I’ve never been an antique collector, although I admire old things and occasionally have the urge to surround myself with them. Nepal is full of cool old stuff, especially in the remote areas in which we work. Many of my friends collect old Buddhist artwork or furniture from across the Himalayas and, thus far, I’ve always been more of a voyeur than a serious collector.

Somehow, for me antiquities from the Himalayas stimulate whatever gland or organ it is that produces feelings of guilt and uncertainty. I find myself constantly pulled and pushed, like some rickshaw rattling through the cratered streets of Kathmandu, between the desire to own something old, cool, and relatively inexpensive and the crippling fear of taking something out of context. Of removing precious articles from the soil in which they were born and ultimately belong.

Typically my thinking follows this rough script:

That 16th century painting is really dramatic and I know it would look great in my breezeway.

But then again, shouldn’t it be in a monastery?

But I’ll really appreciate it and anyway some other jerk might buy it and put it, gasp, in his bathroom.

But I’m not totally completely Buddhist anyway and I might be tempted to sell it at a profit someday.

But I could donate the gains to a monastery or a monk…

And so forth. Thus far my non-profit salary and general miser-ness has kept this debate set firmly in the hollow alleyways of my mind. But during my last trip to the field, I had to look my attachments in the eye.

For some reason I can’t explain, I’ve always been drawn to the simple wood-and-silver bowls that Tibetans and Sherpas traditionally carry. These are called chenni and vary in age and price from a few dollars for a new plastic one to many thousands for a truly rare specimen. I’ve always admired chenni in shops and in people’s homes, but have never allowed myself to acquire one.

During my most recent trip to the field, I found myself, to no great surprise, drinking endless cups of tea in the home of a Sherpa family in the forgotten and tiny village of Bahane. Through my work with dZi, we have built a school in this village, provided a number of children with scholarships, funded a pilot program where students are taught in the local Sherpa language, and are now starting on building a new clean drinking water system. The community has always been incredibly gracious and hard-working, and I have enjoyed every minute I have spent in Bahane among such honest and motivated people.

I was invited in for tea by a local monk and his mother, who is a perfect figure of the old Sherpa aama – she is probably in her late seventies or eighties, and stooped over with age. She has only one working eye and radiates a quiet grace and wisdom distilled from decades spent exclusively among high pastures, soil, and fresh air. I have spent a number of nights on the floor of her house in the past, and had always admired a particularly old and elegant chenni that sat sentry on a blackened shelf with other dishes and brassware.

On this past trip I was well into my third or forth cup of tea when she spontaneously took the chenni down and presented it to me as a gift. I was stunned that she had remembered my interest in the bowl and also a bit taken aback at the depth of her generosity. She told me how the bowl had been in her family for at least 3 generations and that she wanted me to have it as a token of appreciation for all the support we have given her village. Suddenly I found myself almost unable to think – caught between my desire to accept her gift (fueled, of course, by my infatuation with the bowl) and my fear of taking such a valuable family asset away. I couldn’t refuse the gift without causing great offense, but I could hardly bring myself to accept it.

In the end, I took a deep breath and thanked her deeply for the bowl. I made a promise to present it back to the family when two-year old granddaughter eventually gets married. I also gave her what I thought a fair price for the bowl was, (although she flatly refused the money, and accepted only after great argument and, ultimately, deception) and tucked the bowl, as is traditionally done, into the breast pocket of my jacket.

A few hours down the trail, we bumped into another Sherpa friend working in her fields. She called us over and her daughter came bounding from their small home with a bottle of rakshi, or local moonshine, for us to share. Without thinking, I pulled out my newly acquired chenni and our hostess exclaimed – Oh, that’s my aunt’s! – and filled the bowl to the brim.