Southern Iceland: Kerið, Grimsnes Area

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It was happy hour in Reykjavik.

When one spends any time in this city, one realizes that happy hour is a legit thing: it’s a festive time when drinks are discounted, making them more accessible to the average person’s budget.

One of Chris’ goals was to get an Icelander to talk to him. He had had little success with this.

We did, however, find that bartenders didn’t mind talking to us, happily answering our very American questions. We met a diverse group of people from Turkey, Ireland and Romania.

“I came here for the nature,” said the pretty Romanian bartender named Eva (not her real name). “But when you work all the time, you don’t see much nature.”

She asked where we were visiting during our short, four-day Iceland trip. Chris, who had made a spreadsheet and an itinerary that accounted for just about every waking moment, enthusiastically shared our plans.OYzIJ7YWRpSleVOHuDQSeA

Eva wrinkled her nose and muttered something about tourists and tourist busses. She encouraged us to look for more out-of-the-way places that weren’t quite as well-traveled.

“Do you have any suggestions,” Chris asked.

She mentioned a crater nearby, Kerið.

Upon further investigation, we found that it was not too far from some of our other planned destinations within the “Golden Circle,” which is a tourist route in southern Iceland.

Tourists (um…like us) flock to the Golden Circle in order to experience the country’s three most popular attractions: Geysir (Haukadalur Valley), Gullfoss Waterfall and Þingvellir National Park.+jLLFZPOT76xTOfP6ujqMQ

When we arrived at Kerið the next morning, several tour busses sat in the parking lot. So much for heading off the beaten path.

A small kiosk was set up at the “entrance” of the park and we were required to pay a 400ISK (about $3) entrance fee.

Eva would later scoff at this when we visited her again. “I can’t believe they’re charging to get in there now,” she said. I later read that this site is on privately owned land. The fee goes toward the land’s upkeep.vLiR+LBvT7abhoAfxapofg

Kerið turned out to be breathtaking.

Located in the Grimsnes area of south Iceland, Kerið is thought to have once been a cone-shaped volcano. Scientists believe that this three- thousand-year-old volcano forcefully erupted, depleting its magma reserve and subsequently collapsing in on itself.

Throughout the centuries, the crater has filled with water; because of the minerals within the rocks, the water inside the crater takes on a bluish-aqua hue. The caldera is about 180-feet deep, 560-feet wide and 890-feet across. The water level is the same level as the water table, which rises and falls throughout the year.YRlfQ4Z5QiKnQUDaSgWQGA

The slopes leading down to the water (which you can climb, but we chose to not to) are red due to the iron deposits. We walked along the upper edge of the crater and looked down.

The craggy volcanic rock path surrounded by green vegetation took much concentration: this is not a place where you would want to trip and fall down.

We visited in mid-May; it was cold and rainy. The ice on the lake had melted by this time. A review by another visitor in April complained that the lake was frozen and had dirty snow on it.

We stood on a corner at the top of the crater and took our photos with the Iceland flag we had brought. The awe and beauty of this literal mountaintop experience was something that we never wanted to forget.

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Ashes: Pashupatinath Kathmandu

IMG_4733If I closed my eyes and imagined myself somewhere else, it would have been in a happy place. Like, at a Memorial Day barbeque. Chris would be grilling burgers on our lanai; I would be setting out our favorite broccoli salad—the one with the raisins, red onions and bacon bits. The kids would want to open the bag of Wavy Lays and the French onion dip. “Don’t open that until dinnertime,” I would yell. I would then open it myself when the kids wandered off. I’d shove several chips in my mouth when I made sure they were out of sight.

IMG_4740I would have preferred to be there. Not here.

I fished the face mask out of my yak wool jacket’s pocket as soon as I began to see the wafts of smoke billowing across the path in front of me. This would be neither pleasant nor easy. I fastened the ear loops around my right ear, then my left.

I wanted to see this.

I pulled the mask up and covered my mouth, then my nose. My eyes were still exposed to the air; they burned. I would later send the clothing to the laundry service at our guest house and would take a shower. The smell of burning meat permeated and lingered.

It would be more accurate, however, to say that the smell of “burning flesh” lingered.

The smell of cooked meat, the billowing smoke—it was all caused by burning bodies. It was 11 a.m. on a Tuesday.  Barely 24 hours before, the bodies had been people: they had laughed; they had cried; they had probably known they were going to die. Their families had gathered around them to say their goodbyes.

