{"id":8197,"date":"2020-01-31T23:24:24","date_gmt":"2020-02-01T06:24:24","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8197"},"modified":"2020-01-31T23:24:24","modified_gmt":"2020-02-01T06:24:24","slug":"beyond-the-bardo","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8197","title":{"rendered":"Beyond the Bardo"},"content":{"rendered":"

Jessica Powers<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The valley of Kathmandu was no stranger to Americans, and it was almost a relief to find myself unremarkable in such a foreign land. Every few weeks a horde of windowless buses would appear with fresh visitors wearing denim, and flower crowns, and a strange sort of Bowie-esque ferocity. Most seemed in no hurry, despite the many hillside temples, to leave the mystic charms and comforts of the city in search of enlightenment.<\/p>\n

Sabir, my Newari host, affectionately called them pilgrims. Amidst their quests for self-actualization or draft evasion the pilgrims spent a lot of time congregating around market stalls and showing off their hallucinogen-induced smiles. Some did venture into the mountains in tribes and returned bathed in holy water and clarity and conviction. I hated those pilgrims. They knew what they had come to find.<\/p>\n

As I was exempt from the draft, I had spent the past seven years living with my parents and working as a doctor for the municipal hospital. Joining the Red Cross was a decision that had been building for the last seven years and my parents were amused to discover I would be stationed in the \u201cMecca of hippiedom\u201d. I think they thought it would help me focus on something other than Cassidy. Maybe they thought I\u2019d take up Tibetan Buddhism like the rest of the pilgrims, start walking around barefoot, and shave my head. Kathmandu was just a word to me then, and all that mattered was that I wouldn\u2019t be at home.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sabir was a devout man who lived in a house with a four-foot doorway. A dyed purple cloth hung over it in lieu of an actual door. I asked him about this the day I arrived in Nepal.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe low doorway keeps ghosts from coming in,\u201d he told me in surprisingly good English. \u201cGhosts can\u2019t lean forward to duck beneath it. They will hit their heads instead and decide to leave me alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about short ghosts?\u201d I asked him, chuckling. As a doctor and an atheist I took a great deal of pride in my skepticism.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf a ghost that short gets in I will fight it,\u201d said Sabir, rising to his impressive stature of perhaps four and half feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cAs much as I\u2019d like to see you fight a ghost, there aren\u2019t too many people under four feet tall,\u201d I said, setting down my knapsack and supply bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, my friend,\u201d he said gently, \u201cbut you are forgetting the children.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Coming to Nepal had done what I suppose I\u2019d intended: it had made me forget, just for a moment. A surge of guilt overwhelmed me and I sunk into the woven cot where I would sleep.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d I buried my face in my hands.<\/p>\n

Sabir seemed very concerned by this. He kept offering me tea and saying, \u201cI have not meant to offend you.\u201d I took the tea because it was hot, and reassured him he\u2019d done nothing wrong.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow tall did you say the door was?\u201d I managed to ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cOne and a quarter meters.\u201d<\/p>\n

I did the math in my head and nodded gravely. And, even though I had laughed at the superstition only moments before, I found myself turning to Sabir, a stranger, with desperation. \u201cOne and a quarter meters. That\u2019s four feet.\u201d The tea cup rattled in my hand. \u201cMy daughter, Cassidy, was four feet and two inches.\u201d<\/p>\n

We both glanced to the purple hanging on the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cCould we . . . ?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCertainly, my friend.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot that I . . . you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course not.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust in case.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI understand.\u201d<\/p>\n

That night, we borrowed a saw from Sabir\u2019s neighbors and cut three inches out of the doorway.<\/p>\n

Sabir pretended not to see me swiping at my eyes. I kept glancing to the doorway, trying to convince myself I was still a man of science and medicine and facts.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf Buddhists believe in reincarnation,\u201d I said later, \u201cHow can you be afraid of ghosts?\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabir looked at me as if I were a child demanding why the sky is blue.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy not both?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The next morning a loud banging resounded from our neighbor\u2019s house. It was the same neighbor from whom Sabir had borrowed the saw, and I watched him glance to it as he put away the dishes. Two boys were fighting on the porch and had knocked over the flimsy banister in their carelessness.<\/p>\n

\u201cRabten and Michewa,\u201d said Sabir, staring intently at the teacup in his hand. \u201cTrouble makers, but they mean well.\u201d A slender woman appeared to scold them. She was not classically beautiful, but there was something about the way Sabir looked at her that made our house seem stuffy and overly perfumed. For the first time since arriving I felt like an intruder.<\/p>\n

