I'll Be There

The beginner choir was singing the opening notes to “I’ll Be There” when I finally tuned in to the middle school choir concert. I was there to see my daughter perform, in the advanced choir. Her songs would be last in the program. I had a long wait. And this is what made is hard to settle into my seat and just be where I was. I was waiting for everything else to be over. Besides, it was hot, we were in a public school auditorium and I could not get my camera to work for some reason…so I was frustrated. But, something about the opening strains of this song caught my attention, and I settled in. Almost two entire groups into the music program, and I was finally settling in.

You and I must make a pact


We must bring salvation back


Where there is love


I’ll be there.

Suddenly, I saw the faces of these little girls. One little girl had a sad hopeful look on her face. One shuffled her feet and was clearly searching through a wall of bright lights for a face in the audience. One of them swayed to the music as if she was really feeling what she was singing. All of them beamed. All of them wanted to be there. All of them were proud, and deserved to be.

Johnston is a performing arts magnet school in the Houston Independent School District. Kids from all over the district audition to get into the school. We did not move into the district in time for Haley to audition the year we moved into town, so we specifically found a house located within the zone of this school so that an audition would not be necessary. The school is that good…and that good for the creative students that go here. Artists, musicians, dancers, actors and singers…they have found the school and made their way here.

For many of them, their talent is their ticket out of a lower performing school within the district. The magnet program rewards those with the talent AND the willingness to work hard.

I watched every second of the rest of the performance. I watched these kids who innocently sang as the state cuts almost 200 million in funding from our district this year alone. The decision to make these drastic cuts happened very recently, but the impact is already being felt. The stable foundation underneath them is shaking and none of them can feel it yet. Not yet. But their parents do. We are watching. Some of us are figuring out what to do with our kids if the school system just caves in on itself. For some of the parents of these kids, there are no other options.

I have been thinking a lot lately about the kids of Nepal. Specifically, how this country, in this moment, has decisions to make about what their priorities are. The people of Nepal have suffered for generations for the opportunity to make decisions that are only recently theirs to make. In this moment, they can choose to build a future for their country that moves it into something inspiring to generations to come, as well as to the rest of the world. I am hopeful that they are not looking to us for that answer.

Tonight, I am thinking about the decisions our country is making about what is expendable and what is not. Tonight, I am looking into the faces of these children, children who are in school because we profess to believe that we cannot be a strong nation unless all of our children have equal access to basic education. Tonight, I wish there was some way to help every politician in the country see the hope I see in these faces. I want the hope in these faces to live…I want this hope to form the foundation for our future. As I go to sleep tonight, I will be praying for a shift in our perception that will wake us up and cause us to prioritize differently, because the children of Houston are not the only ones considered expendable by their governments. The politicians in this country need to all be held accountable for our future…and not just the period of time between now and our next election.

Xo,

Kimberley

sometimes, I play

I am sitting on a wooden work table in a 100 year old mattress factory, listening to a singer songwriter play his original music to this attentive, mellow crowd. People are scattered around the room in chairs placed in front of and around antique industrial sewing machines that used to sew mattresses and now sew bags. The next room is still set up for making mattresses. Frames, drying racks, compression boxes…all look as if someone, just this second, walked away from using them. There are even downy feathers in the wire egg baskets next to the work stations.
Twinkle lights look carelessly thrown up around the rafters, illuminating only enough as the sun sets for me to make out the other faces in the room. We watch the performer sing in front of a backdrop of colorful flags and blankets thrown onto numerous coat hooks behind him. He is lit by a single living room lamp. We are in a still life.

Only Cheryl could have pulled this off…such accidental looking perfection. She labored dearly to make this happen, but it would be impossible to pinpoint precisely what it was that she labored over. Every detail looks that unstudied, a complete lack of fussiness that is impossible given how perfect it all is. As Will Johnson (lead singer of Centro-Matic) sings about dreaming (I’m not making this up), I look over to see her casually perched in a deep window ledge with Paul and Zoe (her truly adorable husband and magical daughter). It’s a picture, of course, but it will not be taken tonight. Because the genius of Cheryl is that she is not trying to look like this, she just does. Her focus is to make magic. And tonight, with soft winds blowing wind through open windows and the occasionally train whistle interrupting the show, she succeeds.

(Photo courtesy http://www.stashstudios.com/)

“This is the first time I’ve played a mattress factory.”

Will speaks softly between songs. He is not miked. There is no need. We are a very small, sold out show. He talks and plays and then talks some more. Mostly we just soak him in with everything else. He is so perfectly placed here. He will always be associated with that night for me. And this is a good thing.

Cheryl runs her business from here. It has been in her family since the 50s, when it was actually used as a mattress making factory. These days, Cheryl makes her line of upcycled bags in this old factory. Until recently, she did all of the work herself…from the initial design of each bag to the invisible stitching that holds each one together. She will gladly tell you about how, the moment she needed help in producing the bags, the right people appeared. This is the way with Cheryl.

Tina and I own some of her bags and I am finding two more are calling my name. They are ridiculously underpriced for bags made with as much care as Cheryl puts into them. Carrying mine makes me feel like I am carrying a glamorized version of our collective past. And these bags get noticed.

There are pictures from the show on her website. (click on the photostream at the bottom of the left column)
But not even these gorgeous shots can do justice to that evening. You can also find a link to her catalog here (link in the left column as well). She just finished a show in Houston, so she will have to update her inventory online before you will see what she really has in stock. I am jonesing for a long hair messenger and a canvas bag with a rebellious lining. Both are scene stealers.

The Impact of a Child

I do not even remember her name and, at the time, I did not know there would be any long lasting impact. It was the middle of the school week, and this little girl had to have been all of 7 years old. She should have been in school, but she was along the main street in a tiny little town called Madrid, which is somewhere between Albuquerque and Santa Fe. Haley and I were in transit on the way to Santa Fe when we met her. As we ate on the porch of a quaint restaurant in the town, a little girl came up to us with a box of rocks. Crude crayon drawings barely decorated the rocks. They looked hastily done, as if she had just ducked into the woods behind the diner to create some additional merchandise.

