A Diamond in the Rough

“We met at a nightclub,” she admits, head falling into her hands.

“Let’s rearrange the alphabet so that U and I are closer together!” he recalls triumphantly.

“And seven years later!” She holds up her newly adorned ring finger incredulously.

We were returning from a Thai cooking class, packed in the back of a covered flatbed with a crew of culinary colleagues who had been strangers in the morning. The wedding stories began pouring out, building momentum with each uproar of laughter. The honeymooners, in their superbly exaggerated British accents and candid, unashamed account of the nuptials, held back nothing. He painted an image of their wedding photos, flavored by “moonies” revealing the Superman underwear he wore beneath his kilt. She laughed recalling how his Scottish relatives had followed her down the aisle, a poorly timed attempt to slip in unnoticed, arriving late after a night of drinking that had concluded at 6:30 that morning. These two knew how to party.

On October 6^th, 28 years ago, Sheila Connelly and Rick Nawalinski celebrated their own wedding. Though kiltless, there were bagpipes, and it was one for the ages. There are many things I’ve come to realize while abroad – how much I appreciate hot showers, seatbelts, and reliable electricity, how exceptional my education has been, how lucky I am to have been encouraged in athletics as a young girl – but chief among this laundry list is how precious it is to have two parents. I’m not sure why it took a year abroad to fully grasp that, but I finally have a firm handle and I’m holding on tight. Sufficient gratitude for my parents feels impossible to convey, especially here.

“What’s your favorite food?” a wool-capped munchkin asks me thoughtfully.

“Blueberries,” I reply intently.

“Mine’s momos. What’s your favorite color?”

“Yellow.”

“Hm,” she processes my answer. “Mine’s sky blue...and green. Do you have a mother?"

“Yes.”

“And a father?”

“Yes.”

“I just have a mother. Are there mountains in your village?”

At Jhamtse Gatsal, a children’s community in a remote corner of northeast India, the blessing of two parents who love each other and love me has come into sharp focus. Each of the kids, from toddlers to teens, was brought here out of dire necessity. Many have single parents. Some have none. I have two. And a newfound, deep-seated understanding of the preciousness of that reality.

This haven is a diamond in an expansive rough. After arrival  in Guwahati is a five hour drive to Tezpur. And that’s the easy part.  The next leg is a 17 hour drive along switchbacks through the mountains. Four girls packed across three seats, we left before sunrise and arrived long after sunset. Exceptionally long and exceptionally beautiful, the drive was a painstaking roller coaster ride through Arunachal Pradesh towards Bhutan. Along the treacherous roads, we passed Border Roads Organization signs emblazoned with “BRO” and witty slogans like, “Better Mr. Late than Late Mr.” Seasoned drivers must pass these signs littering the rocky route, "BRO. Be Gentle On My Curves,” thinking, “More like, ‘the funds for the repair of these pothole-ridden roads are pocketed against your curves’...” The man power behind BRO is not man power at all. It’s girl power. It’s women crushing rocks with sledge hammers. It’s humbling.

Though arriving in the dark of night, the shining faces of the students and staff provided the brightest of welcomes. Lobsang, the monk behind the mission, placed a brilliantly white scarf around my neck and enveloped me in a bear hug. A chorus of, “good evening madam!” followed me the whole way to the dining hall, where a cup of hot chai capped a day that felt like a dream. I slipped effortlessly into genuine dreams the moment my head hit the pillow.

In the morning, after a breakfast of buttered and honeyed roti prepared and served by a kitchen staff that revolutionized my idea of graciousness, Lobsang gave us a tour of their mountaintop campus and a glimpse into the philosophy of the place. Jhamtse Gatsal translates to “garden of love and compassion”. Kids are planted here after being uprooted from destructive family environments. They are nurtured and they thrive. Lobsang noted that as with seeds, where water, sunlight, and fresh mountain air help them to grow strong but cannot determine their kind or color, so with children. Care and compassion allow them to grow as they are. It was a refreshing perspective having grown up watching too many daises being pressed into rose molds and getting mangled in the process.

The hilltop home to the school buildings is framed by Tibetan prayer flags, symbolic of the community’s benevolent prayers being carried off to the world on the wind, a whimsical idea that struck a chord deep within me. Every school day began in prayer, the students chanting in Bhoti. The Indian national anthem followed, sung in Hindi. Then the kids headed to class, chatting in their native Mompa, toting English textbooks. Language, like the mountains framing this scenic sanctuary, never ceases to amaze me. Neither do quad-lingual six-year-olds. Three different languages, each with a different character system, plus one, Mompa, that is unwritten. It’s staggering that they can make sense of it all. These baby geniuses have had me laughing since the moment I arrived. There’s nothing as grounding as the perspective of a child. They’ve brought me back to the girl who used to think she could see atoms when rays of sunlight caught dust particles midair.

In the afternoon, on my final day at Jhamtse, I descended a ridge along the feet of the colossal Himalayas, a path that once bore the steps of religious pilgrims. I snapped pictures with a wrist newly garlanded in a sleeve of handmade multicolored yarn bracelets. What I captured was the image of four Tribe athletes walking before me. Solid footsteps to follow in. We reached an overhang and rested, high above the valley, as the sun sank back toward the mountaintops. We talked about good reads, Christmas movies, and educational systems as the river raged, almost inaudibly, far below us. I felt like a speck up there, but a speck in a really powerful position. I am one on a planet of billions, but I have opportunities and resources that have placed me on the mountaintop. It is an astonishing blessing and grave responsibility to use that power wisely.

To the two who brought this speck into existence, happy anniversary. Thanks for supporting this wild flower in her wild ride. Sending love and appreciation on the winds of southeast Asia.

See ya in five days.