activity during this time. Puja (chanting) will last four days, and the final two days no one will sleep: Sherpa dancing, a traditional line dance in which both men and women participate, will fill the days.  After dinner the atmosphere will be transformed and the wholesome Sherpa dancing will morph into a full on disco party, complete with strobe lights, all types of Nepali, Hindi, and western music (including Shakira, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and various rap artists), and an unlimited supply of chhang - Sherpa wine made from millet.  I follow the festival sponsor, Ngawang Dorje, into the store room and watch three women arranging 8 or 9 barrels of chhang, which Ngawang tells me have been in the making for seven months at his lodge down the hill from here in Phakding. I poke my head through the doorway to get a better look at the barrels and the smell of fermenting millet hits my nostrils. So strong is the smell I jerk my head back involuntarily. My whole nose and sinuses feel brutally cleansed and I'm certain my head cold is cured once and for all. "It'll be a really nice wine," Ngawang says with a proud smile. After dinner I take him up on his offer to try the chhang; it's smooth and the taste is alright, but I still don't like the smell.

Morning. Just thinking of the chhang makes me sniffle, and I pick up my mug for another sip of hot milk tea. It's only the first morning of puja, and I'm already feeling the need for a break, so after the breakfast break I retreat with my laptop to the dining hall where I can write while staying out of the way but still feel amidst the hustle and bustle of festival excitement. I'm interrupted by a tiny woman with jet black wavy hair pulled back in a braid, dressed in a silky lime green pastel chemise under a royal blue Sherpa dress of the same shiny silky material, embroidered with exotic flowery patterns in a rainbow of red, orange, yellow, and green thread.  I love her demeanor; I was watching her yesterday and she's certainly the most friendly and outgoing of the typically shy Sherpa women who stick to the kitchen, always ready with thermos in hand to pour a steaming cup of tea for anyone who wanders into a 10-foot radius. But  this little lady is always laughing and smiling, flashing a gold tooth in her upper left set of molars.

She motions for me to follow her, and we walk through the dining hall, the kitchen, outside, and into the store room, where she shuts the double wooden doors behind us. She places her backpack on a bag of grain and turns to me with a big smile. "Okay, Sherpa dress," she says, pulling a pile of clothing out of her pack.  I hold out my arms and she eases me into a forest green blouse of the same shiny, silky material hers is made of. It boasts an understated iridescent zigzag print in the same forest green color; you wouldn't even see the zigzags if it weren't for the light catching the thread.  She proceeds to pull a black dress over my head and ties it, then unfolds one of the beautiful Sherpa aprons - the hallmark of the Sherpa costume - and ties it high around my waist.  I look down; the apron of brown, tan, camel, purple, white, and silver stripes stands out against the slimming black dress whose hem barely brushes the tops of my ballet slipper shoes. I love it.

I walk back out through the kitchen and into the dining hall, knowing that I'll be under close inspection for the next few hours.  Sherpa people are curious, boisterous, and proud of their culture; I know they'll be both enthusiastic and tickled pink to see their favorite little white girl in traditional dress. Sure enough, I enter the room to an explosion of  joyous catcalls, "Ho! Sila! Sherpini!!"  Sherpini is the name for a Sherpa woman: All Sherpa men's last name is Sherpa, and the women's last name is Sherpini - although when used colloquially the term "Sherpini" usually refers to a married woman.
"But I'm not married!" I protest. They're doing their best to change that. Things have been moving beyond the once innocent suggestions that I marry a Sherpa.

In light of yesterday's conversation in the kitchen, I try not to feel self conscious as two men in particular inspect my new attire from across the room.

You might feel uneasy, too, if you had witnessed this that conversation...
Sapana and I am talking with the festival sponsor; they sit side by side while I stand facing them, my back to the fire. Ngawang sits with one leg crossed over the other and his hands clasped, fingers laced together around his top leg. He leans back comfortably and gazes into the fire while talking, then falls silent. I am absorbed in thought with the stories of his various houses in Nepal and his travels to the US when, after this pause in the conversation, he suddenly lifts his head to meet my gaze and steadily, thoughtfully says, "You know, I've been thinking about taking an American wife."
I chuckle, knowing he's already married with two kids; he only just finished showing my pictures of them on his iPhone some twenty minutes ago. He just smiles.
"Aren't you married? What would your wife think of a second wife?" I tease, thinking he's joking, of course.
"Oh, she has no problem," he replies, completely serious.
"Wait, is it okay for Buddhists to have more than one wife?" I ask, not knowing why the idea makes me feel a little unsettled if not concerned.
"Yes, it is okay in our culture," Ngawang says carefully. "This is more common that divorce. Perhaps 5% of Sherpa families include more than one wife, while less than 1% are divorced." The idea still feels a bit incredulous, this is the first I've heard of polygamy in Sherpa culture.

After the arrival of some guests interrupts the cultural discussion and provides me some time for thought, Ngawang takes his seat once again and together with Sapana, the three of us fall back into conversation, this time joined by an older monk in his late 50's, who also goes by Ngawang. I'd met this Ngawang just the morning before; apparently he's been here at the monastery the entire time I have, but I had only seen him briefly the first day I arrived because the following day he started a month-long meditation and remained in one room above the monastery, talking to nobody and having contact only with the young monk who brought him his meals.