She gave the impression of a girl raising herself. Her comfort with walking up to strangers and asking them to purchase crayon colored rocks was disquieting. She saw my camera and asked me to take a picture of her with my daughter. I wonder if she wanted someone to have proof she was there. The fact that I cannot now find the picture of the little girl whose name I can't even remember, is sad to me.

No one at the restaurant seemed to know her. As we walked through the town later, we caught site of her occasionally, always alone. Madrid is an isolated and very small town along this highway; it seemed improbable that she was alone and unknown there. We were there for hours, and I never saw her with anyone. I think part of me was prolonging the shopping that day in hopes that I would catch sight of her with a family, any family. As we drove out of the town at sundown, I saw her on a bench…looking for rocks.

I think about her more than I imagined I would. But not her exactly. I don’t know her story, really. But the story I have in my head, the one of the little girl or boy having to raise themselves in a world that does not really see them, that story belongs to a lot of kids.

The girl in Madrid did not create the fire in me to share stories of kids living in our periphery, but she did make me stop, and she did add some kindling to the fire stoking in me. I wish I had her story. I wish I could find the two colored rocks we bought.

I have been writing stories about the kids in Nepal recently. And today I am thinking about other children who have also stayed on my mind over time. As I gear up to submit a bunch of my stories to you over the next few weeks, I find myself curious about your stories. Tell me about some child you encountered that you still think about. It does not have to be a sad, dramatic story. Children generally remind us to be merry, and I’d like to hear those stories too.

xo,
Kimberley

Street Festival and Krishna Temple in Nepal

Forgive me. The last couple of days have been impossible to write about. Eventually, I will. I have a story for you today, but it is not from my trek yesterday…through the slums to the homes of the beautiful children we have spent the past week with. That story will have to wait. I can’t write that quite yet.

The view from just outside our room, and where I walked this evening.

Today I was sick much of the day. I slept for much of it, which was a stunning disappointment to me. I needed to see the kids. But, no matter how I protested, I was told to stay put. And this was the right call it turns out. I slept and ate rice all day. Late this afternoon, I awoke to the sound of music and festive voices from somewhere in the area. I went out on the balcony and could see, just barely through the houses, colorful banners and dancing blocks away.  Renu came in to check on me and I asked her what it was. A festival. Would I like to go see it? As weak and dizzy as I was feeling, a street festival in Nepal, only two blocks or so away, is too juicy to pass up. She sent her housekeeper with me.

Her housekeeper is lovely. Kind and smiling. She speaks no English. And away we went toward the festival. Just the two of us. The streets were filled with people, mostly congregated around the decorated carts holding travelling shrines to various gods. Shimmering metallic strands stretched between buildings above the street. You can imagine how conspicuous I felt amongst all of this. I spend so much of my time here feeling like a bit of a voyeur in the lives of this culture. I asked Didi to take me home. At least, that is what I thought I asked her.

Instead, as we left the festival, she veered off the path and motioned for me to join her. A shortcut perhaps? More of the festival? She walked me through back alleyways until we were standing in front of a temple for Buddha. The gods have their own temples, I was about to find out. We followed more paths to another temple and then into a large field for soccer that had the most beautiful mountains framing it in the distance. What a luxury these mountains are to me…coming from the flat land of Houston.

We then took more back alleys until we were at her home, which she pointed out proudly. We walked right by, her dog, Kali, following us. (Yes, Tina, her dog’s name is Kali J). We walked through fields to the edge of a very steep hill climbing further down into the valley. Women were washing clothes on a ledge just below us. While standing on the ledge, Didi pointed out numerous temples of various gods. And before I knew it, we were again descending the steep ledge into the lower regions of the valley. We walked a narrow path, me with no idea about where we are headed.

We arrive at a temple, her temple I gather. It is a temple to Krishna. She motions for me to enter with her and we are alone there…her showing me the modest room with a shrine behind a locked gate. We sat down for a moment to peer into the shrine. It was clearly a place of warmth and love. I have been to many churches and temples around the world…and it always surprises me how clearly you can feel how infused with love the temples are in places that are the poorest. Nothing in America, that I have seen, can hold a candle to any of them.

As we were leaving an old woman came into the room and Didi whipped back around with a look of pure glee. Her face made it clear that something wonderful had happened and that she was thrilled that I, her guest in the temple, was about to be a part of something magic.

She introduced the woman as “grandmother” but I suspect it is not literal. She clearly belonged to this temple…lived in it, as it lived in her.

Grandmother invited me to sit down again in front of the shrine and she scurried around turning on lights and mixing something in small metal cups. I was blessed and painted on my forehead. I found out later, with the help of Renu’s translation, that amongst other things, Grandmother asked where I had come from and said “You have come such a long way. I hope you find what you are looking for.” She is also praying for me at 2am…her normal prayer time. I understood none of this at the time and kept nodding my head like an idiot saying “thank you” and “ok.”

Then she produced a handful of peanuts and a piece of rock candy from the pocket of her sweater to give to me to eat, which I did, of course, like it was communion in church. As we were leaving, she showed me her room and asked me to take a picture of her. I had not brought my camera (how insane was that?), but promised to return with it tomorrow. I will keep this promise, but I will bring someone with me who can translate back and forth. I appreciate the flow of just going without shared language, but I would prefer not to miss any more of what this woman is saying to me.

Tomorrow, I return to the school for my last day with the kids. I am still not well, but I will go tomorrow no matter how I am feeling. What I suffer from is not contagious…and I will not miss my last day with the kids of Koseli.

I am gathering stories from some of them…but these too must wait. I can’t write them just yet.

Love,

Kimberley

The Bus Trip to Jhule (My Mount Everest)

This is a note to myself…while I will never forget yesterday, I might forget the details and the texture of the moment, and I never want to do that.