It was hospice.

I am at Pashupati Nath on the banks of the Bagmati River in Kathmandu, an area that consists of 518 temples and monuments. This is the biggest shrine in Hinduism. It is also one of the holiest places, where the dead are prepared for their eternal ritual. It was recognized as an UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1979. It is dedicated to Pashupati, an incarnation of the Hindu god, Shiva. “Pashu” means “living beings”; “Pati” means “master.” According to maptia.com, “Pashupati is the master of all living beings in the universe.”

The grounds are crawling (literally) with monkeys. The “sadhus,” who are ascetic “holy men,” are seated around the area, covered in the ashes from the funeral pyres. They have unshaven beards and long hair. They wear orange robes; although, some are naked. Naked yoga sometimes occurs. (We did not see this when we visited. Thank god. Thank…Shiva!?)

In Hinduism, those who are cremated on the banks of the Bagmati River and whose ashes enter the water will have their sins washed away. In turn, they will be closer to their eternal goal, which is referred to as “moksha,” “nirvana,” or “samadhi.” This goal is essentially a release from the cycle of life—of death and rebirth.  All living things are trapped in this cycle, a belief that ultimately results in the caste system.

IMG_4744The bodies are prepared by the oldest son, who is the “lead cremator.” Before the cremation begins, he bathes himself in the river. The women step aside: they are not allowed in the area while the ceremony occurs.

The bodies are wrapped in white or red (red, if it is a woman whose husband is still alive). Water is put in the deceased’s mouth. The big toes are tied together with a string and a Tilaka (a mark on the forehead) is applied. The body is put first on a ghat near the river and is then set on the pyre with its feet facing south.

There were currently no less than six cremations happening, just across the trash-strewn “river.” At this point, in early January, the Bagmati River seemed less like a river and more like a trickle of water. (Although I grew up along the banks of the Mississippi. So, my standards of what constitute a “river” are slightly skewed.)

The water was filthy. A little girl of seven or eight had taken her shoes off and had waded into calf-deep water. Smiling, she fished something out of the water. She lifted it up triumphantly to show her brother who was kicking rocks on the riverbank. I wondered what she had found. At that age, my daughter would have collected rocks, mulch, ribbons—it didn’t take much to pique her interest.

“Look at that,” my friend Michael said as he leaned in next to me. He pointed to an active pyre. I looked just as a leg—from the knee down—tumbled out of it and onto the ground.

uXZdq0JJTPeCNV5su28s7gThe man tending the pyre, perhaps the lead mourner, grabbed two sticks. He deftly picked the limb up and flipped it back into the fire. The charred foot remained visible. I wondered who this person had been — what his or her contribution had been to the world. To me, he/she would always be associated with, “that time I saw the foot fall out of the fire at Pashupati.”

The air was heavy with not only smoke and ash, but with sadness. This was a place of sorrow and of death. I could feel it; it was acute. I believe I could feel it even more so: my dad had been cremated hardly a month before on the other side of the world.

We had sat in a small room at a dark paneled wood conference table on rolling caster leather office chairs.  A young woman sat in the corner. She wore foundation that was several shades too light and a dress that was at least two sizes too small. She didn’t say a word, but fetched water for us and, occasionally, documents off the printer.

The shock of his death had barely set in. Not even 48 hours before, I had rushed to the hospital as fast as I could. I didn’t make it on time. I had instinctively known this. When I had pulled over to call my mom, the hospital’s chaplain answered her phone. Never a good sign.

“Thank you for being with her,” was all I could say. Several hours later, I kissed his forehead. He looked like he was sleeping.

My brother, husband and I sat with my mother in a weird, uneasy silence across from a rotund man in a cheap suit. He was nice, straightforward, and considerate—everything you would want in a funeral director, although I had no experience with this. It had been a preneed arrangement and had been already paid for. The date on the preneed papers my mom clutched within her file said 2015.

There were, however, several choices we need to make.

“Behind you are the biodegradable urns,” the man in the cheap suit said. We all turned, as if choreographed, to look simultaneously at the selections. They were all unremarkable, I thought; as Marie Kondo would say, nothing “sparked joy.” None were remarkable enough to hold my dad—a person who was utterly remarkable in every way. Not every daughter could say that, but I could. And I still can.

They were all slightly chintzy. He would have scoffed at the choices. We chose the biodegradable urn with butterflies on it. It wasn’t really him, but it would do: It would be going into the ground, anyway…what did he care?

