9:11 am. There it is again, on my phone and out of place. This time I am in Namo Buddha, a pilgrimage site way above Kathmandu Valley. The brilliant sun warms my face, and like clockwork, I am drawn to these recurring numbers that recall a darker part of my headspace: a crumbling skyscraper, an ominous cloud of smoke, people scattering the streets in despair, a scene unfolding in lower Manhattan two decades earlier. I’d been on my way to jury duty. That morning, an ordinary civic summons turned mayhem.
Scientists say seeing recurring numbers is selective attention. Spiritualists call it a message from the universe. In any case, each time I see those haunting numbers, my nerves heighten. For a moment, I am transported back. September 11, 2001, left an imprint on my soul.
I snap out of my trance and back to this space of contradictions. Now I sit present and still, in the humble presence of pencil-peaked Himalayan mountains with ancient monasteries and scatterings of modern trash tucked within manicured emerald green terraces. I am not a lost soul looking at an imploding tower of steel in real-time grief. Now, I am surrounded by ten fellow humans gathered around a long communal breakfast table filled with fresh watermelon juice, buckwheat pancakes, spicy masala omelettes, and endless Nepalese coffee.
Amidst this storied mountain range and spiritual haven, without any irony or cynicism, we bond in conversations on the sun, the moon, and every bit of earthly wonder in between. Warm banter and faint yak bells fill the chilly, open air. Crisp and sunny, like that September day.
Soon, the time will come to move down the mountain to lower ground holding space in my heart for our whole world of pain and awe.
