I’ve met Charlie King, and I would never have realized he had this problem, but I guess he’s grown adept at covering it over the years. I’ve seen Albie crash headfirst into trouble because he’s not been able to read other people, which means he’s put his foot in it, so I’m guessing his father is the same.
“School was difficult for me,” she continues, somewhat reluctantly. “It was difficult for Albie too, but he’s a guy, and he was able to cover his awkwardness with his sense of humor and typical guy antics. I wasn’t able to do that. I didn’t make friends easily, and I didn’t have a boyfriend all through school—I was far too shy. I was top of most of my classes, but my intelligence isolated me. I wasn’t a sporty person, so I didn’t fit in with that type either. I hated school, and I had no idea what to do with myself in the big wide world. I didn’t want to go to university and waste time and money because I had no focus. I was sort of… lost.”
“So you went traveling?”
She nods and sips her drink. “It was Dad’s idea. Both he and Mom were convinced I’d find my calling in time, and that it was best not to rush into anything. Dad suggested I travel for a while. Mom wasn’t that happy at first; she thought it would be dangerous for a twenty-year-old girl who wasn’t very worldly-wise to travel on her own. But I was excited by the idea, and eventually she agreed.”
“Where did you go?”
“I flew to London, traveled around England a bit, then went on to Europe, through France, Germany, Italy. I enjoyed it, looking around art galleries and museums, learning some of the languages, but I was conscious it wasn’t solving anything. And then I went to India, and I ended up in Nepal.”
That surprises me. “You liked it there?”
“I loved it. I went to Kathmandu, and to Boudhanath and Swayambhunath, which are the two most important religious places for Tibetans living outside Tibet. And I was walking through the busy streets of Swayambhunath when I heard sounds of drums and tubes. I rounded the corner and found that they were coming from a beautiful monastery, painted in bright colors, where monks were having a puja, or a prayer. I spoke to a Tibetan guard at the gate, and he said I could enter the temple and join the puja. I sat there for over two hours, watching two hundred monks praying and playing on these instruments. I ended up staying there for two weeks.”
Her eyes are alight and filled with dreamy memories. I’m spellbound by her expression and her words. It obviously had a profound impact on her.
“So these were Tibetan monks?” I ask.
“Yes, they’d come from Tibet after the Chinese invasion in 1959. It took them a month to cross the Himalayas. Parents from Tibet often sent their children to Nepal to keep them safe, and to get them education and food. There are Tibetan monasteries all over Nepal that are supported by Buddhists from countries like America, Australia, and countries in Europe.”
“So what did you do during your stay?”
“By sheer luck, I’d arrived two days before a ten-day-long celebration. They celebrated ‘bardo’, which is a Tibetan word for ‘in between’, which is the state in which souls stay when the body dies and before they are reborn. The lamas—the older Tibetan monks—had special meditations, and I was invited to watch. There were dances and singing, and they wore costumes and masks.”
“It sounds amazing.”
“It was. I loved it. But the best part of it was that over fifty of the monks were small children.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and maybe because most of them couldn’t speak English, I didn’t have trouble communicating like I usually do. They kept asking me to sing and dance with them, and I sat with them and taught them some English words.”
“That’s how you got into teaching,” I say softly, and she nods.
“I’ve found with children that I don’t experience the problems I do with adults. There doesn’t tend to be any nuance with kids—they usually say what they mean, and they don’t expect you to read between the lines.”
“So when you got back from Nepal, you took a teaching degree?”