I'd only become cognizant of his existence a week ago, and then when I walked into the kitchen the first morning of Dumzi, there he was offering me milk coffee - a big treat in a place like this. After accepting a bowl of corn flakes (also a first time treat) from Kagi and allowing Lakpa to douse them in hot milk tea, I paused my wonderment at all these culinary treats and wandered over to meet the new face in a kitchen I now considered familiar domain.  I approached Ngawang and used my ever-growing Nepali lexicon to ask his name and where he's from. After exchanging only a few words, his face lights up and he suddenly says, "I enjoy you. After the festival you will come to my lodge; I own the Kala Patthar Lodge in Phakding. We'll drink tea, eat some food and talk."
"Okay," I replied, returning his smile. What else could I say?  It's not very often a brand new acquaintance demands my presence as a guest in their home.  I'm not quite sure what he saw in me, but Ngawang made up his mind about me very quickly. Perhaps first impressions are especially big with him, and I happen to be a morning person...that's all I can figure.

That conversation ended when Ngawang was called out to attend to some matter with a visitor. He started to walk away and then double-backed, saying, "Okay, I will see you later and we will talk more." I said goodbye and then picked up my phone, remembering I needed to call my mom during the brief period each day when the time difference between Nepal and Oregon is favorable for both of us.  I caught my dad at home and we talked for about 20 minutes; then I started to walk back to the kitchen to refill my mug.
I looked up when I heard a voice in front of me asking, "Everything okay?" and suddenly strong arms were wrapping me up into a big hug. Everything really was okay, and in the midst of me trying to figure out what expression I might have made to make it seem as if something was amiss, it took me a moment to realize that it was my new friend Ngawang enthusiastically hugging me.  All I could think was that, after a month of voluntary solitary confinement, he must be so happy to finally see people that he just can't keep his joy to himself.  That's sweet, I thought, and then assured him everything was perfect before continuing on my way.

Now I was sitting with Ngawang, the enthusiastic hugger, and Ngawang, the festival sponsor, and they were talking about how they'd like to find me a Sherpa dress for the festival.  "I'll have my wife give me one to bring tomorrow," said the first.  "Be careful," warned the second, "you might look quickly and mistake her for your wife."  That got a lot of laughs and invoked a series of jokes about him taking me as a second wife.  I laughed along with them - not really feeling like there was anything else I could do - but had a strange feeling that they weren't entirely joking.

So now I'm in full Sherpa costume, being paraded around as a one-person fashion show for the amusement of all present. Both Ngawangs are surprised and stop to admire my new look, and I'm not feeling any better about the marriage jokes. I might have shed the dress and ran back up to my room for the rest of the evening if I only knew what was to come...

After lunch Sapana and I sat in the dining room, chatting. A few people got up and Ngawang the meditating monk saw us and scooted down to say hello. Somehow, slyly, the conversation was immediately turned to marriage. Ngawang told us proudly, "You see that old monk over there, spinning the mani? That's my poppy. He's 84. And he walked here from the monastery in Ghat!" A two hour walk involving a steep climb of 200 m (about 600 ft). Sapana and I are impressed. "You know, he had seven wives. And my grand-poppy had eighteen."  Our mouths drop.  Eighteen wives? The old monk places a hand on my leg. Weird flirting and innuendos ensue.  Of all the places in the world, I thought this would be the last I'd ever be subjected to such treatment. But oh, it gets worse.

After dinner Sapana and I, the slow eaters that we are, find ourselves again one of the last few people in the dining hall.  The old meditating monk comes by and asks me (for the third or fourth time), "Where do you sleep?"
"At saano gumba," I tell him, "with the little monks. Remember? Big festival. Many people here. Festival sponsor in my room. No space for me here!"  I simplify and exaggerate, convincing myself he's only asking because he somehow didn't understand the first three times.
"No, no...you eat dinner now, you're tired. That hill is too big. It's late and dark. You stay here, you can stay in my room."  My mouth drops. I look at Sapana. We're both in shock. Is he really saying this?  "My room. I have two beds, two blankets. You stay here. Good for you."  I want to run away. Fast. I laugh nervously and tell him "No way, that's a horrible thing to say." And then I escape to the monastery, where big and little monks are hanging out and stuffing goody bags.

I stay away, far away from this old monk and prepare to slap him if he touches me again. I absolutely cannot believe that, as the most senior lama in the monastery, he would dare to speak and act this way, especially in front of the other monks. I employ the monks my age as my body guards and pay them in Hershey's Kisses I brought from Oregon. When the festival ends this dirty old monk will go home to his lodge in Phakding and won't bother me. I'm going to miss the lessons I was hoping he'd give me on Buddhist philosophy, but I certainly won't be visiting his lodge for tea!

Dumzi Festival - Part II

On the stove a dish called dildo bubbles in a wok blackened from what appears to be years of use over an open fire. I saw a menu nailed to a wooden plank in the kitchen yesterday, a hand-written grid neatly printed on a blank sheet of paper, and couldn't help but laugh when I read that "Dildo with Mixed Curry" was on for lunch today. What in the world could that be?  The rest of the dishes on the menu - besides "Macroni with Veg/Cheese Tomato" - are traditional Sherpa, Nepali, or Tibetan dishes, and I haven't come across anything called dildo yet.