The man went through the charges. He fussed around with a credit that had resulted when we decided that the burial would be performed at a later date: transportation wouldn’t be needed to the cemetery.

We designed the funeral programs.

The cardboard box in which he would be cremated cost $90.fullsizeoutput_1ac7.jpeg

I looked across the river at the bodies covered in orange cloth and sprinkled with marigolds. We had seen strings of marigolds draped across homes, shops, gates. Here, they were laid across the bodies before they were burned. I thought they were beautiful; however, I would never look at marigolds the same way.

His forehead had been so cold when I had kissed it. I’m sure the bodies across the river from me were also cold. Although the sun was out, it was a chilly day. The families of the deceased sat huddled together by each funeral pyre. I wondered if they felt the warmth from the fire in front of them; I wondered how it felt to know that the fire’s fuel and warmth came from their loved one.

My eyes stung. I realized I was crying.

5 Things Your Pastor’s Wife Wishes You Knew: Dispatches from the Front Lines

I knew two things when I was young. First, that I wanted to be Amy Grant when I grew up. Next, that I would settle for writing the descriptions on the backs of shampoo bottles if the Amy Grant thing didn’t work out.

I also knew what I did NOT want to be: a pastor’s wife. I screamed, I cried, and I swore up and down that I would never, ever, marry a minister. This was, as you can imagine, troubling to my parents — two wonderful individuals who just happened to be, wait for it, pastors. My relationship with my parents’ jobs was tumultuous, at best. My outbursts left my parents scratching their heads on many occasions, wondering what they had done to deserve me.

So, imagine the shock — theirs AND mine —  when I married a minister. Because you know what they say about “never saying never.”

And I don’t regret the decision, either, on most days. Over the past 18 years, Christian and I have built a wonderful life together.

Sometimes, however, I feel a lot like that child who wants to fling herself on the floor, screaming and crying that she doesn’t want to do it anymore.  I knew this role would be tough. Sometimes I think it might even be tougher than I had anticipated.

There are some women who seem to have been born for it.  Take my mother, Lola, for example. My dad recently retired, for the second time, from a church in the Orlando, Florida area. Her stint as a pastor’s wife lasted over 40 years. And can I say that she rocked that job?

Lola was the epitome of the best pastor’s wife: she sang, led songs, organized. A distinct childhood memory of mine was of the smell of pot roast when we got home from church on Sundays.

“I just tried to be supportive,” she said. “I tried to make his job easier. I didn’t put on any airs, didn’t try to be something I was not.”

I often feel as if other women are doing a better job than I am — like those couples who invite us to worship via gigantic interstate billboards.

I understand that there are many types of pastor’s wives; there are some of us who feel comfortable on that interstate billboard and some who don’t.

Others, for various reasons, sneak in the back door five minutes after church starts. My reason is that I hit snooze too many times before I drag myself out of bed.  Other reasons are a little more selfless.

“I’m the last to show up for a reason. I want everyone else to get a seat, or to get a doughnut before I do,”  said Jamie, a pastor’s wife in the Des Moines, Iowa, area.

One thing is for sure, though: life in the ministry is stressful. Ninety percent of pastors report working 55 to 75 hours per week.

“Your pastor works way more than you think he does,” said Kristen, a pastor’s wife in the Midwest, “and struggles with the burdens of many on his shoulders.”

“My husband works six to seven days a week,” added Jamie, “and can go weeks without a day off.”

Eighty percent believe that pastoral ministry has negatively affected their families.  Seventy-five percent report a significant stress-related crisis at least once in their ministries (pastoralcareinc.com, 2017).

Here are five more things that some of us wished that people understood about us:

#1.  Sometimes we wish our husbands would have “normal jobs.”

I realize that there really is no such thing as a “normal” job: every profession has its ups and downs, its advantages and its drawbacks.

Having no weekends off has been hard though, especially since I went back to work full-time. When I was a stay-at-home mom, weekdays and weekends often blurred together. Friday night’s sparkle lost a little of its luster.

But there is something special about Friday afternoon, isn’t there?  After having worked 40 plus hours and endured all of what life had to throw at us during the week, the mental brittleness that has accumulated over the week gloriously dissipates. The entire weekend looms with endless possibilities.

This is generally not how the pastor’s family approaches each weekend. There are really no such thing as weekend getaways — or “getaways” in general.