\u201cTheir mother, Ditya.\u201d Sabir told me. \u201cHer name means answerer of prayers.\u201d I glanced between Sabir and the woman on the porch. Her sons, perhaps aged ten and twelve, were walking together in the street, presumably to school.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can finish the dishes if you\u2019d like to return her saw,\u201d I said carefully. \u201cI\u2019m sure she could use it now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, yes,\u201d said Sabir. He set down the teacup with a sharp clank<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe could probably use some help fixing the bannister, too.\u201d I stood and plucked the dish towel from his hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d Sabir said, like I\u2019d told him a great secret. We traded places at the sink.<\/p>\n

Pulling on his shoes, Sabir collected the borrowed saw and straightened. He paused. Facing the doorway and not me he said, \u201cIt was an arranged marriage. Ditya and her husband.\u201d<\/p>\n

I plunged my hands back into the basin.<\/p>\n

Sabir said, \u201cHer husband is from the South. He speaks a different dialect than us. They have to talk in English to each other, but Ditya\u2019s isn\u2019t very good.\u201d<\/p>\n

I told him, \u201cI\u2019m sure she\u2019d appreciate your help.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabir hefted the saw once more and strode away. I heard him call to Ditya in Newari. She came back outside and down the steps to greet him.<\/p>\n

I held the teacup Sabir had been washing up to the light. There were spiderwebs in the ceramic. Cracks so small I could barely see them. Absolutely miniscule.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Because of the influx of American tourists, Sabir had quit his old job selling hats and now led tours into the mountains. On weekdays he went to the Bishnu shrine of Budhanilkantha. He left every weekend on an overnight trip to the shrine of Namobuddha. The site was holy because it was the place where a prince once came across a starving lioness and her cubs, and cut off a piece of his own flesh so they might eat it and live. The prince became a Buddha for this act of generosity.<\/p>\n

When Sabir invited me to go with him to the shrines I always declined. Despite the three inches of missing wood in his doorway, I remained firm in my position: I had not come here for anything other than a job. I did not believe in ghosts or gods or pilgrimages. The thought of those holy places filled me with terror. Pilgrims returned from those shrines claiming to have felt the presence of Vishnu, to have seen the future, and to know beyond death. I had long since decided not to ask these questions; the answers would never be enough.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There were vagrant children bathing in one of the dirty city canals and I kept my eyes down as I walked past. The city stank of black pepper and standing water and marijuana. I stepped into the phone booth. The dial turned and clicked.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello, Martha Hughes speaking,\u201d said the red telephone.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey mom, it\u2019s me,\u201d I said into the receiver. I told her about my work, and about Sabir, aware that a few of the vagrant children had taken notice of me and were eyeing the phone booth with interest.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe went through some of her things before we left for the summer cabin,\u201d mom said. \u201cI hope you don\u2019t mind. Your dad and I felt it was time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d I swallowed roughly, \u201cYeah, that\u2019s okay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe kept everything important,\u201d mom said consolingly. I hated this feeling. All of my parents\u2019 pity had gone to Cassidy when she was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis, and with her gone it seemed to have transferred back onto me.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe finger paintings?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cAll here.\u201d A pause. \u201cBut we couldn\u2019t find her stuffed horse anywhere.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s with her,\u201d I swallowed thickly.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight, how silly of me to forget.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve had other things on your mind.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mom had raised Cassidy as much as I had. When I was at the hospital working my parents were at the hospital with her. Cassidy liked my own mom best, and I was too grateful for jealousy. But now, in the aftermath, a sparking guilt seemed to sit with me like a firecracker that hadn\u2019t gone off.<\/p>\n

When my daughter was born I\u2019d thought: here it is. Here is my chance to find the inexplicable spectacle of life I had only read of, and did not deem real. To feel love beyond description, or sorrow beyond compare. What I got was the wet rasp of a child\u2019s lungs and her feeble hands shaking in my own. What I got was everything, and then everything was gone. And I was left, my same old skeptic self, aged and longing for the ember of belief she had given me to come back.<\/p>\n

\u201cI haven\u2019t thrown anything away yet,\u201d said my mom, \u201cJust sorted it into piles. It\u2019s all waiting back at the house until Fall. You can go through them when you visit for Thanksgiving.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI only bring it up because, well, your father and I figured you might want to ask Mary if she wants anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mary did not want anything. Mary had not wanted Cassidy at all. I\u2019ll carry the baby to term, but not after<\/em>, she\u2019d told me. I can live with the shame, but I can\u2019t live with the child. It can be put up for adoption.<\/em><\/p>\n