It was Pasang Genzi, assistant to the festival sponsor, who pointed to the corn meal and hot water bubbling in the wok and told me, "See, they're making dildo. Very good, you should try it." I watched as first the corn meal was cooked, then tsampa (barley) and millet, all in the same fashion. Then all three were dumped into a huge twenty-gallon pot to become a mixture so thick three cooks had to heave the pot off the fire and onto the floor, where they propped it against a wooden log which they used as leverage to stir the dildo with huge wooden sticks.

Lunch time approaches and I'm chased up to the dining hall to take the meal in a long room with wooden benches and long narrow tables lining either side. The thick brown paste that they call dildo is plopped into a copper dish and served with a bowl of chicken potato curry on the side. No utensils included. That's pretty typical for Nepal - everyone eats with their right hand only.  But usually the other volunteers and I are given utensils automatically, and I'd even say most of the monks use utensils most of the time.  But apparently this dish is hands-only, so I have to seek out a spoon for myself.  When I return and start sipping some of the curry soup off my spoon, I look up to see everyone staring at me and laughing - not insultingly, just amused.  I seem to constantly be a great source of amusement for pretty much everyone here.  The monks demonstratively roll their dildo paste into marble-sized balls and then dip them into the curry before popping them in their mouths.  Colin jokingly threatens to throw one at me.  It goes against every lesson in table etiquette my mother ever taught me. What happened to "No playing with your food?" Sherpa kids don't learn that lesson.

Even though I know the dildo dish contains barley and therefore gluten, I'm curious enough to taste it that I risk a stomach ache.  One bite is enough though; I find it bland and too rich all at the same time, and after three years of carefully avoiding gluten, the taste of grain is foreign in my mouth. I opt to stick to my bowl of curry soup instead, which is truthfully wonderful. I think the festival cooks are a bit less fond of chili and masala (spices), so for once I can actually taste my food.

I wander a bit after lunch, touring the grounds to check progress in our monastery-turned-thorma-making-factory.  But eventually I find myself back in the kitchen, eager for a warm place to sit and read and subconsciously hoping for a hot cup of milk tea. I'm pleasantly surprised to find a huge pot of boiled potatoes on the floor and a group of happy Sherpas sitting around it in a sort of peeling party. Laughter bounces off the walls, the fire pops, and the smell of twisted rice-flour kapsi cookies boiling in soybean oil fills my nostrils as I'm welcomed into the room.
"Can I help?" I ask with a smile, pointing to the pot of potatoes.
"Sure, sit down," Purbu replies.  I'd crouched next to him in the yard of the other monastery a few weeks ago during the Nyune festival, slowly pressing a huge pile of barley-butter-water paste into hundreds of teardrop-shaped thorma the size of my fist. He and the others surrounding the tarp - all men between the ages of 16 and 40 and all trekking guides - laughed and joked as I very slowly and painfully produced my first thorma. No matter how long I massaged the paste, gently shaping and smoothing the surface, it would crumble the moment I pulled one hand away.
"No, like this," said Purbu, as he forcefully smashed a handful of crumbs into a very dense, compact ball.  He kneaded the dough for a good two minutes, then handed me a perfect sphere.  Having three fourths of the work done for me, I quickly and easily shaped the ball into a beautiful teardrop, pinching the top with thumb and forefinger to emphasize the cone shape.  I was really proud of myself, and so was everyone else. Purba and I continued in this manner - he doing the heavy lifting, me taking the credit for a perfectly compacted thorma - for at least two more hours, until the tarp was empty and we were surrounded by hundreds of teardrops on baking sheets. Remembering our teamwork and his kindness, I'm touched that Purba offers me a potato and a seat next to him.

With five people peeling, the twenty gallon pot of potatoes empties quickly. I reach in to pull another out while maintaining eye contact during my conversation Purba and am startled to find, when I finally look down, that I'm holding an egg. "Ewww! Uh oh! It's an egg!" I cry. Everyone laughs. I look down into the pot. I count four other eggs camouflaged among the potatoes. For some reason I'm startled and confused; I don't understand why you would ever boil eggs and potatoes together. In fact, I'm slightly concerned that the chicken poop on the eggshell contaminates the potatoes. But I peel the egg anyways and move on to the next potato.

Dumzi Festival - Part I

I take a seat on one of the wooden benches halfway up the three-tiered stadium-style seating in the auditorium outside of the monastery, watching as monks of all ages scurry around in preparation for the six-day festival which starts tomorrow. This is the largest Buddhist festival of the year in the region and takes place at exactly the same time every June-July.  I try to envision 1,800 people crowding into the auditorium outside the 500-year-old monastery.  Built in the 16th century by one of three brothers who all founded monasteries in the region, Pema Choling should be a World Heritage Site.  The paint of ornate designs adorning every inch of wall, ceiling, and wooden supporting post is very thick, maybe a quarter-inch thick in many places. I wonder if this is because of the clumpy nature of butter-oil paint they use here, or if it's simply the result of many - perhaps more than a hundred - layers of paint used to put a fresh face on the monastery from time to time.

