“Cinch me up, Scotty!” The Victorian corset is alive and well in Bali.

14 Jan 2013 15 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Vanity, thy name is woman. The quote is attributed to Shakespeare, but he actually said, “Frailty, thy name is woman.” I take exception to that! But vanity, in my case, is sadly appropriate. I stooped low. But given the circumstances I trust you will be gentle with your judgements.

Living among the warmth and generosity of the Balinese people, I frequently have invitations to important ceremonies. In ignorance I first attended in my regular Western clothing and quickly felt like the poor orphan in the midst of splendor. The statuesque grace of the female Balinese form takes on goddess-like qualities when outfitted in full ceremonial regalia. I quietly observed from the sidelines and resolved to clean up my act.

I bought a sarong at the market. Rushing home I spent the next few hours struggling to assemble myself and look like those ethereal creatures I was trying to emulate. What in the name of the goddess did they do with all those yards of fabric? The next ceremony was imminent so I put on a t-shirt with a little sleeve, wrapped myself several times around with the sarong fabric, tied it, tucked it, and hoped it would remain secure. I was lumpy but less conspicuous than before.

This time I noticed that all the women wore a blouse of a similar style, and many of them were made of colorful lace. The next day I returned to the market and left with a stunning golden lace kebaya and a matching satin sash.  

Back at home I tried on my ensemble. When I donned the lacey kebaya dismaying amounts of naked flesh were visible between my bra and my sash. The Balinese women had no flesh showing. What was I missing? For the next ceremony I added a tank-top under the lace for modesty and set out determined to get this figured out once and for all! Discreetly I peered more closely at what was going on under the beautiful, Balinese kebayas. What gave them that sculpted elegance I had failed to achieve? Where were their lumps? I was horrified to discover that these amazing women who, less than 50 years ago roamed bare-breasted and free, had succumbed to being sausaged into that chamber of torture, the Victorian CORSET! Just then I felt my sarong begin to unwind and slide down my hips.

The following day I stepped into the shop of a tailor whose exquisite kebayas hung on display in the window. I asked her if she sold corsets. She was not familiar with the term but employing a few gestures we came to an understanding. “Mona Lisa,” she stated, as if that ended the conversation. “Mona Lisa?” I echoed. “This,” and I gestured again wrapping my hands around my ribs and squeezing, ” is Mona Lisa?” She assured me it was and that she did not sell the exotic undergarment.

So my search began. With each failed attempt to locate what I wanted I grew more determined to own one. Finally, in a remote shop in Ubud, I found a woman who sold corsets. I knew I was going to be spending far more than the kebaya, sarong and sash put together, but this was THE piece de resistance! The corset vendor explained that there were three qualities: economy quality, better quality, and THE Mona Lisa. I tried the economy model first. The itchy lace ripped as she was securing it around me. We moved up to better quality. The zipper broke half way up my ribcage. Then with reverence she removed Mona Lisa from its tissue wrapper. I felt the smooth silkiness of it caressing my body. She hooked it and zipped it. The stays lifted me out of my dumpiness. I was pushed upward, outward and transformed. At that point I would have paid anything. I felt gorgeous. But I regained presence of mind enough to make a slight negotiation of the price and left with my prize.

Yesterday I wore my very own Mona Lisa for the first time. Even though vanity would normally deter me from posting the ‘before’ version, I feel it is essential to illustrate the absolute necessity of THE undergarment.

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BEFORE…t-shirt with sarong…lumps and bumps.

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AFTER…Mona Lisa…need I say more!

I want, I want, I want!

11 Jan 2013 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

It is like living in an art gallery, this home where I stay in Ubud. The Balinese are born with the creativity gene. Whether it expresses itself in painting, carving, music, dance, or hundreds of other endeavors, there isn’t one of them that escapes it. It is their birthright. They are nonchalant about it. Of course I paint. Of course I carve. Of course I build complex towers of fruits, and sweets, and whole chickens for temple offerings…of course.

I love the art that graces my balcony.

There is a humble clay pot on a pedestal in one corner. 

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And a handsome sculpture of Buddha’s head on a pedestal in the opposite corner.

