Stirring Point

It’s 2:44 a.m., and shifting my weight from shoulder to shoulder refuses to lull me back to sleep. Jet lag has shut the doors to my dreams, telling me it is time to stand and face the day. I’ve collected fragments of sleep en route to Kathmandu from Denver—dozing off somewhere over Greenland, and once more in Dubai. I’d kill for another hour, and perhaps I’ll find it tomorrow.

I lean to one side and sit up along the edge of the bed, wiggling my toes and scrunching the rug between them. I stand and walk slowly across the cool tile floor, waking the nerves in my feet with each step. My knees and ankles play a symphony of pops and crackles. As I pull back the curtains, the soft light of a waxing crescent moon fills the room. At this hour of the morning, it’s the only light these eyes are supposed to see.

I stare for a moment, then return the curtain to its former place. The thick material plunges the room back into darkness. I turn and walk toward the kettle, fumbling for the power switch and finding it with my thumb. It, too, pops and crackles while warming the water, but hisses and sings as well while the temperature climbs.

My outstretched hand slides along the hallway wall, searching by touch for the light switch. “Click.” The particles pelt my eyes. “Why are you awake?” they inquire. I’m too disoriented to make sense of the question. I stare into the bathroom mirror like a powerless android, watching as the mirror stares back. We’re both perplexed by what’s become of my body. A weathered face from countless abrasions and too much sun; uneven shoulders from poor posture, dislocations, separations, and surgery; a waistline that no amount of running seems to tame—father time affords no grace. I lean down to wash my face, plucking my tightened hamstrings as I do so. What will become of this body in 20 years? The engine feels solid, but the fenders are falling off.

I dry my face and walk back to the kettle. My fingers are strengthless without blood flow and struggle to tear the edges of a single-serving Nescafe sachet. Like an arthritic old man, my joints seem maladapted to the task. A corner finally tears, and the brown dust streams into the mug. The milk powder packet demands an equal battle, but I’m tenacious, and eventually it gives way. I’m in Buddha Land now and work to be present as I add the boiling water, plunk in a spoon, and gently stir. Stir…stir…stir. The coffee is terrible.

In the room’s corner is a hand-carved desk made by a local craftsman. I turn on the lamp and watch the warm light spill across its natural grains. It’s smooth to the touch, but a closer look reveals knots, cracks, and tarnished joinery. I instantly fall in love with these imperfections. They tell the history and story of its journey from the forested earth to this exact spot. Like a run of mental ticker tape, I see a worker sanding its edges and chiseling its notches, and the movers banging a wall here and a corner there. I see generations of oily hands sliding across its vaneer and nervous fingernails picking at its splits. Water rings left by coffee-drinking, coasterless philistines remind me how man constantly exploits the natural world, even after the initial killing. I have an urge to drag the desk in front of the same bathroom mirror and ask it to analyze its own aging. “Has father time been good to you?” The thought quickly passes and gets tossed into my brain’s “insanity” folder.

I sit at the desk and open my computer. The words flow like a waterfall on the page, streaming and spilling about with reckless abandon. It feels good to let them flow. I stay out of my way and forgo any editing—a vomit comet of writing. An hour passes, and I stop to reread my work. It’s dreadful. Waterfall? I ask myself. Flowing sewer pipe feels more accurate. I’ve just carefully crafted a magnificent pile of garbage. 

I dress in gym clothes and head to the rooftop meditation area, stopping along the way to take in the morning light of Kathmandu. It’s 4 a.m. now, and only the sound of a passing truck fills the air. I enter the room, plop a few cushions together, and plunk down in a half-lotus position. For the next 30 minutes, I close my eyes and watch the imprints of the world dance before me. Everything else is where it belongs: deep in slumber, preparing for a new day. It’s morning in Kathmandu.