A steady, deliberate and lyrical recital of the universal Buddhist mantra Om Mani Padme Hum wafts out of a pair of loudspeakers mounted on either side of the monastery doorway. Buddhist rosaries consist of 108 prayer beads and the devout will make their way round an entire rosary morning and night, pushing aside one bead for each recitation of "Om Mani Padme Hum."  The mantra has become a familiar and comforting sound; it's especially beautiful when put to music.

Someone opens the door at the far end of the auditorium and I'm suddenly sitting in a wind tunnel; a high mountain breeze ruffles the curly wisps of hair threatening to fall out of my braid.  The damp room becomes unbearably cold for me and I pick up, meandering into the kitchen to take refuge in front of the fire.  Namchok, the cook, is crouched in front of the fire, blowing repeatedly, functioning as a human bellows. He stands up to split a long log into three pieces with a khukuri - a long, curved Nepali knife. Steadying the log with his foot which is covered only with cracking black plastic sandals, I wonder how the Sherpas seem to avoid injury when they fail to practice what a westerner would consider the most basic and mandatory safety precautions.

I like the kitchen.  In the perpetual drizzle during this monsoon season everything is damp, including all of my clothes folded neatly in my room, and I seem to have caught the "Khumbu cough."  I come here to warm my outsides as I stand in front of the fire, my clothes drying against my body and melting the goosebumps underneath, while I warm my insides with a steaming mug of black tea.

Today five additional cooks have arrived and installed themselves in the kitchen to help feed the monastery population which quadruples during festival weeks. It's a warm and lively place, but the normal kitchen crowd - both older and younger monks - is conspicuously absent.  I wonder if, for once, they're too busy to lounge around with almost nothing to do, or if they were warned not to clutter the kitchen at such a high-volume time. I'm happy and relieved that no one's asked me to leave.

In a society which seems so highly stratified, my status remains fluid, somewhat of a mystery, and an invisible all-access pass seems to hang about my neck.  I often marvel at my ability to go anywhere and do practically anything I please, despite being an outsider and despite being a woman.  I'm treated with respect everywhere: I'm ushered in to eat with the monks - something I only recently realized is quite unusual and a privilege; I move between buildings and groups of people, observing what they're doing and how they're doing it - even taking photos; and I'm politely offered a steaming cup of tea wherever I go.  Nothing seems to be off limits for me. Of course I'm always conscientious, respectfully curious, and lend an interested ear whenever a Sherpa wants to speak, and I think this goes a long way.  I've learned enough Nepali-Sherpa to hold only a basic conversation, but even such limited ability has earned me quite a few instant friends.

Though initially I attracted a lot of attention, it's been nice to fade into the background as the people get used to the little blonde white girl hanging around.  I wander from balcony to auditorium to upper kitchen to lower kitchen, to upper monastery to lower monastery, making the rounds and exploring the many exotic new activities to be observed.

While I sit in the kitchen typing away, no less than five curious Sherpas sidle up to sit down next to me and inspect my laptop. Some can read elementary English and think I am a journalist.  One of these is Pasang Genzi, assistant to his uncle, the festival sponsor, and a sort of fix-everything guy.  Eight-year-old Ula comes up and becomes a permanent fixture at my side. Despite his learning disabilities, he recognizes my cursor as the letter "I" saying, "this I."
"Good job, Ula! The letter 'I'!" I applaud him. "Ke chha?" I ask - "How are you?"
The Sherpa man sitting at my other side tells me that Ula doesn't understand normal language, "but if you give him a mobile he'll dance every time." Sherpas keep their music collection (usually limited to a handful of songs) on cell phones - no iPods and no laptops. I turn on some music for Ula, failing to find any suitable "disco" music - as they call dance music - among my Coldplay collections. After a few minutes Namchok chases the boys out of the kitchen. So apparently a no-kids-in-the-kitchen-during-festival rule has been enacted.

It's only 10:30 am, but two big pots of potatoes are boiling on the stove in an incredible amount of curry.  I'm sometimes rather indifferent to the food here, but often enjoy it when I can taste it. I think they drown everything in chili and curry sauce to escape the blandness of their almost exclusively rice diet. There's something called Sherpa chili - which 12-year-old Pasang Tendi delighted in making us try our first day - a green plant with lots of stems and little pea-sized pods at the ends which look and feel like small capers.  I couldn't tell you how it tastes, however, because upon biting into one of these pods a numb feeling quickly crawls up your tongue, into your gums and lips. Those nasty little Sherpa chilis leave you tingly and unable to taste anything for a good twenty minutes.  Sherpa people especially like to eat them with dal bhat and other dishes in the form of aachar - pickled.  I find even the smell of this homemade death pickle especially repulsive and can't figure out their appeal. They may call me "Shirah Sherpa" for the way I conquer a rocky mountainside, but this is where I draw the line...they won't ever catch me snacking on Sherpa chili.