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Seven women in white robes, one holding a golden light, occupy a huge canvas to the left,P1020306

and two women in dark robes holding flowers wisper to each other on the right. P1020308

I want these two paintings. They have enchanted me. I want to own them. What’s that about?! I just got rid of everything and the last thing I need to be thinking about is re-accumulating stuff! And these are huge, probably 7 feet wide by 5 feet high. Then of course I’d need a house to hang them in…!

And so it goes, the urge to own, to possess beauty, whatever that means. But for now I am concentrating on the inner, rather than the outer trappings. I can appreciate these paintings on my balcony while meditating, or doing kabalabahti, skull shining breaths! I can own the visual joy and the subtler energy of them without allowing them to become baggage to be transported, stored, and eventually begrudged as a burden.

I have much yet to learn about possessions and it is far too soon to experiment. Each thing one owns carries with it a weight and a responsibility. I make no judgement about that, I simply state it as fact. But the truth of it is something to ponder, something not to forget.

Happy Birthday to Me!

05 Jan 2013 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Poetry, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

I don’t often post poems, but today is my birthday (it’s already January 6th in Bali) and I will do as I please!

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Kadek let me photograph her as she sprinkled holy water on the small house altar this morning. She moves gracefully, gliding like a beautiful swan. She is the inspiration for my poem.

BEAUTIFUL SWAN

In my whiteness
I watch gold-skinned women
in the temple garden.
 
One climbs
the stairs
to apologize…
 
“I make offerings
so sorry
did not see you.”
 
It is her task
to prepare
my breakfast.
 
Today she wears
a teal kebaya
with hot pink sash.
 
Tiny pearls of perspiration
glisten
on her upper lip.
 
I admire the sarong
woven in traditional
ikat style.
 
“It is made by machine
not good quality,”
she wants me to know.
 
“It’s beautiful!” I say,
and it is
because she is wearing it.
 
The color combinations
would not please
the Western aesthetic.
 
But this is Bali,
contrived fashion rules
do not apply.
 
She carries woven trays
mounded with offerings
trailing clouds of incense…
 
stopping at each altar
to sprinkle holy water
and pray.
 
Who are you,
beautiful swan?
What is your story?
 
Your knowledge is ancient
I am awed and humbled
by your mysteries.
 
Teach me, my sister,
help me understand
your incomprehensible life.
 
 

Sacred Cock Fights

05 Jan 2013 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body. James Joyce captured my current state in that brilliant sentence.

I’m back in Bali, but parts of me are still arriving and parts of me never left! It is an odd sensation, very odd, and one that I enjoy exploring in my discovery writing. I’ve been half way around the world twice in 45 days with a quick back-and-forth hop between Minnesota and New York sandwiched in-between. My mind goes and my body tags along, sometimes kicking and screaming. Then my body arrives but my mind may have taken a side trip and doesn’t catch up until later.

But the parts of me actually here are residing in this charming, second floor room with many windows and great, western light.

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The balcony wraps the corner and extends to an area where I can sit and write, daydream, or observe the daily life of an upper class Balinese family.

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This part of the balcony overlooks the family temple, but also the public temple across the street. I arrived in the middle of a very important three-day ceremony. There has been constant activity, not the least of which are the cock fights. Yes, cock fights. I requested an explanation from my host, Joni K, about the sacredness of fighting cocks…”Why in the temple?” I was curious. In that slightly apologetic way that is so engaging, he explained that at first, long time ago, just two ‘chickens’ fought so that the blood could be used for offerings. “But,” and the dimples appear, “people enjoy. Now many chickens fight and much money is made and lost.” He told me how much cash is bet on a single fight. “Who keeps the money?” I asked, thinking it might all be donated to the temple. “One who has winning chicken,” he replies. I thought for a moment then said, “Joni, where can we get one of these chickens?” His uproarious laughter warmed my heart. I haven’t lost my touch. I can still make the Balinese laugh.