Particularly when the other spouse works. This goes for holidays, too. Christmas means work.  Easter means work.

“It’s difficult watching everyone celebrate holidays with their own families and tight knit circles of friends,” said Kristen, “while usually spending them alone ourselves.”

Jamie said that she didn’t expect that, “so much of our lives, who we are, how we work as a family, our routine would revolve around the church calendar. It’s tough giving up my husband at night, on weekends, and on holidays.”

Personally, I have learned to embrace Thanksgiving — a holiday where there are no church obligations. I love Thanksgiving: the food, the family, the parades, the long weekend. I have happily adopted it as my favorite holiday. I look forward to it, year after year.

#2.  We don’t always want to be there. 

I guess there are always a few pastors’ wives that this doesn’t apply to, but sometimes our hearts are just not into it.

Perhaps the week was particularly difficult at work, or our children — or life, for that matter — gave us an unusually hard time.  So, when YOUR excuse for not showing up for church on Sunday is because you’re busy, we totally get it. We are busy, too. We would love to sleep in on Sundays.

We feel as if our lives revolve around church throughout the entire week, in some form or another. There are always preparations to be made, meetings to attend, endless talk about the church. By the time we get to Sunday, church can be the very last place we want to be.

But when bad things happen — to us, to friends, to our family — it is hard for us to be there at all, even when church is the exact place we should be.

When my husband was deployed to Iraq in 2006, I spent much of that year hiding. I can count on one hand how many times I showed up to church.  I think I could disappear because it was a larger congregation; I wasn’t so easily missed.

When I did show up, the questions were well-meaning, but repetitive. They reminded me that he was gone. Once, I went to a different church and ugly-cried through the entire service. I scared my children — and probably several other people’s children who were sitting in my general vicinity.

I have heard that people often stay away from church because crap happens in their lives, sicknesses or deaths, that makes it emotionally tough to answer any questions at all. Sometimes just a hug and an “I am so happy to see you” is perfect.

#3.  We have seen the best people — and experienced the worst. 

I have met some of the best people in our churches.  Amazing, loving, giving people who were the best kinds of witnesses. When my kids and I were alone for those 15 months  my husband was in the Middle East, a church family consistently brought us dinner every single week. We were easy to please: our weekly request was always spaghetti and meatballs. This was something we looked forward to; most of the time we ate frozen dinners. The members of this family are some of my very favorite humans, even to this day.

One of the best things about being a pastor’s wife, says Jamie, “is the incredible love and support that people give to us on a regular basis. It’s so humbling.”

“One of the hardest things we had to do,” said Lola, “was that we said goodbye to a lot of good friends. The upside to this was that we have friends all over now.”

Pastoral counseling appointments are always confidential. Other meetings, however (sometimes unfortunately), are not. My husband has tried to protect me from the worst of it because I am sensitive: conflict gives me nightmares. Humans are messy. My husband is much more gracious about this than I am — maintaining that their brokenness is just proof that they “need Jesus.”

Just like in the “real world,” people in church can be quick to criticize. That “sticks and stones” nonsense?  Total crap. Words hurt, damage, leave scars. It can be even tougher to hear criticism about a spouse who is trying really, really hard.

Kristen’s worst experience in church life came when she and her family were told there was no room to sit in the congregation.“That was a low point in a rough call.”

“I take it personally when people are rude to my husband,” said Jill, a pastor’s wife in Florida. “Putting my heart and soul into a church and having things go badly…it’s hard on us as a family.”

It is unusually easy to take it personally. Although the church is a “business,” albeit a 501 c 3, it does take an exceptional amount of emotional energy to make it a success.

#4. We’re lonely.  

This is surprising to some.  We expected this role to be difficult at times, but not lonely — not when we are, generally speaking, surrounded by people.

Kristen has been surprised it.  “Being away from my home, my family, my friends. I didn’t expect to feel so incredibly lonely.”

Up until our most recent move, I didn’t have close friends. Especially in the church.  There has always been a feeling that we need to keep people at arm’s length.

I feel as if I can’t talk about personal things with people in our church. I am, by nature, a fairly private person: my regular conversations would never, ever be anything like Carrie Bradshaw’s.  There are, however, some occasions in life that call for a good “girl’s talk.” Maybe it is just me, but I feel that girl talks are not necessarily appropriate to have with parishioners.

My husband and I fight, the default behavior of my kids sometimes seems to that of “brat,” and my house — I will be honest — sometimes looks like the Tasmanian devil flew through it with little to no abandon.