Luckily, I don't think the Sherpa chilis will make much of an appearance this week; there is so much delicious food during the festival! Everything we eat at the monastery, both on a regular basis and during festivals, is brought as a donation from community members.  Over the past two days of preparation, and even in the few days leading up to these, loads of vegetables, grains, eggs, cookies, and everything else imaginable has come trickling in on the backs of men and women who've come to visit, participate, or work during the festival.  A stocky Sherpa woman walks in, a red plastic bucket filled with cauliflower and lettuce in hand - both certainly home grown in her own garden. The woman wears a flowered short-sleeve blouse under a traditional Sherpa dress in maroon, and has a beautiful matching apron of horizontal stripes in brilliant colors tied around her waste. This is an indispensable part of the Sherpa woman's costume.  On her head, a red bandana and on her feet, black socks inside of red leather sandals.  She has a gold loop earring in both ears and a bracelet of clear diamond-shaped glass beads around her right hand.  She takes a seat on the bench a few feet down from me, visibly tired from her foot journey. It's often hard to tell the age of Sherpa women because they tend to be very small-boned, shy, and develop slowly through their teens; but once they reach child-bearing age they work hard and age quickly. This woman's eyes are dark brown hazel and almond shaped - typical Tibetan features. She has a cute button nose protruding from her otherwise flat face, and a wide smile as one of the cooks hands her a cup of juice. Every traveler receives a cup of orange powder-mix Tang juice and then as much milk tea as they can drink. Though the Sherpa people have little, they are generous and share everything; Buddhist philosophy teaches them that there is no real happiness in this life, but by being generous and kind they may foster good karma that will facilitate their rebirth. Therefore they gladly give of their earthly possessions and labor for the lives they believe are ahead for them.

Donating to and serving at festivals like Dumzi is part of building good karma. The monks are not expected to pray for nothing; villagers pay the monks to pray for good weather, good harvest, good luck, and protection from evil spirits.  Dumzi is the most important of annual festivals. For four days the monks will chant, praying to push away the bad spirits, demons, and wrathful gods. The fifth day is filled with dancing; the "lama dance" is a representation of the gods and a reenactment of their interactions. On the final day of Dumzi, a new set of prayers will welcome everything good to this region and the Sherpas' lives. The mountains are blessed, the sky, the earth, the rain, the rivers, etc. Today is only Day 1.

Buddhism 101

I was able to start asking my first round of questions on Buddhism yesterday when a conversation with the festival sponsor and former monk of 19 years, Ngawang Dorje, turned into a veritable lesson on the basics of Buddhist philosophy. He's the first one I've met who speaks English well enough to explain any of it. Here's what I've learned:

Everyone is trapped in samsara, cycling through birth and rebirth in this world of suffering. There are six realms in samsara, represented by the universal mantra Om Ma Ni Ped Me Hum.  Humanity is a being's highest attainment in samsara because only humans are capable of saving themselves from this cycle by entering nirvana through enlightenment - achieved only through Buddhist practice and mediation. However humans are vulnerable to four major sufferings: hunger, sickness, dying, and death. Below humans, in the second realm, are gods, who may not attain enlightenment and who do not suffer until death. However their death is a great suffering.  Ngawang Dorje describes these gods feeling and smelling their bodies rotting and they are given no comfort from other gods they may have called friends - the gods' relationships are very shallow and based on looks. The third realm is that of the semi-gods. Their major suffering is that they are constantly fighting with the gods but, as demi-gods, they can't compete on the same ground.  Despite some inevitable sufferings, these first three realms are considered relatively favorable.

The fourth realm of samsara contains all animals. They suffer because they cannot speak, and because they eat each other. In the fifth realm are insects. The exact description of their suffering is not clear to me yet, although I think is has to do with being considered undesirable and everyone else killing them all the time. Finally, the sixth realm is called the realm of pechri - "hungry ghosts."  They suffer greatly because though they have large bodies, their necks are no bigger than a single strand of hair and thus they may never eat or drink.

Outside of samsara there exists a heaven, in which reside many Buddhas, "thousands of Buddhas," as Ngawang Dorje explains, and other enlightened beings.  There are also some enlightened gods (however I haven't been able to ask yet how they got there, if gods in samsara cannot attain enlightenment directly from the god-realm).  Tibetan Buddhists pray not only to the Buddhas and enlightened gods, but to some unenlightened gods which reside in samsara, as well.  One of my questions, then, was why - if human beings are higher than samsara gods - would we pray to them?  The answer provided is that, though they reside in a lower realm, they are still able to help us and to protect us. Ngawang Dorje explains that there are both personal deities, "I can have my own deities; you can have your own deities," and also general, widely recognized deities.

These universal deities are the ones recognized and honored in festivals like this one, Dumzi, during which several days are spent preparing thorma - intricately painted and decorated sculpture representations of the gods made from barley, rye, millet, corn, or rice flour mixed with giu (butter) and tato pani (hot water).  Some of the thorma are beautiful, and some are rather grotesque. For example, a guided tour last night of the day's production revealed that the armless, vaguely human-shaped thorma with a stick protruding upward and diagonally out of their side and topped with a red globule are actually representative of the gods' hearts extracted and apparently speared. The white and light-colored grain thorma are peaceful gods, while those painted red are wrathful gods. Some are white with red hearts atop their stick. I concluded that these are otherwise peaceful gods with wrathful hearts. The dark-colored thorma which the little monks fashioned into something resembling a starfish or man in flight with all limbs spread are actually the hungry ghosts.

Additionally, I've learned that there are two types of meditation: First is bipashana, which is a non-religious meditation and "will keep you happy all the time," says Ngawang Dorje. I question him on this because he just finished saying there's no real happiness in this life for anyone.  He confirms that even the happiness coming from bipashana is, in the end, not a lasting or true happiness because after all there is no real happiness in samsara. There is also Buddhist meditation, which includes the contemplation of the Lord Buddha's teachings.

