I came away looking for an escape and for answers. Answers about myself, my life, my direction. And now, three months into my trip, awash with a palpable mixture of shame and intrigue, I find myself ever-more saturated by questions.

These are, however and most certainly, questions of a different kind. They are all-together a different breed of concerns that have started to adjust the economy of my soul and stretch out the perimeters of any prior conceivable realities. They have started to add flesh to the bones, to the two-dimensional dictionary definitions of poverty and struggle, to the lives of a world so far from my own.

Instead of asking questions about myself, I find that very self to be asking questions of the world.

In my first post I spoke of destruction and hardship; how important it is to remind ourselves that beauty and happiness can blossom from sorrow. I have since been on new adventures, to different cities, with different families and friends, all the while eager and careful to document, either to mind or paper, struggles I witness along the way. 

I recently, for example, assisted on a tour of medical clinics where in the remote slums and villages of central Nepal we tended to the sick and infirm. I saw a lady, radiant and smiling, whose bald and itchy head had once been completely scalped by an angry elephant. I saw a young girl no older than five, the entirety of the skin of her shin scolded away by the spillage of boiling water, flinch not once at the replacement of her dirty three day-old bandages. I saw an elderly woman, whose left breast hung and swelled with what looked like a grapefruit inside, be given paracetamol for the pain of suspected breast cancer. That hit me particularly hard. I blamed the tears that fell from my eyes on the smoke of the fire, my red cheeks on its heat. I watched as he handed her nothing more than pity medicine and conversed softly with sounds I cannot understand. I flicked from his face to hers, trying to read the movements of an indicative raised brow or a glance to the floor. To this day I don’t know what he told her. 

Last week I sat in a house no bigger than my own bedroom, made of sticks and tin sheets. I surveyed the glowing faces of its six inhabitants from an indoor fire keeping them warm at night and their bellies intermittently satisfied. I would later come to discover that the parents of this family were alcoholics. The four radiantly bright and friendly sisters, all ten and under, were stuck in a house that drank any chance of bettering itself away. It evoked within me sharp pangs of anger and helplessness. If the parents are unwilling to give their own children a future, who will? Gifting money, buying them food, clothes, though kind, is not enough. It’s not sustainable. What can we do? Is there anything we can do?

I helped clean another house, of similar stature, belonging to an elderly couple very much in love. She was rich once, he the servant in her former household. That was before they made their affair public and were kicked on to the streets of the slums. The wife, now nearing a very respectable hundred years old and with a broken hip, was extremely sick. Too old for medicine, she needed vitamins and protein if she had any chance of recovering. The husband wouldn’t take his eyes off of her shivering in that bed, and as I tied the tarpaulin walls tighter to the bamboo frame and swept the loose mud from the hard mud kitchen floor, I noticed that there was no food; the absolute absence of it able to hollow even the smallest of spaces. I suddenly recalled the fact that a few days prior, on a visit when she was well, they had kindly offered I stay for dinner. They were willing to share the little sustenance they came by with a girl capable of gorging herself daily to a point of near voluntary explosion. And here the sick lady lay, desperately, in need of some chicken and oranges. It was in that moment, on the way to the nearest shop to buy them what they needed, though they had no mirror, that I was staring ever-more hardly into it.

I’ve also experienced an earthquake. Though a mere whisper of the tumult that devastated Nepal a few years back, no where near comparable, the five second rumble in the darkness of my bedroom shook me to my very core. I’ve seen the cracks in the many buildings and the rubble the unlucky ones have been reduced to. I’ve heard eye-witness accounts of death and destruction. And now, first-hand, the universe decided that I myself should feel a fraction of the Gorkha earthquake of 2015. Measuring 7.8 on the Richter scale, and succeeded by over 400 aftershocks, it killed nearly 9,000 people, injured 22,000, and incurred $10 billion worth of damages. It was a cold reminder to the world that even the most solid of foundations can break apart beneath your feet.

And through all of these experiences and observations, the many more stories I have heard from friends and fleeting faces, from all over the world, one unfailing common denominator remains. The people of Nepal, and indeed all of us as humans, are ferociously resilient.

The poor people will continue to battle daily life in sickness and in health with smiles on their faces. Thanks to a kind sponsor and dear friend of mine, I learned that the sisters will go to school, and they will better their lives through the gift of education. The elderly couple who chose love will, through finding beauty in one another and not in the materials that clothe or adorn them, continue to live a rich and giving life. The thousands of people that had their families and houses ripped apart by a natural disaster will continue to welcome me, a stranger, into their homes, or replacements for ones that once stood, for tea and bright conversation. 

Of course it makes you feel bad, witnessing a life so different to your own, so far from what you would deem acceptable in your own ‘world’. I can’t help but question my authority to moan about what now seems so menial, when I see with my own eyes people living without clean water or a coat warm enough to prevent the shivering when the sun disappears behind the clouds. The weather not suiting my plans, a late train service, not having the right shoes to match my dress; what do these things really mean or matter? 

And though my reality has been put into check and I am ever-more grateful for the life I lead, I know better than to brandish my own genuine worries and desires as futile. They are legitimate. Its just as important to remember that all of our lives are relative, for though we all live on the same planet, we inevitably remain worlds apart.

And even within these worlds of worlds we have our own set of problems. It’s easy to say that we have it easy, this still a very sweeping generalisation when our own society juxtaposes within its grasp such varying degrees of wealth and poverty, of good and bad.

I am not suggesting, therefore, that we compare our first and third and miniature worlds. That is ultimately senseless and fruitless. Even if we did, to whose or which stick would we measure such intangible grades of happiness or success?

I think it’s simply a matter of reminding ourselves every day of what’s important. It’s living our individual lives aware of and sensitive to what’s around us; knowing that every second of every day 7 billion other people are breathing the same air, but in and unto varying degrees, different circumstances, different ways. 

I once believed that experiencing these different lives and cultures and immersing myself in them would be an escape. Certainly not, however, for the reasons that I am now becoming increasingly free. 

I’ve come to realise that life isn’t a science or a mathematical equation. It’s okay not to have the answers, because there will always be questions. The more I know – the less I know.

And it is in the struggles, resilience and benevolence of others along my journey, from the few stories I have shared with you and the many more that shall reside forever in my own mind, that I have found the answers to more important things. 

I have learnt that, though many are blinded by the temporary drug of money, kindness is the medicine to a world that will always be sick with greed and malice and hatred. It’s the beautiful butterfly effect in full force; the ripple in the water; the echo in the empty room. Put your kindness into the universe and it will spread its wings, pulsate it’s circles, reverberate it’s sounds. No matter how small an act, be it a smile to a stranger or an encouraging pat on the shoulder of a friend, it will spread and it will thrive and it will grow, larger and more powerful than its evil but necessary counterparts. 

And all of the problems in the world that seem so scary and overwhelming a force become, even just a tiny bit, a little less formidable. 

When you realise that the world is both disgusting and beautiful, in so many ways and all at the same time, you also realise your part to play in the latter. 

Beauty doesn’t come in straight lines. Love itself is not linear. The unpredictability of the rawest and most truest of passions, a currency stronger than money, has the potential to lead us all astray. It cannot be controlled or predicted; chaos theory corroborates it and our lives necessitate it. 

But that’s the fun of it, right? 

Who knows what the serendipities of life and the passions of your soul will lead you to find. 

For I know I sought to find myself, and inadvertently found the world. 

Seeking means: to have a goal; but finding means: to be free, to be receptive, to have no goal… in striving towards your goal, you do not see many things that are under your nose.