And I\u2019d said, I\u2019ll take her.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cYou know I haven\u2019t seen Mary in seven years,\u201d I told my mom. A lie. I\u2019d spotted her in the back of the funeral wearing a red scarf and a wedding ring. She looked considerably older, and she was alone. She had not joined the line to add dirt to Cassidy\u2019s grave, but stood fixed and somber, like those statues of the Virgin in Catholic churches. She left without speaking to me, and I pretended not to have seen.<\/p>\n

\u201cI just think it might be helpful to . . . reconnect with some friends from your past,\u201d said my mom. \u201cPlease, Lewis.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah okay,\u201d I said, \u201cI\u2019ll give Mary a call.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mom sighed in relief. \u201cThank you.\u201d She quickly imparted her love on me and ended the call. Steeling myself, I picked up the phone again and dialed \u201cO\u201d for operator. Why should it matter to me if Mary did, in fact, want a keepsake of Cassidy\u2019s? But, just as a voice coughed on the other end, a ball smacked the outside of the phone booth with a mighty clang<\/em>. The ball lay unclaimed outside the phone booth. The vagrant children were all staring. They wanted me to play with them.<\/p>\n

\u201cOperator present,\u201d said the red telephone. \u201cWhere can I connect you to?\u201d<\/p>\n

Under the weight of the children\u2019s stares my body seemed to crumble within itself, as if I were made of sand. This wasn\u2019t a sign. It wasn\u2019t. But I hung up the phone. Walked past the vagrant children with downcast eyes and a hunched posture. Left the ball in the dirt.<\/p>\n

Once home, I shoved my way under the four-foot-three doorway, pacing with pent up energy. A noise sounded at the door, and for a second I thought Sabir had returned from Namobuddha a day early. But it was only the purple cloth over the door, rustling, like a young spirit was passing through.<\/p>\n

The practical thing was to call Mary in the morning and get rid of the toys. Forget this nonsense and go home to Vermont. But my eyes were drawn to the purple cloth, which seemed to whisper: What if?<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ditya had decided to paint the new banister yellow.<\/p>\n

Sabir said, \u201cShe loves that color,\u201d and I knew exactly what he meant. We had taken to sitting in the kitchen after dinner with the windows flung open. Me, watching the doorway. Him, watching her.<\/p>\n

Then I said, \u201cPerhaps I could meet her.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabir tore his eyes from the window to look at me. \u201cHer English is really quite poor.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen you can translate for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The walk to Ditya\u2019s seemed to take a lifetime. I felt every crunch of sand beneath my shoes, the heat pressing down on me like ocean waves.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello,\u201d I said to Ditya, who had noticed us and paused her painting. \u201cMy name is Lewis, I\u2019m staying with Sabir.\u201d Sabir translated while I roughly explained my job with the Red Cross.<\/p>\n

\u201cWonderful, wonderful,\u201d she said. She kept glancing behind, and eventually beckoned us to follow her.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe says her husband is out back tending the cattle,\u201d Sabir translated. \u201cShe\u2019s invited us in for tea.\u201d Inside, there was only one large room, with a few tapestries hung to separate the woven beds. We took our seats around a low dining table. Through the window I could see the gray cattle grazing, their horns forming a curved U.<\/p>\n

We spoke for a short while. Ditya kept going in and out to bring us tea, or show me one of her ceramic paintings. Sabir had to translate almost everything she said.<\/p>\n

When Ditya asked us to stay for dinner Sabir blurted, \u201cWhere are Rabten and Michewa?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy boys have dinner with Batsa,\u201d she said in English, gesturing to the house across the street.<\/p>\n

\u201cWill they be coming home soon?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Ditya said. There was a finality to it that I didn\u2019t understand. Sabir deflated in his seat and did not mention her sons\u2019 names again.<\/p>\n

After that they spoke in Newari. I sipped my tea and let the language wash over me. The longer Sabir looked at Ditya the more beautiful she became to me, until I was forced to look away.<\/p>\n

Some time passed before Ditya made a sharp noise and rose abruptly to clear the plates. She and Sabir spoke more quickly after that, and the language became percussive, like the Madal drums I heard in the marketplace.<\/p>\n