But, still, this has come as a surprise to certain people we have allowed into our lives. The “you’re a pastor, so how can you…” — fill in that blank — haunts us. No family is perfect. No individual is perfect. The occupation has been held against us. I am going to go out on a limb here, but I feel that every single pastor’s family has felt emotionally beaten down at least once in its ministry.

What has changed since we moved to Florida is that one of my closest friends is a Jehovah’s Witness. We agree to disagree about our respective faiths, we respect each other, and we encourage each other in our own faith walks — as different as they may be. For the first time as a pastor’s wife, I have a safe place to go to if I need to have a girl talk.

#5.  We are really, really proud of our husbands.

Although we share the difficult moments, we are also there to experience the best moments. Very few people have what it takes to get up in front of people and be vulnerable, interesting, thought-provoking, AND entertaining every single week. Ministry, I believe, is a calling.

“We are doing this because God called us to,” said Jill. It is also rewarding.  “Working really hard on VBS or a musical or cantata and seeing it all come together is one of the best experiences,” she added.

Kristen continued, “I think it’s an amazing thing to be able to share the Gospel, shepherd congregations, and walk alongside so many different types of people from call to call […] the bonds we make with people in our congregation, because we have no family here, those bonds can run deep.”

We are proud of our husbands — what they do every day and what they have sacrificed for their ministry. And although it is not where I saw myself when I was little, I wouldn’t change a thing.

© 2017 Mary Ann Magnell ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Geysir: Iceland’s Haukadalur Valley

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I sat in an oversized leather chair, holding a six-dollar Americano in my hands and listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA.”

I was trying desperately to warm up, having been soaked from head to toe by the steady rain. Once again, I noted my appreciation for the Goodwill-bought Cuddl Duds I was wearing underneath my clothing. I had worn them in  Nepal and now in Iceland. The decade in Florida had thinned my blood considerably and the extra warmth was a beautiful thing.

Nepal’s air had been dry, crisp and clear; Iceland’s inclement weather regularly spit water at us. We saw the sun once for a few moments. The vast majority of the time, however, a heavy, dense cloud cover hung low in the sky. These were the types of days that sent Floridians indoors and resulted in a marked decrease in productivity. 

Although the rain was a regular occurrence, I refused to buy an umbrella. Umbrella prices averaged around twenty dollars. For this reason, my perpetually damp clothing became the norm.

We had wandered around Geysir hot springs, an active geothermal area located in the Haukadalur valley of southern Iceland. We were here to see the volcanic pools, experience the geysers and take in the volatile yet beautiful landscape. It didn’t disappoint: it was beautiful, amazing and surreal–just like every other natural phenomenon we had visited within this picturesque little country.

P4cGfvBpTg+8HH9SYFJ8ugIMG_4165 Our adventure in Iceland was short: four days. In the weeks leading up to this trip, Chris had researched, planned and mapped the places we needed to see and experience with precision detail. He was determined to not waste a single moment.

Unfortunately, droves of tourist busses also had the same idea: a steady flow of them entered and exited the popular location within the heart of the “Golden Circle.” Wide-eyed tourists armed with cameras filed off their transports.  I realized that this described us, too; however, we marched to the beat of our own drum. We rented a car and relished the freedom that this expense had provided us.jmYBKcblRRm6mQCY0tudgw

Iceland’s volcanic activity had formed this area–as well as this whole island–millions of years ago. Black lava fields and volcanic rocks remained and are strewn everywhere: in countrysides, near the ocean, in towns. The beaches are made from black sand. Even the salt is black.FoEIZoSKQyyInC3JGsQypA

2Pvu0e7pTMG3wCjPjzL1zgIceland straddles two tectonic plates: the Eurasian plate and the North American plate. These plates are slowly moving away from each other at a rate of about just under one inch per year, causing the country-wide geological phenomena that people flock to the Scandinavian country to see.

Iceland is one of the only places on Earth where the Mid-Atlantic Ridge is visible above sea level. About 90 percent of the fissure that circles the planet is located under ocean waters. In Iceland, however, you can see the crack, walk through it and even swim around it at Thingvellier (Þingvellir) National Park.c6zq+HZMRh2vfdW8UJQ+dA

Because of this volcanic activity, the hot water in Iceland is serious business. Not only is it scalding hot right out of the tap, this abundant natural resource is harnessed and is used for sustainable energy. For this reason, Iceland’s heating and energy is fairly inexpensive. The geothermal power plants located across the country produce about 30 percent of the country’s electricity and meet the hot water needs of about 87 percent of Iceland’s 338,000 residents.