Renu asked us if we wished to take a separate car or ride on the bus with the children on our laps on the way to Jhule. Three minutes later, I was sitting in a seat meant as a tight fit for two people, with Srijana, Manju and Pinky, who insisted, despite the fact that their seat already was an excruciatingly tight fit, that I sit with them.  They had a mission. They wanted to teach me a Nepali song.

Photo by Manoj Jirel, Student Photographer and Joker

I positioned myself on a full half inch of seat available to me and began to try and do what they said as they moved quickly through the song, expecting me to pick up and repeat the simple words they were telling me. After a laughed filled five minutes, I redirected them. I asked “is there a song you teach the babies? Like a VERY simple song the very little ones can learn to sing?” They laughed wildly and then began teaching me this one:

Ma Janchu, Kathmandu

Motor chadera

Bholi parsi aune chhu

Ma doctor ba ne ra.

They tell me that this means “I am going to Kathmandu by motorbike. When I come back, I will be a doctor.”

I asked them to please write down the words for me so I could follow. They first wrote them in Nepalese, which is a truly beautiful looking writing, but one I cannot read, of course. They got help from one of the teachers to write the English phonetic spelling for me. I now have it in their handwriting in my little book, along with the words for parts of the face and the word for silly. They enjoy it very much when I identify several of the boys as jokers…and jokers they are.

I sat with them, trying to sing the baby song for a while (I plan to record them singing it as soon as possible, so that I can continue trying to learn it when I go home). Then Manoj asked me to sing an American song for them. I told Manoj (who, by the way, is quite the joker) that I was glad to see everyone happy and that I did not want to make everyone cry by singing. He laughed and asked me if I knew songs by Hannah Montana. I told him my favorite song of hers was Party in the USA and, miraculously, one of the teachers produced their phone playing the song for me to sing along to. So sing I did…at least the chorus. They watched me very seriously, studying me…like I held some kind of information in my random moves and singing manner. It was odd, but ok somehow. Then I sat back down (yes, I had to stand for this so I could turn to face the one requesting the song) and the back of the bus, where I was sitting, broke into Let it Be, by the Beatles. As I was sitting, I had to brace myself by placing my hands on the seat back and the seat in front of me. As I sang, my hand was stroked by the little girl sitting in the seat behind us. We only stopped singing because Manju said she wanted me to look out the window with them and see their country as we drive past.

The ride was hard. As uncomfortable as it was for me, kids all around me were throwing up from motion sickness into little plastic bags. The 30 minute bus ride seemed to last for hours. All I could do to comfort them was stand so that they had the seat to themselves, and offer the exotic wet wipes I had for them to wipe their mouths and faces. The remainder of the trip was them being sick and me wiping their faces, pulling their hair out of their faces and asking the teachers around me how much longer the trip was. I was glad when the ride ended so my friends could recover themselves, which they did with amazing alacrity.

But the amazing thing was how the other kids took care of their friends. As kids up and down the bus became sick, their friends would move them to the seat by the window, yell for plastic bags and water, and tend to them constantly. Some of the older kids, even the jokers, stood in the aisles to facilitate quick transfer of the needed items. They were all focused on taking care of the motion sick kids. And no one had to ask any of them to step up. Not one of them shirked the responsibility of caring for the others. Not one of them. No one wanted to change seats to get away from the sick ones. The seat in front of  me had kids in it who were probably 7 years old, and when one of them fell sick, the other two in the seat tended to them for the remainder of the trip. They would look up continuously and make faces like it smelled awful, but it never occurred to them to do anything other than what they were doing. And, for the return trip, they sat with the same kids…never once considering changing their seat mates as an option, though it most assuredly was.

Next installment will be about the trek itself.

xo,

Kimberley

To Be Willing to March into Hell for that Heavenly Cause

Yesterday was final exams results day at the Koseli School. Yesterday, each child found out if they were promoted or needed to redo the year. I had no idea this was happening, and, had I known, I would not have had any context for the experience of it. It was brutal.

Renu has a very tough job. She is actually trying to give these kids the tools they need for a better life. Some of these kids come from very bad backgrounds and all of them come from a culture of very low expectations. No one really expects much of anything from them. No one, that is, except Renu and the staff at Koseli. And these expectations are critical to their success. If they learn to rise up and continue on, despite the repeated failures, they can change their lives.

Most of the class failed their final exams. Renu explained that much of the schooling they had prior to coming to Koseli was really inadequate and did not set a foundation to succeed. She also confided in me that, she does not think it is a bad thing for them to fail. If they fail, that is one more year she has with them. One more year to imbue them with skills and knowledge they need to rise above the challenges that have been dealt to them.

But the air of disappointment permeated the school. The girls cried and cried. Parents came to the school (well, some of them) to hear the results and, coming from a background of no education at all, could not fathom how the kids had worked so hard and not succeeded. They were angry.

Renu is worried that some of the children will not return. She is worried that the disappointment will be so crushing that they will just return to the life they have always known. As she sat on the floor in one of the classrooms and talked with me, I could see the pain all over her face. It is a pain she deals with every single day of her life and one she has committed to enduring for the rest of it. The pain of losing some of these kids she loves so much.

When she verbalized all this to me, I could literally feel the pain in my chest. It literally felt like I had been hit. Something in me had imagined that, once in this place, a child would never choose to go anywhere else. And for some children, this is true. But the reality is present every single day, as some of the kids fail to come to school for days at a time and gamble on the streets instead. And some of the kids cannot take the crushing failure and never return.

In that unguarded moment, alone in a small classroom, Renu gained my commitment forever. Koseli is my school too. These are my kids. She communicated volumes in her hushed tones, slumped shoulders and distracted air. This is not a charity for Renu, this is a monumental quest.

And I’m in as a sidekick…for the long haul.

XO,

Kimberley

P.S. I have pictures to post here...but I am on a new computer and have no idea how to reduce the size of my pics so that they will upload. :-( will work on that tonight.

