The Hills Are Alive

(From the yak board)

Stop for a moment and think about the ground. If you want, go outside and look at it. Preferably the actual earth, not pavement or some other man-made surface, but take what you can get. When this and the following thoughts hit me, I was seeing mostly tan-ish, light brown grass. Everything was dry yet the ground was still damp, and there were still a few green patches left. (I've learned to accept the paradoxes of life). While looking at each individual blade of grass my mind was blown by an appreciation for the small things. Our planet, our universe, everything is composed of small things. All of the little bits work together to form the bigger picture. Everything is dependent on everything else. We're all interconnected.

Moments after marveling over the blades of grass, I turned my view towards the mountains. I was sitting there in the Himalayas wearing light trekking pants, a short sleeved shirt and a thin wool top just soaking up the sun and staring at the snow covered peaks. They're so imposing and majestic and uncaring and beautiful, which makes them sound half awful, but they're not. They're amazing. I love thinking about how they're formed and studying their appearance. I love how they make me feel--so small but like I've accomplished something at the same time. And I hadn't even climbed Aamaa Yangri, yet.

The grass, mountains, and sky all reminded me of The Sound of Music. It might just have been on my mind because I had been singing it while climbing up to Tarke from Timbu, but I think I still would have felt it. The tan-ish brown I saw was part of this field and that combined with the fact that I was surrounded by mountains made me want to stand up, twirl around and sing. We had been asked by our instructors to take time to reflect and write in silence and for quite a bit of the time I simply sat and listened to how many sounds there were. The sound that reminded me most of The Sound of Music was the sound of the wind. It's one of the most hauntingly beautiful sounds I have ever heard. It's very different from the sound of the wind through the prayer flags or the wind through the trees; I guess the sound is really the wind through the mountains. Iis the sound of serenity. I don't think I can ever adequately describe it. It's far too perfect. When I stopped listening for only that, I was suddenly opened up to a whole new world of sounds: the birds, the prayer flags, the laughter of children playing with Phoebe, Bec, and Andie, the wind through everything, and the echoes of voices and every other sound in those hills. There was so much to absorb. Trying to be aware of all of noises was a lovely goal.

That awareness brought along the realization that everything can be music and everything is. Music has given me great comfort throughout this entire trip so far.Iit has helped me organize my thoughts on life, existence, humanity and Nepal; it has helped me feel connected to home when I most need to feel connected; it has helped me open myself up to he culture and environment around me; and it has helped me gather the strength to climb mountains.

Each place has it's own unique sounds. Bhaktapur was nice and calm; I remember specifically the sound of the fire at night. Tarkeyghyang was the epitome of peace; everything flows with the wind and seems to be carried to all parts of the world. Kathmandu is a chaos filled with dogs, motorcycles, buses, voices, horns honking, people yelling, TVs blasting when there's power, bells ringing at puja time, local music rocking the insides of many public transportation vehicles and so much more. Each sound zooms by so fast you hardly have time to process it before the next one comes along. Either that or there are so many at once that picking one to focus on is really impossible. But it's all music. It's the sound of the hills and valleys and rivers. It's the sound of the bustling cities and relaxed villages. It's the sound of my soul finding yet another place to call home.