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Since first coming to Bali I have been enamored with the temple drumming. The drum sounds at about 6 a.m. It signals morning and I love the haunting beauty of it coming through the darkness over the rice fields. Now I live across the street from the drum. It sits in a tower of the temple that is eye-level with my balcony. Today the holy man was striking it every 10 seconds as people in ceremonial dress brought their offerings. I caught a photo of him from the balcony. How can you not love drumming…even up close…especially up close! Something primal in me resonates!

Made Parna Painting

Ubud is the cultural and artistic capital of Bali. In this family, both Joni and his uncle are well-known painters. Made Parna paints in the traditional Balinese style and sells his very expensive works in Jakarta. He took me into his studio to see the works in progress. What kind of patience does one have to possess to create in such intricate detail?

This painting by Made depicts Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of knowledge, music, arts, and science. According to Wikipedia, It was with her knowledge, that Brahma created the universe. She is a part of trinity “Saraswati”, “Lakshmi” and “Parvati”Painting Traditional. All the three forms help trinity “Brahma”, “Vishnu” and “Shiva” in the creation, maintenance and destruction of the Universe.

The Hindu religion is complex. Each village interprets and practices it as they see fit. So the moment I think I’ve got a piece worked out I go somewhere else and it is entirely different.

I’ve quit trying to understand. I find it’s better to simply go with the flow whenever I’m invited. And the Balinese are quick to extend that invitation! The very same day I arrived Joni and his wife wanted me to accompany them to the evening temple celebrations. I never say no, but that night I politely declined. I wasn’t sure what remnants of self I could gather up, and even if there were a few shreds on hand, they looked ghastly.

Joni photoJoni’s style is 180 degrees in the opposite direction!

Joni painting contemporary

He sees color and transparency, shape and contrast, and applies it to canvas. His paintings have a satisfying balance which typifies what the Balinese strive for. They believe their rituals serve to maintain a balance between good and evil.

Another uncle is a stone carver. His talent has adorned every building in this family’s amazing complex. The entrance to Joni’s father’s home is a stellar example of the family stonecarver’s genius.

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However, in Bali it is hard to compete with Nature. I have a western view. When my room filled with golden light about 6:30 p.m. last night I hurried outside. This resplendent sunset brought tears to my eyes.

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So here I am, plopped down in the midst of these wildly creative folks in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I can feel inspiration seeping back into my shriveled pores. As each wayward part of me arrives, and I become an integrated being once again, the juices will flow. They can’t help it. Ubud is creativity central.  It’s no accident that I’m here…or almost here!

Lake Imagination…30 miles from nowhere

26 Dec 2012 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Holidays Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

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Frozen Lake Imagination

You’re right. It’s not a lake. It’s a hay field covered with snow. And if it appears to be barren, bleak, and cold, in the winter it is. But someone once-upon-a-time had the romantic notion that it looked like a frozen body of water and Lake Imagination was born. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west here, as it does everywhere on earth. It’s just that it does it more quickly in the winter, leaving only about 8 hours of chilly daylight.

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The climate isn’t conducive to comfort and ease. People here have to pay attention just to survive. If you step outside without the necessary insulation surrounding your body it won’t take long before your extremities freeze solid. I’ll be kind and refrain from saying anything about the questionable intelligence of life-forms who choose to live in this isolated place. After all, it was my home for many years and I have a healthy respect for anyone who thrives under these circumstances.

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View of Lake Imagination through the Christmas Tree

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Indoor hanging gardens at ‘the lake’

But there is a warmth of heart that radiates love when family and friends gather in this place, 30 miles from nowhere, to celebrate rituals and pay homage to the passing of time. My sister lives here and swears allegiance to her Scandinavian roots buried deep in the permafrost. And her husband, though he grew up in southern climes, swears too, although not always allegiance!

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Gwen, the consummate hostess, shakes a stick of Gula Kelapa, coconut palm sugar, threateningly as she prepares Norwegian/Balinese fusion.

Gwen, my sister, had offered to let me make a Balinese meal for the yearly Christmas Open House that happens at their place. I knew better! Balinese cuisine isn’t fast food. I could see myself spending an entire day shopping for unavailable ingredients, and another day up to my eyeballs in food prep. That is NOT my idea of “all is calm…all is bright!” So she settled for Norwegian lefse stuffed with Balinese palm sugar and Bali Kopi along with other, more traditional fare.