A key point of Buddhism is the acquisition of karma: Good, compassionate acts earn the believer good karma, and mean-spirited acts are either a debit to one's bank account of good karma, or they pile up as bad karma in a separate account only to come back to haunt you later. I think of the idea of karma as a faith-injected version of the English saying "What goes around, comes around." Accumulating good karma is important for Buddhists because it helps ensure that when they die they'll be reborn as a human again - hopefully into even better circumstances than the current - and not as an insect, or worse.

All of this information takes a while to process.  After having lived in the monastery for a month already, this explains so much.  A 30 minute discussion has illuminated more of the Buddhist faith for me than a 12-week world religion course I took in college.

While I simply listen and don't give voice to any of my reactions during our conversation, I draw some conclusions. Underlying the theory of karma and rebirth is an inherent assumption that we've come into this life on earth having earned it.  I see that a belief in karma as an eternal record of one's actions helps keep order in Sherpa society and motivates people to do good while dissuading them from bad, but if one's good works are the only thing that count when it comes to reaching heaven, then there is little room for mistakes.  If I were a non-committed agnostic, looking for a religion to follow, Buddhism wouldn't be my first choice.  No true happiness in this life?  Everything depends on my good works?  I prefer the Christian god who freely gives grace, eternal life, and real happiness. I've learned a lot about the Buddhist way of life during my time here, and I've come to understand that there are two types of adherents: on one hand the devout believer who embraces all of Buddhist tradition with it's fantastic stories of deities and demons, on the other hand the conscientious practicer of Buddhist philosophy who attempts to approach everything in moderation, who practices nonviolence, generosity and compassion.  There are lessons I have learned here which I will certainly take with me as I move on from Pema Choling, but my faith in my own God has not diminished and as far as I am a student of Buddhist philosophy, I fall into the latter of those two aforementioned categories.

Nepal in T-32 Hours

Tomorrow is the big day!  It's hard to believe how much my life has changed in only a few weeks.

In late April I finally finished the thesis I'd been working on for at least two years -- the one that took me to Russia to collect primary data on perceptions of entrepreneurship among Russian college students.  The project was a lot of hard work and certainly more of a challenge than I had originally (and naively) anticipated, but the learning in life and research gained from this experience has made it more than worth it.
On May 5th, I graduated from Belmont University with a BBA in International Entrepreneurship.

UK is in Kentucky?

As the oldest of six kids, I'm know I'm under close watch -- not in a bad way, just in the sense that there are five sets of little eyes constantly waiting to see what I'm going to do, how I'm going to do it, and (hopefully) ready to learn from the things I mess up. I step back from time to time and try to think about how I can set the best example for all of them; what I can do to help set them up for success is this crazy, fast-paced world; and how I can encourage them to take off running towards what they really want to do in life.

It's not always easy being hundreds -- more often, thousands -- of miles away from them for 50 weeks out of year, and even with cell phones, texting, and the magic of Skype, I still haven't figured out a way to tele-port myself to my sister's soccer games....not even when her team won regionals this year.  But every once in a while one of them will do or say something that brings a huge smile to my face and lets me know I'm doing something right.

This note from my mom today definitely was definitely one of those happy occasions...

Shirah, I'm reading your blog right now. Raam just walked up and saw the UK’s Patterson Tower title under the pic you posted and he asked, “UK...Wait is that the Ukraine or United Kingdom Patterson Tower?”  I said, “Neither, it’s the University of Kentucky’s Patterson Tower.”  Pretty neat how all of your traveling has opened up his world.  

I left home when Raam was just 5 years old; I think all he's really known is a big sister who's constantly in strange, faraway places with weird names, always bringing home odd toys and souvenirs.  I never thought about it before, but we should really sign this kid up for a geography contest.  I LOVE that he has such a global perspective already at this age!

Fall Foto Frenzy

Autumn in Nashville always inspires me to pull out my camera that's been tucked away since my return from summer travels.  I feel compelled by the beauty around me to capture a snapshot of what feels like nature's annual celebration; the trees seem to put on their best outfits and even the sky steps up to the occasion with a deep blue, cloudless background that provides incredible contrasts with the reds and golds nearer the earth. 


During October and November my point-and-shoot never leaves my purse; I keep it at an arm's length so that opportunities to soak in the Tennessee magic are never missed.
Here are some highlights from this week...

Travel the World Without Ever Leaving Nashville

I've heard people over and over tell me how jealous they are of those who get to travel; they complain that they themselves could never afford such experiences.

Au contraire.  Let me remind you...
We are a nation of immigrants!  All over America you'll find pockets of first- and second-generation immigrants who are holding on to and cherishing the traditions of their forefathers, and would you believe...they are not only willing, they are ecstatic when individuals outside their community take an interest and come to learn about and share in their traditions. If you've never encountered a community of immigrants who have preserved the customs and traditions of their motherland, you might be surprised at how spending time with them will sweep you off your feet, transporting you millions of miles, to anywhere in the world.

You'll try foods you never knew existed; learn songs and dances whose names you might have read in a history book; hear stories that would blow your mind...

I'm incredibly fortunate in that I landed haphazardly in one of America's most international cities.

