I returned from China two weeks ago, after a three-week trip to three cities, two of which I spent over a week visiting.  I have little recollection of the first couple of days home, swathed in a jet-lagged fog as I must have been.  I had, as a friend’s daughter describes it, “jet legs.”

    The next few days involved what has become my standard decompression after these trips.  I’m still not sure how I work my way out of it – whether I recover, or whether I simply desensitize further each time.  Let me explain. 

     I’ve made five of these trips to China now, during which I’ve worked with an incredible foundation (halfthesky.org) in orphanages in eleven different cities.  The cities vary with the extent of western influence they’ve suffered – some are still blessedly devoid of McDonald’s and KFC and Wal-Mart; their bloated corporate shadows have already darkened others.   Those without such western “flavor” are endlessly more intriguing to explore.     

    What all the locations have in common, though, is the visual evidence, everywhere, of both a poverty we in the West can’t imagine, and a work ethic we’ve all but lost.  I watch farmers trudge into town carrying baskets of brilliant green produce fresh from their small patches of ground – a trek they repeat daily.  Some have land tucked into the nearby hills, some scratch out just enough space in the local hutong or next to a dusty construction site to get by.  

     They set up shop at …