As many who know me now don’t know, I spent a great deal of my childhood bumping around the backroads of Asia. I’ve lived on four continents throughout my lifetime, but none holds so many evocative memories of childhood as the wonderfully complex place I once called home. Much of my time was spent in India, running through tea fields in the South, paddling along the inland waterways of Kerala, being welcomed into the homes of friends who felt like family, and twice venturing into a remote preserve in the Western Ghats.

My memories are now blurred, but the occasional smell or sound immediately transports me back to my time as a little girl rapt with wonder at the sights and sounds of a place so wildly different than the Pacific Northwest it was hard to fathom. At an early age, I got real exposure to different people, places and cultures, and it fostered what I now consider my greatest asset: deep compassion and empathy for the human condition.

I often think of the Maya Angelou quote: “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” The words perfectly capture how I feel about Nitya. I can’t remember exact conversations or interactions, but I often remember the deep sense of love, safety, calm and humor he exuded. This larger than life character felt like a welcoming grandfather. While I don’t consider myself deeply connected to his teachings in my adult life, his lessons on how to show up in the world stuck with me and I strive to provide the same calm, loving and inquisitive energy to those around me.

I thought I'd include a story from my journal circa 1999 from when we visited the Gurukula Botanical Sanctuary. Please excuse the typos, I was 11 at the time and left them in for posterity's sake.

Memoirs of Death

Harmony Teitsworth

As I sat, crammed between dozens of people, our car gingerly crept up the hidden path in the jungle. I noticed everyone else was gawking at the magnificent place we were driving through. Yet, I was fidgeting with both legs asleep and my head sore from being bumped into the ceiling a few too many times. Still, I was excited for the days to come. This, I knew, would be an exciting retreat where I could relax, rest and learn about my surroundings.

When we finally arrived and got out of the car, I stretched for minute, calming down from the rough ride. I was quickly pushed along being told there were leeches that jump onto people if you are not continuously moving. I looked down and saw blood streaming down my leg below a dark black blort – a leech! I yelped and shot to the side, trying to brush whatever it was off of me. The German man who owned the botanical garden, Wolfgang, calmly looked at me and then to his leg where a giant leech was munching away at him, too. I stared, dumbfounded, while he told me that he lets them stay there because they are hungry and need to eat, just like humans.

All of my excitement I had had for this place was quickly demolished and I proceeded to sprint upwards towards my sleeping quarters to unpack, thoroughly frightened that I would be eaten by numerous leeches.

“Stop!” I heard Wolfgang cry from behind me. “There are krates out there so you must be very careful NOT to step on them.” “What are crates?” I asked, seeming very naïve to him. He answered this question with an in depth story of how this species of snake, the most dangerous and venomous in all of Asia, is quiet and will catch you unawares. Once his daughter was bitten twice by one and survived, though just barely.

Newborn fear within me, I took off like none other to the main house where I sat for awhile to calm down. About an hour late my parents felt like taking a walk so I decided to join them, thinking that not much else could go wrong. We walked down around beautiful greenhouses surrounded above and to the sides by branches and leaves. Surprisingly there were no birds, but that was probably good. They would most likely be some sort of poisonous birds. I was finally able to relax a little when suddenly it began pouring rain. Soon water was rushing down the path and we were being trapped by a flood. I followed my family and dove into a nearby greenhouse. It truly was amazing to listen to the rain, as it was torrential and nothing like the rain in Portland. However, the whole time I was turning my head, looking for any type of animal that could eat me, which detracted somewhat from the experience. I spotted a three inch long potato bug, at least ten times bigger than the ones in the states, but it was harmless and rolled away when it saw me. I began to realize that everything at Wolfgang’s was bigger and a bigger threat to my life than in many other parts of the world.

We waded back up to the main house through about a foot of water resulting from that rain alone. It was almost dinnertime so we sat down to homemade coffee. The milk was from their cows, the coffee beans from their plants and had been ground that morning with a mortar and pestle.

Seeing that he could easily scare me, Wolfgang began to tell stories of all the bugs and animals in the area. Things I never imagined existed except for in Tolkien books really lived there. To my dismay I found out why there were no birds in those trees earlier. Bird eating spiders, about the size of the dinner plates we were eating off of, inhabited the trees. I had been so close to them on our walk that the thought of it was nauseating and I shook. He told me that they only sometimes come lower down, usually during the night. He also told us of the poison dart frogs that live there, and the many other species, usually with the name venom or poison proceeding their name.

On our way up to where our beds were, I created a sort of dance that I called the “leechy shuffle”. Everyone else joined in and it was KIND of fun, although I realized that even though the leeches might have had a harder time jumping on, several other animals would find it easier. I jumped into the house when we got there and slammed the door, panting a little.

As I was getting ready for bed I found out that the bathroom, a huge pit in the ground, was a mile away [actually about 50 yards]. It’s dangerous to go just anywhere because some animals are attracted to the smell and will come towards it. I figured that they were attracted to almost anything so it wouldn’t make much difference where I went. I went right outside the door and then ran back inside. I was alone for a while when everyone else made the trek to and from the bathroom or was outside brushing their teeth. I knew then that I was finally safe inside; finally warm and cozy. Then I heard a scurrying noise, which made my curiosity urge me into finding out what was making it. I slowly peered around and looked onto the wall. There, about five inches long, was a gigantic spider. I froze with fear and sat motionless. It was not a bird eating spider, but definitely a spider that could eat me. When everyone else got back in it propelled itself like lightening into a crack in the wall. I lay down and went to sleep immediately, surprisingly not having that hard of time considering the day’s events. In fact, I was out like a light.

The next morning at breakfast I heard our friend Peter laughing heartily in the other room. He was by himself so I wondered what was so funny. Had he gone crazy out of fear? Then Wolfgang grabbed a pot and walked towards his room. I almost vomited myself when I found out that that was what he was doing. He had drunk water and was very, very sick. “What? It’s just throw up,” said Wolfgang. Could he get any weirder?

We all took a walk up to a small cleared area with an eighty-foot water tower overlooking miles of jungle in all directions. I wished I could have been more aware of the experience, but I was too busy watching every branch around me, expecting to be attacked at any moment. Every vine looked like a snake, every twig a krate, and every leaf a spider. We walked back past ponds with waterfalls and turtles, banana trees with fruit ready to be picked, amazing botanical plants, some of which are extinct except for on Wolfgang’s reserve. It’s not a rarity here for a herd of elephants to come tromping by, but we weren’t in the right place at the right time to see that.

As we piled back in to the car for the long, pothole filled ride back to the parts of India where only malaria-infected mosquitoes abound, I personally felt no sadness or regret that I didn’t enjoy and appreciate the reserve. Instead, and maybe this was my survival instinct, I felt relief and happiness the rest of the day.

Now, If I were given the chance to return, I would, but only in a safety bubble. No more leech attacks (I totaled nineteen), snake and spider scares, or barfing friends next time. I’m thinking I’ll wait until I’m a bird when I can soar over everything and not have to worry about being eaten all the time. Actually wait, there are no birds there because they are all eaten by the spiders. Scratch that.