Miro Nom Kim Ho

My writing will have to change. If I am to capture the intensity of every moment on these kinds of trips, I will have to learn to get out of my way. To lose the training I have had in writing. I ache for this, particularly today.

Today, I am capturing the stories of some of these children. I was not prepared for how I would feel here. I knew I would feel compassion. I knew I would feel pain that I could not do more. I knew that I would think they were sweet. But these are the least of my emotions here.

I am filled with hope for the world here, within the walls of this school. I want more for these kids, and I want more for me and my kids back home. I want the thirst for life that these kids have. I want my kids to want to learn and be as these kids so clearly do.

Stephanie is teaching them now and their focus and intensity is not compulsory or polite. You can feel them pulling the information out of her…hanging on her every word. Sometimes, it feels more that she is allowing the information to be pulled from her, rather than “teaching” it to them. Stephanie and the kids are natural together in a way that I would not have thought possible.

In fact, I am surprised at how comfortable I feel here. With this group from the US, with Renu, who I only met three days ago, with these kids whose names I am becoming so familiar with.

As much as we bring knowledge to these children, they have more to bring to us than we can imagine from where we sit at home. I am only beginning to learn. What I am learning today is hope.

In any case, the stories are not done. They are not simple. I need more time with these kids. In the meantime, I am sticking some of the pics onto Facebook.

Tomorrow we go trekking with the school. I am hoping to get to know them better. One at a time.

XO,

Kimberley

Going into the Cocoon

Today, the universe totally messed with me. I’m not gonna lie, today was tough. Who am I kidding? It’s still tough. It's messy. Like the caterpillar must look in the cocoon before the butterfly escapes the binding.

This morning Jen asked me to interview the children for a piece of the project. I did not and do not feel up to this task. And this floors me. Who am I that I am literally afraid of asking questions to these children? What does it mean that I am not up to the task? And, make no mistake, I was afraid. Afraid that I would not get any more of an answer than I had heard from them yet, which is to say smiles and giggles. Afraid that they will only say stock answers like “I like to learn.” Afraid that I will find out for sure that I am unworthy of the abundance of being with these kids.

So, today was brutal. The start this morning colored everything that happened all day. All I saw anywhere was my uselessness. At one point, when there was truly nothing for me to do, I sat on the stairs and tried to write my feelings down. This is as far as I got…

Today I want to go home. Not because I am uncomfortable or overwhelmed. But because today, I feel abundantly and exquisitely useless. It is paralyzing me. I wish

Then two kids came up to me and asked me if I had pictures of my kids. So, as they sat on the stairs beside me, I pulled up picture after picture of my kids and told them about them. Then two or three more would come up and want to see the pictures…then more. As they cycled in and out, probably about 15 kids and their teachers sat through my impromptu slideshow. One particularly inquisitive child, Manoj, quizzed me right away about each of my kids. Then, as new kids came up to see the pictures, Manoj would rush in to give the vital stats before the pictures even came up.

“That is Haley. She is 12.”

“Grant wants to be a ninja.”

“Do you know how old she is?” (pointing to me)

After I had gone through all the pictures multiple times, a child came up (Rajesh) who, all agreed, could dance just like Michael Jackson. I am not able to pass up an opportunity like this. The kids cheer me on as I chase him into a classroom to show me his best Michael Jackson moves.

“You better make her happy! If she is not happy, she will not come back.”

This convinced him for some reason, which is bizarre to me. So, without music, without a stage, without shoes on...Rajesh killed it.

“AH! That is from Smooth Criminal! (this is me)

“OOOOHHHH Thriller” (me again)

I have asked him to dance again for me tomorrow so I can capture video. If I can get him, I will post it so you can see his sweet moves. J

Then Steph distracted everyone and I was again alone. I began to pick up where I left off. But I had no more opened the document, when again, I was surrounded. So, I began asking them questions…and they began answering them. I have only just begun this project, which I will pursue in earnest tomorrow. By the end of the day, I was not ready to leave, and they wanted more. They wanted to tell their stories. And I told them that there are people on the other side of the world who really want to hear them. I told them about you.

So, I will be pulling double duty on the posting for the next few days as I process their stories through here…pictures and all. You will be surprised at how hopeful and joyful they all are. I will warn you, however, that you are likely to love them forever and ever once you read their stories.

My whiny document never got worked on, actually. It is not that I feel better…it is more that I have work to do now that is more important than writing that piece out. And maybe that’s the point.

XO,

Kimberley

P.S. Formatting all messed up, and I am too tired to fix it. :-P

End of the First Day...Part One

After a day in the school, I am not ready to leave. But leave we did. And went straight to a café to digest the day.

Two giant beers later and I am talking smack to our whole group. I have been told there is drinking required at dinner and this is fine with me. I am celebrating. I am celebrating the manifestation of my heart’s desire.

It now feels selfish to be here. I am in heaven. Experiencing the beauty of children who are wide eyed and ready to take on what is real. I want to a part of their growth, any part.

Tonight, we will dinner with Renu’s husband, Anand. And, as we eat, I will be thinking about these kids. I will be thinking about them returning to their homes. I will be thinking about returning to Koseli tomorrow and soaking in the hope and beauty of their hearts.

I am in love.

Xo,

Kimberley

P.S. more pictures tomorrow. I am exhausted. And there is more...much more.

I'm not worthy...Nepal

Am I up to this?

Today we meet the children. We are going to the Koseli.

After breakfast, Jen pulls me into her office (our bathroom) to discuss my enthusiasm. Which, despite my assertion that I am controlling, is apparently bubbling over the edges of the teapot of my brain. Our bathroom conversation is wildly helpful in a way that I cannot possibly verbalize. What I can say is, that Jen connects with me in this and now I have someone here who can hold my intensity…if I can hold it through the day, Jen will hold it for me at night and help me contextualize. Now, I am good. I have so much to learn. And that makes me happy. I love to learn. I want to grow into what is next. This is an intensive in that.