We were visiting the Thingvellir tomorrow. Today, however, we were exploring this hot spring area in the rain. Steam rolled up and billowed around us, caused by the underground and surface boiling water pools that bubbled from the ground in varying degrees of intensity. A heavy sulfur smell lingered in the air.

When Chris first told me that we would visit this area, I had a bit of a “been-there-done-that” attitude. I had been to Yellowstone National Park multiple times. Although the landscape was somewhat similar, the United States had bubble-wrapped its volcanic gem  with ramps, gates and fences. Here, there wasn’t much standing between me and the boiling pits of death–merely a thin rope.aGe76%0URjyi07JA4hH2fgVqdIvNUlSP+VE7I%tmNuwg

There was one large warning sign as we approached. The distance to the nearest hospital was in black and white: it was about 38 miles away. For the unfortunate soul who tripped and fell or attempted to “test the temperature” of the water, it would be a long, agonizing ride to help.DrRZLWg9Rn6uwuOJ4Jw

I bent down to touch the ground; it was hot. Steam billowed out from the earth in fumaroles around us. The heat felt good.

We headed toward one of the most predictable geysers in the park, Strokkur. Boiling water explodes from geyser at a rate of about every eight minutes to 10 minutes and reaches as high as 90-plus feet into the air.

We wandered throughout the area, marveling at the volcanic pools around us. They were brilliant blues, yellows and oranges.  Although research had shown that the area had been active for about 10,000 years, the geysers in the valley have varied in their frequency, awakened periodically by earthquakes.

About 30 geysers surrounded us. “Geysir,” which is the largest, can go years between eruptions and is currently in an inactive phase. We had seen Smiður and Litli-Strokkur, as well as had witnessed the power of Strokkur. We had seen boiling mud pots and had looked deep into the earth, thanks to the crystal-clear water of these pools.

As we sat in the visitor’s center, eating pastries and drinking warm drinks, I reflected on the beauty of the land around us. I appreciated this amazing adventure, despite the cold drizzle, the dark skies and the rain.

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Be Friendly to Foreigners

IMG_4881 “What does that sign mean,” I asked our guide between huffs and puffs. The sweat dripped off my forehead and stung my eyes. The wooden green-and-white sign was posted in intricate Nepali script on the side of the trail where I was currently struggling. We had tackled about 750 feet of Pokhara’s Anadu Hill on our way to Shanti Stupa, one of the world’s 80 peace pagodas.

Pokhara ranges between 2,713 feet and 5,710 feet in elevation. It is Nepal’s second largest city and is a short 30-minute plane flight from Kathmandu. (Our plane ride was taken via an airline named “Yeti,” appropriately. Our hopelessly spry flight attendant darted up and down the aisles — first with cotton balls [for the ears], then with hard candies. She raced to hand out peanuts and pour us each a glass of water before we touched down in the Pokhara Valley.)

The contrast between Pokhara and Kathmandu was stunning: The resort-like town of Pokhara had a lighter, less chaotic feel than that of Nepal’s capital city. I welcomed the reprieve from the Kathmandu Valley’s dust situation, which seemed to permeate everywhere and everything. Pokhara’s days were warm, bright and sunny. Paragliders with colorful chutes bounded off the sides of the cliffs, and then floated peacefully down toward Fewa Lake. Colorful canoes cut across the water and took loads of tourists to the Tal Barai Temple, which was located on a tiny island in the middle of the lake.

Pokhara Valley was picturesque: The city looked up to sharply ascending emerald-green mountains. (Nepali call them “hills.” I noted that their “hills” are the size of the Rockies.)

On clear days, the Himalayan mountain range that boasts three of the ten highest peaks in the world can be seen: Dhaulagirl (26,794 ft.), Annapurna I Main (26,545 ft.), and Manaslu (26,781 ft.). The city’s most famous peak, Machuchare, is said to resemble a fishtail. It reaches 22,943 feet and can be seen to the north. (Consider the highest point in the Rocky Mountain range, Mount Elbert, at 14,440 ft.)