\u201cKr\u0325pay\u0101,\u201d said Sabir.<\/p>\n

Ditya\u2019s eyes were shiny and drawn in by tight creases. She still looked beautiful, but it was the sort of beauty meant for thunderstorms and wrathful goddesses. I remembered what her name meant: answerer of prayers.<\/p>\n

\u201cKr\u0325pay\u0101,\u201d Sabir said again. Please<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cI too tired for talking,\u201d said Ditya, clearly trying to bring me back into the conversation. \u201cNo time left.\u201d She\u2019d raised her voice and a moment later her husband came in from outside. We left soon after.<\/p>\n

When we returned to Sabir\u2019s home, ducking beneath the four-foot-three doorway, his mouth was set in a grim line. \u201cLewis,\u201d he said into the darkness of the room.<\/p>\n

We\u2019d left only a single lamp on and everything glowed pale red.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m listening.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI waited too long,\u201d said Sabir. \u201cThe prophets are liars. It really can be too late.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The next time Sabir mentioned Namobuddha, I told him I was ready to see it.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Upon our arrival, bodies pressed against me and the smell of cannabis clung to my coat. The mountain winds were unforgiving, even in summer. The shrine of Namobuddha sat on the cusp of one mountain, but framed by the face of another.<\/p>\n

The tour group dispersed to explore and, as I looked at the colorful flags hung in celebration, and the masses of pilgrims kneeling to praise him, I found myself hating the Buddha whose altar of sacrifice we had come to.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou look angry,\u201d said Sabir.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think I am angry,\u201d I admitted. It felt dirty to lie to him. \u201cI shouldn\u2019t have come here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabir crossed his arms and fixed his attention on me. His forehead furrowed with irritation. \u201cWhy not go home then? Why drag this out if you don\u2019t want to believe?\u201d As if it were that simple to let go.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis isn\u2019t something I can just choose to walk away from,\u201d I said. When I took Cassidy in I had imagined myself as the Buddha in the legend: some benevolent saint, some hero. Instead I found myself like the lioness he had saved, helpless to protect my own cub as the sickness starved her tiny body.<\/p>\n

Sabir gave a weary sigh. \u201cLewis,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019ve seen how angry you are. I know. But blaming yourself or some Buddha won\u2019t help.\u201d<\/p>\n

Something boiled over inside of me.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight, so I\u2019ll just walk away. Pretend that it never happened. Move on like I\u2019m some teenager going through a break-up. It\u2019s easy for you to say. You never had any children to lose!\u201d<\/p>\n

Spittle flew from my mouth and landed on Sabir\u2019s forehead. He wiped it off without breaking eye contact. A few of the pilgrims were staring at us.<\/p>\n

Very quietly, Sabir spoke. \u201cI never had children to lose?\u201d He gave a hollow laugh. \u201cI would have thought you\u2019d guessed by now that that isn\u2019t true.\u201d Sabir turned to look at the shrine, a deep shame in the crease of his mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d I said eloquently.<\/p>\n

He continued looking at the Buddha.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhich one?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cRabten.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut maybe?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n

I shuffled my feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s something tangible,\u201d I said, \u201cAbout blaming myself. About being angry. Something to hold onto.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was only once,\u201d he said. \u201cDitya and me. He could be mine. It doesn\u2019t matter now.\u201d<\/p>\n

We stared at the shrine for a long moment.<\/p>\n

\u201cFaith is . . . not easy,\u201d he said eventually. \u201cBut I still believe it\u2019s worthwhile.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI guess I thought I would feel something different,\u201d I told him, \u201cSomething more<\/em>. But I haven\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

As a doctor, I had believed that medicine would not fail my Cassidy, and taken the apparent lack of godly intervention as a sign that none existed. But I had never thought to ask.<\/p>\n

A gust of wind howled over the spine of the mountain and I tried to feel whatever Sabir did, but all I felt was cold.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think you and your anger have reached an impasse, Lewis, that you are stuck. In Buddhism we believe in reincarnation,\u201d he said. \u201cYour spirit leaves one life and enters another. But there is a place in between, a gap, called the Bardo.<\/em> I think you are in the Bardo<\/em> now, trapped between one life and the next.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do I get out of the Bardo<\/em>?\u201d I asked him, trying to hide my sniffling.<\/p>\n

Sabir\u2019s hand clasped the crook of my neck and shoulder like a gauntlet.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wish I knew.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

That night, I snuck away from Sabir and our campsite. I don\u2019t know what I expected. The idea of the Bardo<\/em>, and that I was stuck with no way out, had tossed around my head all evening. Maybe I just needed a walk to clear my thoughts. Yes, that was all. I tilted my chin and felt the wind kiss my throat.<\/p>\n

