Mt. Kailash: The Journey That Changed How I Paint

Half of our group weren't able to finish the trek to Mt. Kailash. My roommate developed severe  altitude sickness and nearly died. From 4:30 AM until 10 PM, I stayed with her as we pushed  toward shelter, watching her fade as we crossed heartbreakingly beautiful land. She forgot how  to button her coat, how to drink water.

A shepherd invited us for tea. We could only wave from a distance, but somehow it felt like we  were being looked after. We climbed down shale cliffs that crumbled beneath our feet. Yaks  threw themselves against each other nearby. Wld dogs followed us through icy streams. Then  came the snow squall. My roommate wanted to lie down in the snow and rest.

Step by step, I persuaded her to keep moving. Step by step, I asked the earth to help us.

In my studio, I work in deep meditation to connect with the earth. But there in Tibet, at 19,000  feet on this sacred mountain, something shifted. The connection became far deeper, more  immediate. I could feel the earth's support with every step—not as a dramatic rescue, but as a  steady, quiet presence. Her aliveness was no longer something I reached for through meditation.  It was simply there, walking with us.

The journey was transformative in ways I hadn't imagined. I walked through what felt like the  valley of death as my roommate became incoherent. But we emerged on the other side.

When I returned to my Boston studio, I painted Kailash from memory and photographs. But  everything had changed. I'd experienced the earth not just as my subject or creative partner, but  as living presence, real, beautiful, and watching over us the whole way. My art practice  transformed from that trek. The paintings I create now carry that deeper knowing