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Gwen’s home made, hand decorated, amazing holiday cookies.

You see, Gwen thinks nothing of spending weeks making these unbelievable confections. She and her hubby, ‘W’ (not to be confused with the former pres of the U.S., George W) are kitchen wizards.  They imagine that everyone can pull off a gourmet meal at the drop of a hat. I’ve been telling them for years I can’t cook. But Gwen refuses to believe that the same gene pool that spawned her could possibly yield up anything less than a domestic Wonderwoman. I do other things well, I tell myself, and try to remember what those things are.

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Mr. Kitchen Wizard

Actually, I know one thing I do better than some. I play a pretty mean game of Scrabble. Just the night before, after losing all three games of Cribbage to Gwen, I beat her at three games of Scrabble. Then, high on the adrenaline rush of victory, I ate the rest of a jar of caramel corn that W had made. The following morning he got up, noted the empty jar, and promptly popped more corn, made the syrup, and presto! The jar that is sitting on the bar right in front of him was full again.

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Playing ‘Texas Mean’ with the family…mom looks angelic all in white!

One of the highlights of any family get-together is playing ‘Texas Mean.’ Mom and Dad brought the game home with them after visiting our snowbird relatives in southern Texas. In his woodworking shop, Dad copied the wooden board. Over the years he made dozens of Texas Mean Games, passing them out to family and friends. Now, at 90 years old, he still wins almost every time.  He’s sitting on my left. On this day we were playing partners and, true to form, Dad and his partner were undefeated.

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Jessa and her Grandpa.

After the games, Dad relaxed with Jessa, enjoying the sunshine reflecting off Lake Imagination. Several neighbors stopped by to visit. Anyone who lives within a 30 mile radius is neighbor potential since that totals a whopping 12 people. The conversation was a far cry from what I remember from my youth. Back then…waaaay back then…the men sat in the living room and talked farming while the women clustered in the kitchen swapping recipes and neighborhood gossip.

On this day, however, neighbor Kent Lorentzen, was telling about e-publishing his Favorite Farmers Market Recipes cookbook on Amazon. Another couple said they would stop to visit me in Bali on their trip around the world next year. Mom and Dad sat listening, smiling, nodding as though nothing had changed at all, even though as young newlyweds television hadn’t been invented, let alone the world wide web.

I suddenly felt disoriented. Walking to the wall of windows I gazed out over crystalline stillness. Lake Imagination is a place where you are only limited by what you dare to dream. For a minute I saw little Sherry, all those years ago, trying to step in her father’s muddy footprints as she followed him to the milking barn. Her stubby legs strained to reach his stride. Her dream then was to make him proud. And if I’m 100% honest with myself, it really hasn’t changed much.

Suspicious Block in the Third Chakra

16 Dec 2012 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , ,

There is an area where, as a writer, I’m weak. Deficient almost. I can write rhyme, suspense, grief, human interest, self-help. But comedy? I don’t have a handle on that. Humor, unless subtle and understated, is a mystery to me.  I have blogger friends whose posts have me laughing til I weep. I love that! Their tongue-in-cheek irreverence is hilarious. And you know the person at the party whose monologue attracts crowds and keeps them in stitches? That’s not me.

In the February Writing for Self-Discovery Workshop in Bali we will be Writing Through the Chakras. I was thinking about that this afternoon. Where’s the humor in the chakras?

First Chakra:  Survival
Second Chakra: Creativity and Sexuality
Third Chakra: Personal Power
Fourth Chakra: Love and Compassion
Fifth Chakra:  Speaking Your Truth
Sixth Chakra: Inner Wisdom and Knowing
Seventh Chakra: Connection to Outer Wisdom and Spirituality

 

They all sound like pretty serious stuff. So I did a little research and it didn’t take long to find that it is the third chakra, the seat of personal power located in the solar plexus that, (according to purenlightenment.com) houses “the energy necessary for self control, laughter and humor.” And when you think about it, that makes perfect sense…right?