Counting My Blessings

I was looking around online tonight, hoping that by some miracle all the credible sources would tell me that Fruit Loops are gluten free.  You see, they've come up in conversation several times over the past week, and my walk through the cereal aisle tonight seems to have triggered a craving for the brightly-colored, entirely unnatural, sugary rings.  


Unfortunately for me, I will never eat a real Fruit Loop again.  There may be some knock-off gluten-free, lactose-free, casein-free, egg-free, lame excuse for a Fruit Loop that tastes like cardboard, but I'm not into allergy-free counterfeits.  I lived too long as a glutenarian (a word I made up for people who eat gluten) and the memory of the "real thing" is still too fresh. If I can't have the original, I'd rather not eat it at all.  

Double Fête

A lot of you have responded to my first few blog posts with some questions; I thought I'd post some select Q & A's here so that everyone can en profiter.  So here's number one...

What is the first experience that you missed about Belgium or Bruxelles that you wanted to experience after being away?
Believe it or not, the first thing that just felt right was driving home in a tiny European car on tiny, crowded European streets.  But the first night, yesterday night, my sister Aline and I left around 9pm and walked just a block and a half to a little bar to catch up with some girl friends, and THAT is the experience that I most missed....being able to leave the house at a moment's notice and literally walk no more than three blocks before passing 2 bakeries, 3 convenience stores, a tanning salon, a movie rental store, several fresh produce marts, a barber, a pharmacy, a bank, 2 bus stops, 3 bars, a "snack" kebab shop, 2 churches, a gas station -- it's incredible how close everything is. 

My last view of Oregon for a while

Dad's New York City Début

Mom and Dad are in NYC this weekend for an awards dinner my dad was honored at last night.  As an aeronautical and design engineer, he entered and recently won a design contest sponsored by NASA Tech Briefs, one of the premier publications for engineering solutions for design and manufacturing. 

The Unthinkable has happened

Two years ago, I walked into the office of Belmont's most forward-thinking Sociology professor, and told him I was planning a trip that would be the apex of my college experience and the culmination of my life schooling.  A trip that would incorporate my thesis research and result in a documentary promoting youth study abroad.


That is, a self-directed study abroad journey on the Trans-Siberian Railway.
21 days and 5,772 miles from Moscow to Vladivostok.


I put an initial proposal together, set out a book list of sociological, economic, political and historical volumes and other material that would provide me with a solid foundation of the area, researched a budget, read up on logistical concerns such as visa requirements and lodging.

But there were obstacles.  Time, money, credit transfer, administrators who were quick to point out risk and liability concerns, individuals who said, "cool, good luck!" but didn't buy into the dream.


....Until yesterday.  After finding out I had secured an internship in Russia with the State Dept. and would able to extend my stay for intensive language study programs through the School of Russian and Asian Studies (SRAS), I once again became hopeful that my Trans-Siberian dream trip might materialize in the near future.  I had not given up on it, merely put it aside for a time.  At any rate, I emailed the director of SRAS yesterday morning, explaining my vision for the trip and inquiring about any interest her organisation might have in sponsoring the trip -- not financially, but more in the way that a friend would attend  your concert for moral support.  A sponsoring organisation takes on logistical planning, helps travelers to obtain visas, arranges for lodging and other excursions, works with the traveler to set an itinerary, gives advice, purchases tickets, assumes liability, provides travel insurance, and provides emergency support.  Sponsoring a trip like this is no small matter.

The Trans-Siberian Route in Red - click map to enlarge

Yet, just hours later, I received a reply from the Director, saying "It is something that requires a lot of planning,".....but "definitely something we can help with.....And it certainly is something we would be quite interested in getting involved with."


I literally about fell out of my chair.  This is the response I did not let myself even hope for.  I read the email once, twice, a third time -- still not convinced that what I was reading was real.   I had restrained my enthusiasm in writing the first, proposal email to the Director, attempting to appear casual, calm, and nonchalant.  But now....I couldn't hold back.  My reply to her was an outpour of all the ideas and possibilities that had built up in my head for this trip.  My only request was that she somewhat sort through them, dismissing the unfeasible ideas and working with me to develop the good.


The implications of securing a sponsoring organisation go far beyond the simple logistical planning of the trip.  Having secured such a sponsor, I am now eligible to apply for a Lumos Scholarship -- a grant available through my university to students who propose a specific voyage that will enable them to "travel with a purpose."  I would never be able to pull together the resources for a trip like this without a financial sponsor as well.


As I mentioned before, an objective of this trip is to film a documentary promoting study abroad, appropriate to share with 6th graders through high school and even college students.  My next task: find a videographer. I have an idea of what I want this documentary to look like; I want it to be professional.  Belmont has an abundance of skilled film artists, but it's not simply about skill.  This person must be mentally, socially, and physically prepared for the rigors of a trip like this.  They must be able to stay calm and work well under pressure, deal with conflict well, have a desire to integrate into a new culture, and be able to handle spending 21 days in a small group in a foreign land.  Doesn't sound like much to ask, but believe me, quality travel partners can be few and far between.  


But for now, I'm still reveling in the excitement of acquiring sponsorship and moving this project onto the next step!!

International Student Retreat 2010

In the craziness of the past few weeks I have woefully neglected my little blog.  But I have accumulated many great stories to share in the process.

