Photographer | Writer | Visual Journalist

Emory documents the vibrant cultures and traditions of a diverse set of communities that span from the Himalayas to the Middle East and beyond. She offers us an artistic gateway to understanding the critical global issues that touch us all.


Featured Story

Freedom, On a Bus in Kathmandu

 i remember what it felt like. what it tasted like. it's weightlessness. it's color. it's texture. i remember how relieved i was to feel it, and how, at the same time, sad i was to have ever lost it. i remember the remembering.   freedom.  like a lost piece of the sculpture of me, freedom came back to make me whole again. i wet my fingers and molded it edges back into me. i promised i would never forget it, and that i would never lose it again.   freedom.   how long had i missed her.   it was late afternoon and a smoggy haze filled the street i stood on. there was mud on my shoes and a scarf wrapped around my face to ward off the city's dust. the sun beat down on my squinted eyes. there were cows, and monks, and beggars and families. tangled telephone wires hung above my head. my rupees had run out at the internet cafe and i had nothing else planned to do on that tuesday, in that foreign city. the world i knew was fast asleep, and the world i was in was like an unread book, begging for it's pages to be turned. i had been told of a tibetan monastery with healing doctors and high quality herbal medicine from the himalayas. i had a folded, hand-drawn map of the holy site in my pocket, which gave me some comfort despite my inability to make out the internet cafe owner's handwriting. it was a holy place, and somehow, i trusted the city to help me find it ...

i remember what it felt like. what it tasted like. it's weightlessness. it's color. it's texture. i remember how relieved i was to feel it, and how, at the same time, sad i was to have ever lost it. i remember the remembering. 

freedom.

like a lost piece of the sculpture of me, freedom came back to make me whole again. i wet my fingers and molded it edges back into me. i promised i would never forget it, and that i would never lose it again. 

freedom. 

how long had i missed her. 

it was late afternoon and a smoggy haze filled the street i stood on. there was mud on my shoes and a scarf wrapped around my face to ward off the city's dust. the sun beat down on my squinted eyes. there were cows, and monks, and beggars and families. tangled telephone wires hung above my head. my rupees had run out at the internet cafe and i had nothing else planned to do on that tuesday, in that foreign city. the world i knew was fast asleep, and the world i was in was like an unread book, begging for it's pages to be turned. i had been told of a tibetan monastery with healing doctors and high quality herbal medicine from the himalayas. i had a folded, hand-drawn map of the holy site in my pocket, which gave me some comfort despite my inability to make out the internet cafe owner's handwriting. it was a holy place, and somehow, i trusted the city to help me find it ...


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“The world can only appear monochromatic to those who persist in interpreting what they experience through the lens of a single cultural paradigm, their own. For those with the eyes to see and the heart to feel, it remains a rich and complex topography of the spirit.”
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