Since I’ve been living in Bali I have learned how to laugh. Authentic, joyous laughter comes from deep within. It’s far different from the shallow ‘head’ laughter that sounds forced and empty. Try it once. Laugh in your throat area then guffaw from your belly. Big difference! If I have laughed long and hard I notice sore stomach muscles the following day.

So how do I translate that belly-type laughter into writing? And should I? Maybe I’m the writer of angst and woe. Maybe I shouldn’t go there. Maybe I need to stay in the subtle, understated realm of the familiar.

That’s what I’ll be exploring as I write my way through the third chakra. Who am I relative to humor? How do I want humor to manifest in my life? I’m excited. Who knows what hilarity will be unleashed when that bothersome blockage is cleared!

Hairball-blocking-your-third-chakra

Yesterday’s Gone

10 Dec 2012 9 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Holidays, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

There was a song, Emmylou Harris sang it, or maybe it was Chad and Jeremy. It’s one of my favorites and the chorus goes like this, “…but that was yesterday, and yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone.” Yesterday Minnesota was grey. Yesterday’s gone….

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It snowed. Actually that is incorrect. It is snowing. Over a foot of heavy, wet, sticky stuff has accumulated and it’s still coming down. I’ll have to admit, there is something magical about the first snowfall, especially if it’s the kind, like this, that turns a drab leafless tree into a frosted confection. So I pour a steaming mug of coffee and sit down to watch. It is vastly more interesting than watching grass grow! A minute later I jump up and run for my camera. The cardinals have come out to play.

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This sweet boy thinks he’s hiding, but his glorious crimson feathers against the whiteness shout his presence. Lady cardinal is in the bush with him and the pair of them take great pleasure flitting from branch to branch kicking up snow dust.

But I have places to go and people to see in spite of the weather. In Bali, whether it’s July or December, I can slip on a sundress and a pair of sandals and I’m out the door. Today I warily approach my closet, dreading the clothing ritual dictated by this climate.  I pull on a high-necked shirt and tights. First layer…check! Now what? Before that question finds an answer my neck starts to itch under the fabric scrunched tightly around it. I rip off the turtleneck and scratch furiously. Okay, how about a dress with the tights? I find a long-sleeved, knit number and slip it on just as the skin on my legs, sausaged into the tights, begins to crawl. Hiking up the dress I frantically peel off the tights and slather a handful of lotion on each leg. I briefly contemplate calling with some inane excuse to cancel and chuck the whole affair. But by now I’ve worked up an agitated lather and I’ll be darned if I’m going to let a little snow rattle my cage! Off with the dress.

I finally manage to pull myself together. Then adding to my layered ensemble a jacket, gloves, scarf and boots, I head out the door. First stop, World Street Kitchen, a new restaurant in Uptown.

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World Street Kitchen Restaurant in Uptown, Minneapolis, MN

I lunch with Jessa and Dan, the quintessential Uptown pair suitably decked out in sensible garb. They treat me to the ‘Kitchen’s’ Crispy Tofu Burrito and I swear it tastes just like chicken. (All humor aside, it is to-die-for-delicious!) Then I treat them to a giant slice of double-layer-banana-cake-with-peanut-butter-cream-cheese-frosting. Exquisite!

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While we make happy eating noises, a snow-plow truck tries to keep ahead of the still accumulating fluff on the street outside.

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I’ve been invited to a Christmas production and my friends are picking me up at the restaurant. I’ve given them decent directions and they have just called to say they’re getting close. I zip up my jacket, wrap the scarf around my neck, pull on my gloves, say a quick ‘thank you and goodby,’ just as Dan spots a car slowing down. “There they are,” he says, and I race out the door. They have turned into the parking lot and I trot around the end of the building to see them slowly continuing on through the lot toward the alley. “Stop!” I yell, knowing full well they can’t possibly hear me. My trot becomes a fast jog as they turn into the alley and keep going. Now I’m in a flat out run, snow stinging my face, arms windmilling to keep my balance and boots slip-sliding on the icy tire tracks. “Sto000000p!” I yell again, and the car slides to an unsteady halt. They finally quit laughing and explain that they were afraid if they stopped they would get stuck. They apologize profusely for failing to notice my frantic pursuit.