We leave for the school and I am sitting in the front seat with the driver. Jen directs me to sit there and I protest, but she sits me up there anyway and I’ll be damned if she is not right. I feel like there is a soundtrack moving through my head as I we make the trip to the school. I don’t want the drive to end. I am happy.

I step into the school’s gates, my insides melt. I could live here. I swear this is true.

Stephanie disappears immediately. How anxious she is to begin her mission. Ah, her mission, I have not told you about this. Let me tell you now.

Stephanie is a photographer. She lives in Georgia, outside of Athens, on a cow farm. She has a brilliant smile and she is here on her own mission. She wants to teach the kids to tell their own story, through pictures. She has just formed an organization called Lens on Life. She has kids in Tanzania and Nepal that she is now dedicated to in driving this mission. This is a real call of the heart. She travelled, met these children, took pictures, and when she left, her work came to her. She needs to help the kids tell their own story. These kids needs the tools to communicate. This is a mission I can get behind.

Stephanie has, through her Twitter network, eight iPhones donated for her trip. She is teaching the kids to take pictures with them. Pictures of their life.  Pictures of the things that are important to them.

So, today, I am in a class of twelve kids as her assistant. Twelve kids who are magnificently ready to take on this challenge.

And they are incredible, these kids. Each comes from the slums of Nepal. Slums I have not seen, but are clearly beyond anything we identify as slums in the US. Each of them has a story that is beyond our ability to comprehend from where we are. I fall in love instantly. This is not the “how precious are these children” kind of love. This is “I love them. I want to them to teach me. I want to help them become whatever it is they want to be.” I want my kids in this school. I want my kids with these kids.

Immediately, two girls focus in on me…and I on them.

This is Srijana and Pinky.

As Stephanie gave them the iPhones. They immediately began taking pictures of me. Every time I looked at them, they were looking at me.

Pinky is an artist. I mean, seriously. I will post pictures of her work tomorrow.

She and her friend, Srijana were magic to me.

I love them. Seriously. I want to bring them home with me.

Stephanie engaged them in a way I would not have thought possible. She taught them how to start the phone. How to take pictures. How to communicate what it is they see.

“What is important is you…not your camera. There are people in the United States who would love to come to Nepal. They can’t. They need you to see what it is like here. What your life is like.”

Stephanie showed them her pictures from Tanzania and the US. Showed them pictures of kids in their natural environment. The kids were silent as she clicked through the pictures, drawing in the lives of kids they would never see in person and don’t have any context for what their lives are like. They got it. You could see it in their faces. They understood the importance. You could literally see the lightbulbs going off in them. I could live in that moment.

Neil and Kristi, the videographers who said yes to this project before they really knew what it was, were moving around the small room in a way that seemed completely natural and beautiful. I have been watching videographers for years and I have never seen a dance like this. They moved around the room like they were connected by an invisible thread. Never in each other’s shot and always shooting the complimentary shot. It was a beautiful symmetry that could only exist between two people in love. And they are. You should see them together. It is a true romance. It is my goal to capture that love with my camera at some point so you can see. They are lovely, fun, sweet and their heart is totally in this.

I am an assistant here, and I love this role.  I am learning so much. Stephanie tells me what to do and I gleefully do it. If she asked me to clean the bathroom with a toothbrush, I would do it with more love than I thought imaginable.

There is more. Of course there is more. And you will know it. I promise you. I will give you everything.

Xo,

Kimberley

On the Other Side of the World

I am safe. And I mean physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. I had no idea how safe I could feel.

We are staying in a ridiculously gorgeous home on the outskirts of Nepal. I was so tired when we arrived. I had not slept. And the city is overstimulating…auditorially, visually, physically.

But I have to stop here and qualify that. The streets of Nepal are precisely as you would expect them to be…busy, crowded and wild. All manner of motor and wheeled vehicles. But I was not overwhelmed. I don’t understand this still. I felt peaceful in the midst of all that.

In any case, we got to Renu’s house and settled in. 

This is Renu, Stephanie, Jen, Neil and Krista plotting about what to do next.

This is dinner. The empty place setting is for Tracey Clark. She was with us in conversation all evening. She deserved a setting at the table.

I laid myself down for a nap and as I was falling asleep I heard:

1.       Children playing the street in front of the house. Two boys, playing and chatting in a language I could not understand. But it sounded exactly like the cadence, rhythm and subject matter of children playing in the street back home. It was the same. It felt so familiar it was bizarre.

2.       A cow mooing very close by. Can identify from where, but if you told me she was directly below our balcony, it would not have surprised me. It sounded that close. And it probably was.

3.       Call to prayer. I did not expect this for some reason. The distinct sing-songy prayer. I loved this so much. If I had had the energy, I would have joined in.

It was so beautiful hearing all these things together. I wished I had had the energy to jump up and find the source of all these things. But all I have the energy to do is cry silently at how beautiful this all is and let sleep take me.

I am having trouble already containing the wild horses of my imagining of what could be…what I could do to help on every project that is swirling around this beautiful group of people. But I am staying quiet. Fireworks are exploding inside me and I hold them in. Those of you who know me will know how completely inconceivable this is. How quiet I am being. I need more context. These projects are not mine. This world is not mine. I am learning to just “be” first and let things happen around me. But it is not easy for someone like me.

Renu says, with all seriousness, “who wants to see the slums?” We all affirm that we are in for this trip, for a variety of reasons, but the question sticks with me. From a communication perspective, this is a really good question that I will carry with me through the remainder of this trip. I want to know the answer to it and I want to know the “why” behind it. I immediately think I know the answer to this question myself…the answer to “why” I want to go. But I am not sure I do actually. In any case, I am in.

I feel very lucky that I am so exhausted. Because going to sleep tonight is not going to be easy. I want to write. I want to go back out and take pictures. I want to stay up all night making lists and planning.