U16aubrXTTm0rCPgq0QDRA“It says, ‘Be friendly to foreigners,’” he said. I was taken slightly aback. From what I had seen, being friendly to foreigners seemed like second nature to the Nepali people. Everywhere we went during this 10-day trip, we were met with smiles, hot, sweet milk tea (masala tea with loads of sugar and hot milk) and cookies. I enthusiastically accepted both…and more, if offered, given how much walking was occurring on a daily basis.

On this particular day, I had registered over 17,770 steps and 80-something stories. (Upon learning this, I promptly tore open another sleeve of cookies and attacked it. Think Cookie Monster; not a fine moment.) The trek up was mostly stairs, anathemas that I tended to avoid whenever possible, opting for elevators instead. I shuffled along slowly, occasionally stopping to sit on the edge of a cliff to catch my breath — as well as to catch the stunning views of PokIMG_4879hara.

I was passed by Nepali families: men, women, children — even a grandmotherly lady who appeared to be well into her 70s. (She carried a walking stick, I noticed. Next time, I vowed, I would find a walking stick.)

“Namaste,” I heard, over and over.

“Namaste,” I returned.

All friendly, all welcoming. All, presumably, slightly amused at the American-who-was-clawing-her-way-to-the-top-of-the-hill-no-matter-what.

No, I didn’t think that any of the Nepali people I had encountered needed any reminders to be friendly to foreigners.

Americans? Now, Americans are another story. We need to be reminded of a lot of things: “Slow traffic, move right”; “Don’t drink and drive”; “Slow down, workers present”; “Employees, wash hands before returning to work,” lest our brains and our common sense fall out into a puddle on the floor and we forget.  Americans — many of whom are lulled into complacency by social media and the ease of their everyday lives — need to be reminded to be friendly and considerate, as if decency doesn’t even come naturally anymore.

The default emotion now seems to be “OUTRAGE.” We are OUTRAGED when someone cuts us off in traffic, merges into our lane, looks at us wrong, slights us. We shake our fist; the middle finger flies up. Yet, when compared to much of the world, our lives are ridiculously easy.  This was my number-one takeaway from my trip to Nepal: We have it so, so easy compared with the rest of the world. We are OUTRAGED by things that don’t matter — little things, really.

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I was surrounded by natural beauty everywhere in Nepal; the view from the top of the World Peace Pagoda was stunning. I climbed the stairs to circle the pagoda, which featured four statues of the Buddha in shimmering gold. It was late afternoon. As the sun went down, it would become chilly, even cold.

I started back down the steps that were carved into the side of Anadu Hill, down the hill toward Fewa Lake. We returned to our colorful canoes, and then to lakeside Pokhara.

There, we would sit down with friends for daal bhat, milk tea and cookies.

 

 

Thoughts and Quests

I am currently in the middle of filling out a “Secret Santa” form for work. I have been stuck on the “hobbies/interests” question for days.

I don’t have any hobbies and I don’t have time for interests. The unfortunate soul who receives my name for Secret Santa won’t have the advantage of easily refering to my list for gift ideas.

To be honest, I can barely maintain my own household. I am actually sort of worried that being a Secret Santa will wig me out, overwhelm me and set me over the edge. I know how I am with remembering people’s birthdays and anniversaries: I suck.

My Secret Santa is doomed

Putting aside the hobbies/interest mind-bender for a moment, I thought I would jot a few thoughts down I have had this week.

1.) Most of my day revolves around a screaming toddler. It is consumed with trying to figure out how I can placate her.

I often wonder what created such a malcontent, but I can’t think of anything specific. Chris thinks she is reacting to the amount of stress I exude; I think it might just be her personality ~ demanding, loud, high strung.

2.) Even though I don’t think that I consume the amount of calories it would take to attain and maintain my current weight, I must. Otherwise, the weight would be falling off.

I can run for miles and miles every day and nothing will happen if I don’t stop eating brownies and chips at bedtime.

3.) It doesn’t matter if I measure every single day. I probably won’t see a change in my waist/hip size. See #2.

4.) On a related note, my weight. Refer to #3 and replace “measure” with “weigh.”

5.) The refrigerator I want for our new house will inevitably cost 2,500.00, or more. There are cheaper alternatives, of course, but my eye will go to the one that is the prettiest, most tricked out, most expensive.

6.) Like the refrigerator, I am pretty sure that the car w/ third row seat that I want will most likely be a Mercedes.

7.) I visualize shaking my 8 year old until his teeth rattle out of frustration every day. It makes me feel better, for a moment, to visualize this because I know I will never do it.