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Getting stuck is a valid concern. We pick our way across town past several vehicles stranded in snowbanks and one sitting with its tail on the guard rail and its front bumper laying a few feet away. But the concert is worth the effort. The full orchestra and two choirs, probably numbering close to 200 voices, nearly lift me from my seat. I am struck by the contrasts of this reality. Here I am in the midst of a mighty throng of people who share my Scandinavian heritage. The music is complex, melodic, familiar. But I find myself scanning the crowd looking for someone…different. Then I see him. He’s short, hidden in the back row. Of that vast company he’s the only one.

In the mountaintop Balinese villages I am the oddity, the pale moonface in a chocolate sea. Tonight his mahogany skin fills a lonesome corner of my heart. I breathe a silent ‘thank you’ for family and friends, for music and snow, and for someone different who unknowingly made the night extra special.

Fifty Shades of Grey

08 Dec 2012 10 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Holidays, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

That’s the Minnesota landscape in December. Fifty shades of grey. Bleak.

Sunshine produces warm greys. Clouds make cold, hard, dreary greys. But grey is grey and there is nothing sexy or erotic about Minnesota’s Fifty Shades!

I’m lucky. For the last week before I left Ubud for the holidays in Minnesota, my Balinese friends would find me staring off over the coconut palms and frangipani trees. “What’s wrong?” they were concerned. Usually I’m doing…something! Shaken from my reverie I explained that I was capturing mental pictures of the kaleidoscope of color, the five million shades of green, that I would need to sustain me through 50 days of Minnesota grey. They laughed. You see, they don’t get it. They don’t get grey, they don’t get cold, and they definitely don’t get snow! It isn’t their reality. Ever. But it was mine for many years. I knew what to expect.

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Photo from Bing.com/images

I remembered a children’s story, Frederick by Leo Lionni, that I read to my girls years ago. While the other field mice worked to gather grain and nuts for winter, Frederick sat on a sunny rock by himself. “I gather sun rays for the cold dark winter days,” he told them. Another day he gathered “colors,” and then “words.” And when the food ran out, it was Frederick, the dreamer and poet, whose endless store of supplies warmed the hearts of his fellow mice, and fed their spirits during the darkest winter days.

So that’s what I did. I gathered the suns rays. I memorized the colors. I stored up all the brightest, happiest words to cheer me. I soaked up paradise…Bali-rice terraces (1)

And it almost worked…almost.

Taking the High Road

03 Dec 2012 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Holidays, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

Taking the high road is choosing the ethical way…the class act…the higher moral ground. Or you can take a walk on an elevated train track above the bustle of New York City! Which is exactly what we did today.

I was coming out of the fog, vaguely aware of morning, when my door cracked open. Joy poked her cheerful little head in and said, “It’s your last day here, mama. Kellen and I are going running! When we get back we’ll do whatever you want…all day!” Then they went for a four mile run while I slowly came to and wondered what on earth I wanted to do. My window framed blue sky and sunshine. I pulled it open and stuck my head out, reminding myself not to look down. Gorgeous! Instantly I knew that a walk on the High Line was the perfect activity to take advantage of the glorious day.

“The High Line rail-trail is an urban marvel, stretching 1.5 miles and towering almost 30 feet above street level through several neighborhoods in the lower west side of Manhattan,” according to TrailLink online. We walked the whole of it this afternoon. It was 60 degrees, an absolutely delightful way to end 16 days in the Big Apple.

This is what the the rail-trail used to look like. Construction around the Hudson Yards has begun with plans to extend this unfinished part of the Line and upgrade the surrounding neighborhood in the next few years.

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And this is a view of the completed Line. What a change. Seeds from wild grasses that grew along this stretch of abandoned track through the city were gathered and used to create the landscaping. It feels like a stroll through a wild meadow.

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The path allows spectacular vistas of the city. We meandered slowly along as I shot picture after picture, sometimes even getting Kellen to pose for one or two!

