Pam: I think I have evaporated.
Mark: Into thin air.
Mark: Into thin air.
The air here is thin and you suck it in in long deep breaths fearing that you might be getting the last of it. So my new teammates found out quicker than they imagined they would.
And somehow, perhaps the idea of becoming a vapor is the most accurate way to describe arrival in Lhasa. All the bowel clenching fears of ruin and brokenness and isolation dissolve into mist leaving only a dull, elusive ache.
It only takes one conversation with Mr. Wu, one visit to the office showered with sweet milk tea and Tibetan conversation, one newly met English teacher, one bag of miscellaneous fruit, one offer of help, one text from a student demanding tea at the earliest opportunity, one glass of tea from a neighbor who is more like an uncle I never had, one meat dumpling with fat squirting onto the receptive table beneath, one teary hug from a sister, one free bag of oranges from the grocery family who remain mystified that I still can't speak Chinese, one giggly grin hug from a beggar child who wipes her runny nose by rubbing her entire face with the tissue, one hour of rest, one honest conversation, one day back filled with far more than one of all of those things to understand that hopelessness, despair, and fear vanish... evaporate before joy.
May this be a year of evaporation.