But I will sleep. Tomorrow we meet the kids. Tomorrow, my life changes. Again.

Love,

Kimberley

My Memories and Tears Find Me in the Delhi Airport

I am standing in line at the airport when Tina tells me the news that she has been holding onto. Chris’ dad has died. The news hits me like a ton of bricks to my chest and before I know what is happening, I let out a wail and begin crying before I remember that I am standing in line with people I don’t know, in an airport on the other side of the world. Immediately, I am disoriented. Like I am in a surrealist work of art. I can’t quite process what people are telling me quickly enough and they are having to repeat the instructions to me multiple times…though they are speaking perfect English.

Chris’ dad was a shell of himself in recent years, a combination of the bipolar chemistry ravaging his thoughts, the drugs he took every day to ‘manage’ those chemicals and the impact of the repeated failure of those drugs to mediate much of anything in him. I knew he was tired of fighting, but I did not think death was really a possibility. Not yet.

Bob felt deeply and read voraciously…could talk at length about all manner of subjects.  He was inquisitive and fascinated by people. He was such a kind heart, and you could see it even in his most frenetic moments. He also suffered mightily at the hands of the ups and downs of his chemistry. If you have never seen anyone at the mercy of that kind of horrific chemistry, trust me…it is heart-breaking.

But it was not always a problem. Bob was playful, energetic and brave. Once, when he was visiting us in Seabrook, he took an interest in a beautiful house on the water of Galveston Bay. I too was obsessed by this house. It was two doors down from us and had stunning details, like an observation tower rising above the roof line that held a telescope, and openings in the wall around the property that held a variety of beautiful bells. On one of his many walks, he brought his video camera along and moments later, as I was standing on the seawall having coffee and looking at the water, I hear Bob shouting hello. At the end of the dock of the gorgeous house just two doors over, he stood next to the grinning, happy owners waving at us. He had just asked them straight out if he could come in and videotape their house. And Bob was just the kind of person you wanted to say yes to.

That is the memory I am holding of him today. Not the man ravaged by a sickness that our culture does not really want to talk about. In our world, even an emotional outburst is seen as some kind of regrettably digression, a symbol of our lack of strength.

I read something recently from a woman who had just lost her husband to suicide. The wild trip of riding his brain chemistry overtook him one day and he came up with the only permanent solution he could imagine in his state. Her one wish, as she penned this post was that people start demystifying mental illness and talk about it openly. That these big, strong men who feel like it is a sign of weakness to confess that you need help, get help anyway. Before it is too late.

Bob did not commit suicide, but he did get exhausted by the fight. Because for him, it was a fight. He too believed deep inside him that his inability to overcome the genetic illness in his family line on his own was a sign of weakness. It wasn’t. It is a sign of the weakness of our culture that Bob still felt he needed to fight this fight alone.

Goodbye, Bob. Even half way around the world, you are on the top of my mind today. I hope the place you are resting your weary head is beyond the expectations your challenging and cynical mind could hold. I am imagining you standing on the deck of a house far away, camera in hand, waving like crazy to let us know where you are and that you are happy and fine.

And that you are getting some really cool shots for us to look at later.

I love you.

Kimberley

Stranger in a Strange Land

Here is where I spent my first night here, across the world...

This is a “Sleeping Pod” in the Delhi airport. Pretty sweet set up, hunh? We had a 14 hour layover in Delhi, so these pods saved me. Turns out horizontal is a fairly important position.

I am in the gate this morning waiting to board for Nepal. I ate breakfast this morning at Delhi’s Daredevils Sports Bar.

Currys and cereals…airportish kind of food, but the décor was way cool.

Don’t those guys look like sports bar ninjas? It’s a Delhi Daredevils cricket mural. It’s beautiful in person actually. Ok, maybe beautiful is not the right word…maybe damned impressive.

It’s foggy out this morning and I really wish I could get out and take pictures in this light. It is so moody. Nothing I shoot is coming out right through these windows, which is a bummer. The mood outside is actually more reflective of my mood than the wildly energetic colors and décor of the sports bar. I am feeling moody, far away, muted, still, dampening.

I have not slept well. I cannot settle into my skin. I got some very bad news yesterday that I am having trouble processing. When bad news comes from such a distance, it feels a little surreal. And that is how I am feeling this morning, surreal.

Later this morning, I will be in Nepal. I will be a stranger amongst old friends. In a way, I already am. But this is such an important thing to remember in my body…how it feels to be a stranger in a strange land. And, while I can’t quite say that I welcome the revisiting of this kind of experience and am looking forward to the reminder of my vulnerability, I can honestly say that I am glad for what will come of it. Being uncomfortable is unsettling, and being unsettled makes such quick work of redefining what is normal.

This trip will be far from normal. It already is. I promise to stay vulnerable here, in my writing to you. I trust you to hold this space with me.

Xo,

Kimberley

Lawyers, Sound Bites and Nepal

Tonight, I want you to feel sorry for me, so I am going to tell you that I spent the better part of the day trudging through videos of interviews with lawyers from one of the oil and gas majors. Hours and hours of video discussing the finer points of what it means to be a successful lawyer in the company. Now, close your eyes and silently send me your most comforting energy. Thank you.


Truth is that I actually liked the people I was interviewing and tomorrow morning I will resume my task, but tonight I am actually grateful for this particular experience because it has delivered me some “just in time” learning for my trip to Nepal--a reminder that I needed in this exact moment. I need to keep my goal in mind.

As I was sitting with these people, listening to them explain to me how they loved their job and what it took to do it well, I became engaged in what they were saying. I literally asked the same questions of almost 30 different lawyers and got virtually the same answers from them all. I would have expected to get bored out of my skull after the first few, but I never did. Their earnestness enchanted me. Interview after interview they said the same things about “really listening” about “caring about the business objectives” and “maintaining focus on mitigating risk.” Subjects that, of themselves, aren’t that interesting. But the people were. I swear, I could do 30 more.