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I caught him in the act of patiently waiting on bench at one of the jutting overlooks that are spaced at appropriate intervals along the way.

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There is a holly bush with brilliant red berries right behind Joy and me.

Artists have utilized the sides of buildings for giant murals and sculptures nestle in the wild grasses.

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Do you recognize this rendition of the classic photo showing the sailor kissing the nurse on the street?

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Standing on the trail you can hardly tell that this is a portrait. I was surprised after I took it how clear and detailed it really is.

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A brightly striped bust of what looks like an Asian warrior caught my eye.

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And here’s another piece.

My favorite, though, was the guy raising the blinds and waving out his window to passers by. I did a double/triple take, certain at first he was a picture, then certain that he had moved, then completely uncertain about anything! Joy told me he’s been there every time she’s walked this section. I’m still not sure…

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The Hudson River was visible at different points along the way. I liked this view of the arch by a pier.

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What a magnificent old skyway!

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I couldn’t resist a shot of this billboard. Two zebras in the snow…I have no idea what they were promoting!

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And then, every so often, there are wooden loungers beside the trail. I tried one. They’re surprisingly comfortable.

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And here they are, Joy and Kellen, the dynamic duo! Immediately following this photo Kellen informed me that he was done modeling for today and that I now owned the most extensive Kellen photo library on earth. I considered pleading my case then thought better of it. We have a pretty good relationship, even after two weeks of being confined to 700 square feet. I’d better not push it.

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Now my visit to New York is complete. I’ve seen two plays on Broadway, eaten until I have a new roll of flesh spilling over the waistband of my jeans, ridden the subway alone, shopped for four hours straight at Macy’s, and taken the high road. What a trip! Thanks Joy and Kellen. It’s been fabulous. You’re a class act!

Battling the Terrors

29 Nov 2012 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Poetry Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

My past frightens me. It is a long, arduous trek through unconsciousness. So much of it seems to have happened to someone else. In all fairness, I should have been institutionalized long ago. I should have cracked. But I was lucky. I perfected a serene, composed exterior. No matter what kind of hell was breaking loose just below the surface, it was my secret. No one ever knew, no one but me.

I rarely tell my life story. When I do, people are aghast. Some refuse to believe me. Some are awed. But all listen unaware of their gaping jaws. The things that are easy to reveal, the five marriages and five divorces, are startling enough without getting into the more disturbing details. “You seem so normal,” they say. I smile, serenely, “I am,” I reply.

Trauma remains in the body. No matter how good a person is at coping with life and covering up the scars, trauma lurks in cell memory. It can manifest as depression, panic attacks, or hundreds of other psychological disorders that keep therapists in business. There were times when the roar of terror and hopelessness in my ears threatened to tear me apart. But I have always seen myself as a happy person. Terror and hopelessness are unacceptable to my self-image. Writing became my salvation. I could scream the outrage into poetry or prose, pound it out on the keyboard turning the insanity into something manageable. But ‘manageable’ was merely survival. I needed to believe there was more to life than that.

Then three things happened almost simultaneously. I began doing Qigong meditation. It quieted and focused my mind. I developed a way of writing that took me behind the scenes in my psyche. I learned my truth. And I made yoga a daily practice. Yoga opened my heart. I’ll never forget the moment I first saw myself with compassion. I felt an outpouring of love for the brave soul who had  willed herself through life, raised three daughters, owned businesses, worked so very hard to be perfect while neatly, in quietly civilized fashion, battled the terrors within. I made a commitment that day to her. It was a promise to pursue the joyous journey no matter what. It was an intention let loose in the universe. I had no idea what metaphysical magic I had put in motion.

But any of you who have been following my blog have an inkling of the results of that promise. I have achieved what few are able to in this lifetime, bliss, in giant portions. I live in a place that nurtures and supports my journey. And the terrors? They are being squeezed out. I love the Leonard Cohen lyrics, “there’s a crack, a crack, in everything…that’s how the light gets in…” My tightly held perfection has cracked wide open and light is pouring in. Natural light. Healthy light. And when the little terrors poke their ugly heads out, they’re zapped!

 

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