Just then, a pitfall in the grass sent a shock through my body and yanked me to the ground. Achingly, I pulled myself to my knees and realized I had tumbled into a sort of cove. A small pool of velvet black water lay before me. Flecks of silver danced across it from the stars. If there was ever a place I could call holy, this would be it.<\/p>\n

The air was weighty here, like a presence or a held breath. Like something was waiting. Everything was still. I remained on my knees.<\/p>\n

My ears strained for a sound. Anything at all. I jostled at the slightest whisper of wind, jumped at a cricket\u2019s chirp. It had to be here. This had to be what all those pilgrims had found. Because of course I wanted it, too. It was ridiculous that I had pretended to give up on anything outside of sharp reality. Of course I still expected the same thing we all expect: a reason, a sign, a voice of reassurance. Some proof that this is not all there is to have.<\/p>\n

So I knelt by the water\u2019s edge as the stars flickered in the black depths of the pool. I knelt and listened to the pant of my own breath, the rapid beating of my own heart. And when the sun rose over my holy shrine, I dropped my head to my knees and held it between my hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you been out here all night, Lewis?\u201d A tender hand found the crease of my neck and coaxed me out — Sabir. Without my consent, my body began to convulse and I let out a series of guttural sobs. I shoved Sabir away and stood, suddenly furious.<\/p>\n

\u201cI did everything right,\u201d I shouted, \u201cI played the game, I tried it — I believed!\u201d I ripped up a patch of grass and threw it into the black pool, desecrating it. \u201cI waited all night for your precious Buddha or enlightenment or whatever, and nothing! No sign, no voice from the heavens, no answer, no proof!\u201d I yanked up another fistful of grass.<\/p>\n

Sabir regarded me warily. \u201cSo you\u2019re telling me that you came all the way to Nepal, and to Namobuddha for no reason? That you sat here all night on a whim? That you heard nothing?\u201d He approached me with a tender sadness. \u201cYou want to know that there is something more out there, beyond the Bardo<\/em>. Isn\u2019t the fact that you are even sitting here proof enough? Why would you have come here if you didn\u2019t already believe?\u201d<\/p>\n

I released the fistful of grass and it scattered in the wind. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said. My body tingled with cold. Maybe I did believe. Maybe wanting would be enough.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere is no shame in faith, Lewis. Would you rather believe in nothing?\u201d<\/p>\n

Seven years ago I had loved the idea of believing in nothing. I had strutted around like an exoskeleton, weightless of things like anger or love or grief. I was too clever for faith, too liberal for religion, too brilliant for rules. The nothingness seeped into my steps and into my fingers. It spewed from my mouth like bile. There was nothingness in the mechanical way I wrote in lab booklets, in the tasteless meals I ate alone in my dorm, in the passionless slap of skin between Mary and I, as if we were making the love of two unnamed strangers. When people looked into my eyes they saw a gaping black wound for a pupil and false blue irises like technicolor cartoons. I had deluded myself into thinking that my hollow life was filled by absence, until seven years ago — when I finally had something to lose.<\/p>\n

Now, in the wake of my loss, I was clinging to the fragments of absence, an utter fool for wanting to go back.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was empty,\u201d I said, \u201cto believe in nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sabir nodded. \u201cThen there is your answer.\u201d<\/p>\n

We stood several feet apart and, though I wanted to embrace him, I held myself back. It seemed important to let him be alone in that moment — two solitary figures, two fathers, and the great expanse of the mountainside. Then the clouds shifted and a dawning light poured down from above.<\/p>\n

The shadows Sabir and I cast were short and distorted, as though we were being trailed by the silhouettes of two children. A gust of wind crested over us. Maybe it really was just wind. Maybe it was the spirit of my daughter, or the voice of some Buddha. I gave a wet laugh.<\/p>\n

Why not both?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

JESSICA POWERS<\/strong> is a student at Tulane University, where she studies English, French, and Anthropology. She lives in Lincoln, Nebraska. More of her work can be found at jessicapowerswrites.com<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Jessica Powers     The valley of Kathmandu was no stranger to Americans, and it was almost a relief to find myself unremarkable in such a foreign land. Every few weeks a horde of windowless buses would appear with fresh … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":8190,"menu_order":6,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-8197","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P15duy-28d","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8197","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8197"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8197\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8203,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8197\/revisions\/8203"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8190"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8197"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}