8.) Angelina Jolie is a skinny little bitch and is probably starving. Our visit to the Potter’s wax museum hit this one home.

And Brad Pitt is shorter than I am and looks like a Backstreet Boy. Perhaps it is the artist’s interpretation of Brad Pitt, but from what I understand these wax sculptures are fairly accurate.

9.) No matter what I do or how hard I try to control/manage everything, I will inevitably run out of toilet paper (or money) before the next paycheck.

10.) Dishes are my least favorite chore and there is usually a sink full of them on any given moment during the day.

And normally, I will need to watch an episode of “Hoarders” to get me motivated to mop the floor.

I’m deathly afraid of ending up like some of these people ~ harnessed to the medical toilet in the middle of the kitchen, snoozing amongst the filth of adult diapers. All the while flesh eating bugs are eating away at my toes (recent episode — one that has to be seen to be believed).

I have a feeling that the beginning of a slippery slope slide toward doom is easier than one might think. I have found this out with my weight issue.

“Oh, I’ll just eat the pint of Cherry Garcia,” I said. And, “sure, just give me another helping of spaghetti.”

The next thing I knew, I was wheezing when I climbed a flight of stairs and my feet hurt. Fluffy happened so quickly; I can only assume that filth and flesh eating bugs in one’s house can happen very quickly, as well.

I better get back to filling out my Secret Santa form. I might just leave the hobbies and interests line blank and hope for the best.

Hobbies

From 2008

I have decided I need a hobby.

I want it to be impressive ~ something that I can ramble off if asked, and will elicit a response like, “Wow! What an interesting hobby she has! She must be a FASCINATING individual; a woman I would like to get to know!”

The problem is that right now I am not sure I have time for hobbies; my current hobby, Maggie, throws up on me several times a day, craps her pants and bites my nipples, then laughs. I also think this hobby is cutting teeth, although four months old seems too soon (and too brutal for my poor nipples).

She arrived at the end of April and has been the center of our family’s universe. Her brothers won’t stay out of her face and I worry about them kissing her too much.

This week my “extracurricular” hobby, of sorts, has been getting my ass to the gym every morning. Since Maggie has arrived, I have managed to eat enough chocolate chip cookies to add fifteen more pounds to my already challenged figure. So, I joined Weight Watchers this week and began using my gym membership for the first time in a year.

My goal is to be where I was at a year ago: running 3-4 miles 5x a week. But because I am far too jiggly to run right now, I have taken to walking really fast on an incline, manipulating the elliptical machine and torturing myself for five minutes on the Stair Master. I hope to increase my minutes on the torture device until I am on it for 30 minutes because I intend to have a fantastic butt by this time NEXT year.

But enough of that fun stuff for now, I hear my current hobby crying in her crib right now.

 

Honor Student or Bust

Uber: denoting an outstanding or supreme example of a particular kind of person or thing.

I’ve always known that my genetic makeup was not that of an “ubermom.”

They are the types that have large calendars with all of their children’s activities written down three months in advance. They are also the ones who pack daily balanced, nutritious lunches for their children with sandwiches cut into triangles. They drive minivans with soccer ball stickers in the back windows or have “My Child is an Honor Student at _____” decals.

No, I’m definitely not an ubermom; although, each year I vow I will be more informed, more pro-active, more prepared.

But alas, I am again the last one to sign the kids up for sports and/or activities, calling the “organizer” breathless and panicked to make sure that sign-ups are still open. I am the one who never really knows what is going on because I forgot to write it on the calendar. I’m the one who picks up my teenager from junior high and tries to exit through the “entrance only” part of the parking lot (despite the squad car sitting there blockading the entrance). I embarrass this said teenager to the point of sending him into a crumpled, defeated heap on the floor of the SUV as I try to negotiate my way out of the parking lot,  hysterically begging and tearfully pleading ignorance.

Now that the third child has started his activities, I am operating at white-knuckle “seat of my pants” type mode. The best I can hope for is mediocrity with a tinge of desperation.

As my children get older, it hasn’t come any easier with practice; I don’t seem to have learned from past mistakes.

I am a little envious of the ubermoms sometimes, usually when I am running late to somewhere I didn’t realize I needed to be until thirty minutes beforehand. But then, as I think about it, the envy is replaced by a tinge of pride in myself that I found out where I needed to be before the event-practice-performance was over.

I have made a decision that perhaps next year I will strive to be a little more uber; this year has already started as a bit of a bust.