Trudging through the video after, trying to find sound bites however…that is a nightmare.

You see, I got really good material. Largely because I was so interested in THEIR interest in the subject matter. However, as I am combing through the clips, I find that what I have are interviews, not perfect little quips about the subjects at hand. And the end product relies on perfect little quips. We are doing a piece that will be less than an hour long…so I need brevity. Something lawyers are not known for in general. In the interviews, I got distracted. I forgot to interview for sound bites. But we will have the clips we need for this project. We will sculpt away at the most powerful sections, until they are lean and powerful.

This could not have happened at a better time. As a result, I will be listening differently while we interview in Nepal. I will be looking for the succinct and powerful. I will be noting them and asking for reframing where possible.

If I were interviewing you this weekend about something you feel powerfully engaged with, would you be able to speak about it succinctly and powerfully? Do you have something in your life that so inspires you that you wish you could give it just the right words at just the right time? Tell me what that is. I really am interested.

Xo,

Kimberley

Sitting Still in Nepal

Years ago, when I began working as a consultant, I was eager to demonstrate my value at the conference tables where I sat. I wanted the people around the table to know I was engaged in their challenge and had ideas. I wanted them to know I cared. I typically demonstrated the opposite, however. I was too quick to offer solutions. I thought I knew what they needed before they even finished outlining the challenge. Every client turned into my parents/my teachers/Glady’s McElroy (the glamorous woman -mother of Brian McElroy- who babysat me during my fourth grade year). I turned into a child version of myself. “Look what I can do!”


There is a woman in Nepal who is building, what I believe to be, a replicable and truly sustainable model for schools for the very very poor. She has one operating very successfully and wants to build hundreds more throughout Nepal and India. I have been invited to come spend some time with Renu Shah Bagaria, founder of the Shikshantar Outreach Program and the Koseli school. I have been invited to sit with her, hear her stories, see the school and, working with my dear friend Jen and some videographers and photographers, see if there is some way we can help her turn this “100 school” dream of hers into a reality.

I have been waiting for an opportunity like this my whole life, I think. My need to do something of value in the world has risen to a degree in recent years that I doubt a single person in regular contact with me could fail to see the significance of this moment. To those of you who have suffered my plaintive wails for meaning…my sincere apologies. I have apparently finally reached a tipping point, where my need has met the world. When meaning sends you an engraved invitation to a party you have been pleading for your entire life, you not only go, you RSVP the minute you get it.

But nothing is ever simple, of course. Jen has told me that the pace there is much slower than I have likely ever experienced. This is my challenge going to Nepal. I am deeply emotional. I know my heart will be broken and I know I will want to “fix” everything I come into contact with. I will have to learn how to sit still. I will have to learn how to be. I will have to learn that my presence is enough for now. I will have to learn that there is so much to learn before I can really even know what the deeper challenges are.

I will be in Nepal for two weeks. Two weeks is not nearly enough time to learn a culture. It is not enough time to get past the pleasantries to authentic trust. The most I can anticipate is that we get the footage and verbiage we need to communicate sufficiently enough to magnify their really outstanding work in their community. I can only hope that we gather enough in video, pictures and story to bring life and connection between cultures so different that they are literally unimaginable to each other.

I leave Sunday morning. I will be taking you with me and I hope you will shower me with your support as you did last time. I promise to share my journey with you…internal and external.

Much Love,

Kimberley

Can you guess where I'm going?

Two Hints...

and

A special gift of a note to the person who can correctly identify the place from these pictures (that means if you already know, and I know who you are, you may not make a guess).

Go.

xo,
Kimberley

Japan and a Tin Cup in Kuala Lumpur

There is so much I want to write to you guys now. I want to write about the feelings of travel, jet lag and the thoughts I have about doing this better next time. I want to write about how it feels to be back home. I want to write about how much you all improved my trip by commenting, emailing and checking in with me in the various ways that you did. But today, I am thinking about Japan and the poor, blind man I passed in the center of a street in Kuala Lumpur.

I passed many people in the streets in Malaysia who needed money. I gave it when I had it. I broke big bills so that it was easier to put something into the cups I passed. I did this without thinking really. People need our help. We should give it to them. People.

On my last evening in KL, as I was walking through the Indian street market, I bent down to put some ringgits into a man’s cup who was clearly blind. He was quite skinny, wearing dirty old clothing and his cup was tin and beaten up. He was not that different from others I had passed…or had seen in pictures from the comfort of my home in the United States. But something struck me that night that struck me again this morning as I was watching the news pouring out of Japan this morning…news about numbers confirmed dead, numbers in shelters and the impact on the stock market. Squeezed into the news stories are single line quotes about actual people in the shelters. For the most part, I note the tragedy and don’t really feel connected to it. It’s not human.

The news helps disconnect us from the tragedy. It reduces it to statistics and facts, peppered with single lines of human interest. We feel compassion, but not connection. As I watched the news it occurred to me that I have dropped money in Haiti’s cup and walked away. I have dropped money in New Zealand’s cup and walked away. As I plan to give to the Japan relief effort, I already know that I will be walking away from their tragedy too. Their tragedy continues…I move on.

Today, one of the single lines in one of the stories was about a woman in a shelter in Japan, one of 450,000 currently living in shelters. She cried because someone she barely knew gave her water and shelter. She cried because there was humanity in the middle of chaos.

This is what is missing in all of this for me…the humanity. The 450,000 in shelters have stories. They are human. For them, the devastation is far from over. The nuclear plants alone leave this country in horrific limbo. But even if this was not the case, what do they have to look forward to when they leave the shelter? And what are the stories of courage, hope and community. They are there and it is in those stories that we feel our connection to people we have never met.

The press is not charged with connecting us to each other, of course. They are delivering the news, in the most sensational way possible. They have a business to run, which is why they move on to the next tragedy. That is why the earthquake in New Zealand, tiny by comparison, but enormous to the people impacted, has fallen off the radar in all major news outlets. The news is not about people, it is about what is the most dramatic right now.