Here's a snapshot from my mom's and my trip to Nashville, where she helped me move into my new dorm and, more importantly, enjoyed her first outing to Pancake Pantry, Nashville's all time favorite breakfast joint.

Munching away with my cousin Kelsey and her roommates.

Another of the highlights of the past few weeks was Belmont's International Student Retreat that I helped out with last weekend.  We drove down to White Bluff, TN -- about an hour south of Nashville -- and spent a day and a half at a "camp."  It's not proper camping, by my standards, since we sleep in cabins and eat every meal in a mess hall....but there was a low ropes course, volleyball nets, a pool -- plenty of fun opportunities for teambuilding and getting to know all the new exchange students.

We have five German girls this year: Senta, Svea, Cindy, Yana, and Elisabeth; three French students: Arthur, Laure, and Chloé; two from Hong Kong: Jimmy and Cherry; an adorable girl from Japan: Nozomi; a guy from Denmark: Ali; a girl Sydney from Canada; another guy named Jimmy, from London, and four other students from Moldova and Brasil that are in their second, third, or fourth years at Belmont.  The international student community at Belmont is small, but tight-knit.  I love having the opportunity to learn so much about different places and cultures through my foreign friends, and reciprocating in showing them America - our many cultures, traditions, and values.  I know exactly what it's like to enter a new school or country knowing nobody and barely knowing a few phrases in the local dialect.  Most of the foreign students who come to Belmont speak English quite well, but I know quite well the implications of the lost, dazed look on a few of their faces.  So reaching out and befriending them - especially those that are struggling with the language barrier - is a huge goal of mine.  Since coming back from the retreat last weekend, I don't think I've eaten a meal in the caf without at least one of them in tow :)

Belmont International Student Retreat 2010

Sometimes, in life, you meet a person who shares the same enthusiasm and passion that you have for a particular topic, goal, or hobby.  I've learned over the past few years to really treasure my time with these people, because you never know when a change in circumstances might see them drift right out of your daily life.  I recently met one of these people - Jimmy, from London.  We must have spent over 20 hours talking this past weekend on the retreat.  We've discussed traveling, religion, politics, philosophy, history, languages, cultures....the list goes on and on.  Our beliefs certainly differ in many ways, but I think it's our shared enthusiasm for learning and exploring, as well as a genuine respect and eagerness to understand each other's beliefs and values, that makes our friendship work.

It was really hard for me to make friends during my first semester at Belmont, back in 2008. The last few years of my life I had spent overseas, and during that specific period -- age 16 to 18 -- is when you really start to solidify who you are.  Thus, your experiences during that time become wholly integrated into your personality and the way you understand the world.  So, naturally, every new experience is going to be judged or compared to a recent similar experience you've had.  For me, the new experiences I was having in Nashville all related back to people, places, and events I had encountered during my time overseas.

Americans don't have as many opportunities to travel internationally as many citizens of other countries, so our slightly isolationist attitude can't be judged too harshly.  But with this lack of travel and exposure to other cultures comes a sort of fascination mixed with jealousy of people who do travel often.  I've found that this reaction is especially pervasive among young Americans.  And so by simply trying to find common ground and share my life experiences in the process of making friends, I found that some students here at Belmont were a little put off by my lack of "American-ness."  I felt that some were jealous that I had gotten to travel, and others were tired of hearing about my life experiences in other places and cultures.  It was just difficult.  I had become so much a different person than I was when I had left Oregon at age 16, so it's not like I could just try to remember and pull out some experiences from back home that would aptly describe my interests or personality.  My character is a conglomeration of all these different places and cultures; it's not a fad - it's just me.

So, with that in mind, imagine how I felt when I met Jimmy, whose first words to me were, "Wait, so you're from Oregon.  So why are you on the International Student Retreat?"  Of course I had to explain, and of course we discovered in about ten minutes that between the two of us we had covered every continent and most of the countries on them.  He had even more exotic stories than I did...I think I was listening to one about monkeys coming down out of the Amazon trees and drinking his beer when I decided that we were going to be very good friends.  It was like I was free again to be myself, to share the stories that are a little too "out there" for most American students.  All in all I had so much fun that weekend, and my days are now full of fun new facts that I learn from my foreign friends!

A Tribute to Uncle Luie

While I was growing up, my parents welcomed a few single college students from our church to live with us at different times.  As a college student myself now, I can see the benefits of living with a family, and as a kid back then, it was wonderful to have someone fun and cool in the house.  

I was just four or five when Luis moved in.  He was from Spain, loved car racing and traveling, had a big Spanish flag on his wall, and a futon with a nice warm black and white blanket covering.  My brothers and I adored him.  Every morning he would get up at six am and make a fruit smoothie before heading out the door.  He'd pick us up and let us sit on the counter while he peeled bananas, threw in strawberries, and blended that sucker up.  And we always got a little cup of smoothie leftovers.  

It was sad for us when Uncle Luie moved out, but we'll always have a special place in our hearts for him.

All these great memories came flooding back this weekend as I looked through the wedding photos of Luis and his new wife, Natalie.  They got married just a few days ago, and I couldn't be happier for them!  We haven't seen Uncle Luie since we moved to Oregon ten years ago, but we hope to catch up with Luis and Natalie soon!

Congratulations Luis & Natalie!