I’m in Kathmandu. Five years have passed since I’ve set foot in this Valley, which has been my spiritual home and point of inspiration since 1979. It’s a beautiful time to be here. The bloodthirsty Dasain festival is over, and the Moon is nearly full. In two weeks – just after I leave – Diwali, goddess Laxmi’s Festival of Lights, will begin.

Like so many other places in the developing world, the Kathmandu Valley changed profoundly, almost  unrecognizably, between the mid-1980’s and late 1990’s.  Most of the changes were for the worse. But the process of  degradation seems to have reached a plateau; aside from the political chaos, and the portrait of the unsmiling King Gyanendra on the newly minted rupee notes, the Himalayan capital is not very different from my last visit. Beyond the brick wall of Chrissie’s little garden, a street vendor totes a cloud of toy balloons; they pass like a giant white-and-pink rhododendron bloom. The air is filled with dust and butterflies, scooters bounce down pitted dirt lanes, the eyes of Buddha gleam from the gilt temple harnika of Swayambhu, and the ground-level shops in Asantole and Indrachowk overflow with bangles and incense, prayer flags and goat heads, spices and rope, silver cups, sarees, yak wool sweaters. I’m overflowing, too. It’s good to be home.

 Arrived in Nepal in mid-October, after taking my mother to India. She recently turned 75, and had never been to Asia before. I wanted to show her a few places while she’s still fit and sharp. We toured Delhi, and the forts and palaces of Rajasthan; we wandered among the startlingly modern astronomical sculptures in Jai Singh’s 18th century Observatory. And I brought her to the Taj Mahal — a place that, even after several visits, fills me with overwhelming admiration and awe. And so did my mother.

My premonitions for the trip had been dicey, to say the least: She’d get violently ill, she’d freak out, she would hate  the  food, she would tire quickly, the heat would be too much, the dust, the crowds, India. Wrong. We rode rickshaws into Delhi’s mobbed Old City, and an elephant up to Amber Fort. She developed a taste for papdam, masala dosa, and fresh lemon sodas. Her health was perfect, and she kept up with a punishing schedule that included hours – too many — in a bulbous Ambassador cab.

It was the most time I’d spent with my Mom since I was a teen, and her  open-mindedness was a revelation. The only aspects of India that panicked her were the aggressive vendors, who swarm around tourist sites like the Taj Mahal and Agra Fort. And though she hated taking her shoes off in the crowded, frenetic temples, my mother – an observant, kosher-keeping Jewess who arranged her own Bat Mitzvah at 68 – was a spiritual sponge. She bent her head for a sadhu’s blessing in the mobbed Kalkaji Temple, tied a wishing string to the marble lattice of Chasti’s Tomb, and – pinch me — took home a small, modernist carving of the elephant-headed god, Ganesh.

Back in Oakland, I sometimes dream about being in Kathmandu. The dreams all share a sense of urgency – so much  to do, so many friends to see, so little time.  I suspected when I planned this trip that 18 days was going to be a little too long — or way too short. What was I thinking?  Returning to Nepal is like falling back into a familiar embrace. Life here may be tough, but it’s life on a human scale. From this perspective, there an amazing awareness of the many levels that surround us – from the sacred snake-gods in the  subterranean pools to the toxin-choked Bagmati River; from the ravens screeching from the tree-tops to the eyes of Buddha atop the Boudha dome. On every level, every level. That’s why I love Nepal. That’s why, even after five years, I call it home.