The man on the street in Kuala Lumpur has stayed with me. I don’t know his story, and for some reason that matters to me now. I think it is a mistake to allow the news agencies to hold the stories for us of these tragedies.

We need our storytellers.

xo,
Kimberley

Мне нужно практиковаться в русском

I am sitting in the Moscow airport. Had no intention of blogging from here as I am really just in transit and am not really seeing Moscow. But...

I am not sure which is weirder...the fact that for the past week I have been immediately pegged as a tourist everywhere I am or the fact that every single person in this airport thinks I am russian. It is seriously strange. When I go into a shop, they address me in rapid russian. When I go through security, they speak to everyone else in english, and to me in russian. A russian woman stopped me to ask me a question, yep...in russian. An American woman apologetically asked if I spoke english so I could direct her to the business lounge. A child asked me a question in russian as we were waiting in line. And in the business lounge, where virtually everyone is in transit, the women at the front desk spoke to me in russian and handed me the russian version of the pamphlet describing how to connect to wifi. Seriously? I look that russian?

Interestingly, I am reluctanct to speak at all. A flight to Houston takes off from here very soon and there are literally men in here wearing UT baseball caps and talking loudly about oil fields. I can only hope that they also think I am russian and that keeps them from addressing me.

I wish I knew even two words in russian. I would totally work them here.

Just eight hours ago I was thinking how nice it would be to not stand out somewhere again. Maybe I am just enjoying the fact that I don't stand out so much here and want to suspend the illusion.

I wonder how long it will be before I am, again, frustrated by my generic American look when I am back home. :-)

К сожалению, я пока не говорю по-русски,

Kimberley

Porn's Elephant Butt

I am already thinking I need to write a follow up blog for the entire trip. I have lots of scattered thoughts I would love to process with you. But that will come once I have a few days to make sense of them. For now I have a few leftovers that have not fit neatly into any of the other blogs. I am just gonna stick them in here beause they are are worth mentioning, but I am truly too tired to write anything really interesting here.
I had dinner at Porn’s tonight.

How do you not try a place that is this bold in its branding?

I am not sure the thai food was really sexy, but it was seriously the very best pad thai I have ever had the pleasure of eating. I did not know Pad Thai was meant to be spicy. It is so much better that way. Oh, and I had Thai tea with I think is iced tea with sweetened condensed milk in it. Yum.

Someone want to tell me what an elephant’s rear has to do with the name of the restaurant or with anything at all actually?

I love the badge they gave me at BP.

I wanted to bring it home and wear it to work every day, but it ripped when I took it off the wall.

I love you guys. Can’t wait to get home.

I’m out. See you in H Town.

Kimberley

Singapore, David Hasslehoff and John Denver

I am in the Changi airport in Singapore waiting for my flight. That John Denver song about “You fill up my senses…like a something something something” (my brain is dead) is playing on the speakers…well, at least the Muzak version. Something about that feels a little surreal to me. Particularly when I factor in the music I have been hearing my entire time in Singapore.
Singapore has a definite soundtrack. This did not occur to me until I heard the John Denver Muzak track. I have heard the same music everywhere I go. In every cab…blasting out of every store (except in China Town)…through all the markets. It is the same music, everywhere.

Pop music. Not American Top 40 music, this music that I have been hearing all around me is along those same lines, but not good enough to have made it into the Top 40 somehow. It makes me think of that “we are really big in Asia” joke. I wonder if anything I heard was a David Hasselhoff hit.

This ubiquitous night-club dance beat is what hastened my departure from the walk along the river in Clark’s Quay in fact. It did not break my heart though. Clark’s Quay is really nice in a Disney World kind of way. But I have been to Disney World.

I did see this:

Yep, That is a Burger King Bar.

Now THAT is cool. From an advertising/branding perspective, this makes me giggle. We just don’t cross concepts like this in the states. They are playing loose and fast with their brand here and I kinda dig their moxie. I like how cheeky The Burger King is turning out to be. But that is another story for another day.

Today, once we had finished the video shoot, I took off for Haji Lane near Arab Street. I keep reading everywhere about how this little street is the funky side of Singapore. The second hand shops and alternative styles are supposed to be here. It’s also in a funky district…worth the trip to check it out. And here’s the deal, I am spoiled.

I live in a city with some serious funk in it. Not that Houston is known for its funky edge, but if you walk the curve in Montrose, you know you are on the edge. If you stroll down 19th street in the Heights, the funky vibe, while not as funky as Montrose, has enough going on in their second hand shops alone to qualify the street as a funktion.

We’ve got shops and restaurants in the museum district, the theater district and Washington Avenue that bring a little somethin somethin to Houston, and totally PWN Haji Lane. All this to say that Haji Lane is cute, but I could make a fortune there by just copying a single store along the Westheimer curve and dropping it down right there on Haji Street. If anyone wants to do this, I am willing to sell you my idea for 25% of the profits. I will even help you scout which store in Montrose to steal the concept from.

I don’t like how I think, frankly. Too many years of marketing and advertising. This city is actually quite young as cities go and I can see that in its advertising. I can read their age by their marketing skills like you can read the age of a tree by the circles in the trunk.

But there is plenty they kick our butts in. Plenty. I decided to go into KL right away because I had assumed from what I read and saw that Singapore was going to be antiseptic and boring…or at least, just like Houston. I was wrong.

My favorite thing about this city is its love affair with aesthetic. Our cities look so incredibly utilitarian compared to theirs. Beautiful, dramatic and well cared for trees line the streets. Vines crawl all over the overpasses that are clearly cared for lovingly. So many of the buildings could have easily been constructed in a MUCH more rudimentary way, saving money, but losing the heart of Singapore in the process.

I hope western culture does not overtake this child of a city. Wouldn’t it be cool if this city was allowed to grow up with its imagination and sense of wonder in design intact?


Xo,

Kimberley