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I was in Detroit when I heard you had died. Of course, I thought of Nepal. As places, Detroit and Nepal couldn’t be more different, but they will always be inseparable to me. Your tireless work to set up a school in a Nepalese village was a focus for the university department where we worked. From the drudgery of my administrative role, I drifted, slowly, quietly towards the school’s management committee. With your support, I applied and was chosen as a representative to visit Nepal. I lacked confidence but you were my champion. I think of my time in Nepal as the pause at the top of a breath, before the exhalation; before life changed in unimaginable ways. My memories play like short films in my mind, moments of clarity and colour that altered me forever. After flying over the icy peaks of the Himalayas, my colleague, Hilary, and I move through Kathmandu airport as if in a dream. Friendly smiles await; red silk scarves are placed around our necks. We are bundled into a taxi and drive through crowded streets, the sunset casting pink shadows on dusty buildings. We stay at a monastery and I grow to love its simple routines. I usually scoff at structure, but it somehow doesn’t bother me here. We watch the sun rise from the roof, bathing the city in golden light. Prayer flags flutter in the soft morning air, which is silent but for the occasional dog bark. The mountains, Kathmandu’s strong, watchful guardians, rise up through misty shrouds in the distance. We eat breakfast in silence at a long wooden table in the cool, darkness of the monastery. No all-you-can eat buffet here; just a spinach omelette and a black tea, but it is one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten. The monastery is close to the Boudhanath stupa. We watch two men throw yellow saffron juice in the shape of lotus petals around its majestic dome. There are people everywhere, but the atmosphere is calm. A flock of pigeons take flight, before lazily landing again on a yellow roof. Men and women, tourists and locals, circle the stupa, turning golden prayer wheels and whispering invocations. Around the edge of the stupa, a group of elderly women are doing yoga: sun salutations and child’s poses. I feel the devotion in the air and it touches my heart. We visit the holy Pashupatinath temple for evening prayers. A dead man is stretchered past me, to one of many funeral pyres by the river. I’m, at once, sickened and awed, suddenly aware that the smell of cooked meat mixing with the intoxicating scent of incense is a body on fire. The air fizzes, heavy with energy, as people begin to gather in droves for the prayers. We cluster on stone steps, the white towers of the temple looming above and the dark river below. Three priests dressed in robes dance and chant as they offer incense and flowers. The crowd joins the chant, swaying, and clapping a simple refrain. Without realising, I find myself clapping too, lost in the moment. I test my endurance in the steep foothills of the Himalayas, on pathways through fertile green valleys. Processions of donkeys pass wearing embroidered headdresses, the soft, melodious bells around their necks announcing their presence. Prayer flags line the route, a colourful compass guiding me onwards. My legs ache but they propel me forward. A voice in my head tells me that my life needs to change. Yet home seems so far away. Here, everything is clear, crystalline, Technicolour. I don’t want to leave. Back home, two weeks after leaving Kathmandu, my husband receives a call with a job opportunity. In Detroit. With Nepal’s magic lingering, we say yes. Years later, consumed with grief after hearing that you’d died, my mind was transported from a bitter Midwestern winter, back to Nepal. Here I was hiking towards the mountains, circling the stupa, coming to terms with life and death. In a moment of darkness there was also light. Filled with gratitude, I understood the gift you had given me. From Nepal, I had made it to exactly where I needed to be: I was here.