Indonesian on a Stick!

31 Jul 2012 5 Comments

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

At the Minnesota State Fair you can get almost anything on a stick: deep fried nut rolls on a stick, cheesecake on a stick, eggrolls, chocolate covered jalepeno peppers…need I say more? It is gastronomical suicide…on a stick. But on with the story…

Indonesia is the fourth most populous nation in the world. It is preceded by China, India, and the United States in that order. As a result, Indonesian is one of the most widely spoken languages. But that’s not why I’ve decided to learn it. There’s a quote by Steven Covey, Seek first to understand, then to be understood. It just seems like the right thing to do.

I also have a unique opportunity for immersion. My house helpers, Pasek and Ketut, and my Balinese friends love it that I’m trying to learn. Most Balinese have completed ‘tourism school’ where they are taught English so they can communicate with the hoards swarming over their country. They make it too easy. So now that they know I’m serious they have become devoted task masters. I have all the help I can handle!

There is an Indonesian phrase book, dog-eared and ancient, that was left here by some former resident. I started with that but I have no need for a bus terminal or a shopping mall. The book is of limited value to me. So the other day I strolled to the Ganesha Bookstore and found a sweet Pocket Indonesian Dictionary. I say sweet because it appeals to me aesthetically as well as functionally, and I appreciate that! It is small (pocket) and has a plastic cover (durable) and it’s orange (pretty!)

The dictionary is an immediate improvement, but things aren’t happening fast enough for me. Flash cards. I need flash cards! So today I go in search of recipe cards, or something similar. I want to make my own. My first stop is the convenience store where I remember seeing tape, staples, tablets. No luck with recipe cards there. So I meander across the street to CoCo’s Supermarket. Again, no such thing as recipe cards. Okay. Think outside the box. What will work instead?

My eyes graze over cardboard gift-type boxes, stacks of brown paper cut in perfect 10″ squares, airmail envelopes, popsickle sticks…Stop…back up! What are those? I pick up a package of little flat wooden spoons, the kind that come with the round ice cream cups. Thirty to a package for 42 cents. I toss two packages into my basket along with a bottle of Kecap Manis and one of Kecap Pedas (sweet soy sauce and spicy soy sauce.) I can’t wait to get home and see if my ‘necessity is the mother of invention‘ purchase will work.

My latest invention: Flash Sticks!

Look at that…would you look at that! I had one package done in no time, Indonesian word or phrase on one side and its English meaning on the other. I’m pretty pleased with myself right now! It’s the simple things…

Commitment and Moving On

30 Jul 2012 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

They mate for life. I didn’t know. But this morning I saw them sitting, huddled side by side in The Naked Tree in the pouring rain, and I wondered. They were just sitting there, as though taking a shower together was nothing out of the ordinary, a daily routine. 

So I Googled Mourning Doves and sure enough. Partners for life. They share nest sitting duties while their two white eggs mature. They lay twice in the spring. If one is killed the other will stay at the site for days…mourning.

After the rain subsided they remained in The Tree, fluffing, preening, grooming each other, cooing softly all the while. Sometimes I see one of them sitting among the frangipani blossoms, calling and calling. An answering refrain comes from the rooftop next door and within moments they swoop together into the tree at the other side of my balcony which I suspect has become their new residence. A rustling and shaking of fearsome proportions ensues as they do what doves do in the privacy of their own home!

Ketut assures me that he will find a saw and remove the unsightly tree skeleton from my view. His hatchets weren’t up to the task but we agreed that a saw would do the trick. Now it’s a matter of finding one…all in good time…Bali time…rubber time. I think it will help the doves move on. It might help me, too.

What do Dylan Thomas and pigs have in common?

25 Jul 2012 2 Comments

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

I awakened about 4 a.m. to an ungodly racket. Not frogs this time. What on earth??? Struggling up through layers of sleep I tried to make sense of the sounds. Then it hit me. Pigs. They are slaughtering pigs for the huge cremation ceremony scheduled for Saturday. A prince died and the preparations have been ongoing for weeks. Hundreds of people will have to be fed. I am reminded of a poem by Dylan Thomas:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The pigs do not go gently…

So, here I am, awake, sitting on my balcony, drinking coffee in the soft pink of sunrise when my dove alights in the potted bougainvillea that sits on the southeast corner of my balcony, the corner nearest The Naked Tree. A moment later, his faithful partner flutters in beside him. I’m only seven feet away and I freeze, my cup midway to my mouth. I observe in awe as they coo and examine the bush, it’s delicate white and salmon-colored blooms, and it’s very sparse leaf cover. As quickly as she came, Mrs. Dove leaves. Unsatisfactory home, dear, it simply won’t do…her message is clear to me, but Mr. Dove remains.

Potted Bougainvillea

The next moment he flies up to the pendant lamp hanging just above my head. Oh my! No place to perch there, so he flits down to the railing of the balcony. My heart stops. To what do I owe this blessed visitation? Then to the arm of the chair. Now he is within three feet of my still frozen cup. I watch him and observe the extraordinary feather collar of black with white polka-dots at his neck, the intelligent eye trained on my face, the dove-gray body and shocking pink feet. Oh sweet and beautiful friend! I wish I could help. There are many lovely trees in this garden. Surely one will make a suitable home?

The railing, the arm of the chair, the coffee…

We assess each other for some time then, with several gallant bobs in my direction, he takes his leave. I sit, stunned, unmoving. Coffee, cool now, still has not reached my lips.

Would I have had this enchantment had I not been up at dawn? Had the pigs not been slaughtered and their cries wakened me would I have missed this holy communion? I owe a debt of gratitude to the pigs. I won’t be partaking of their flesh, but this morning they bestowed the gift of a timely awakening so I could keep a sacred appointment with the doves.

Tadpoles, Caterpillars, and a Naked Tree

22 Jul 2012 Leave a comment

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

There is a lesson here. I’m sure of it. The Tree, rounded and lush, was home to a pair of cooing doves. Many times daily they sought cover in  her protective branches and rustled around copiously completely hidden from prying eyes. Mine.

The Tree

That morning I spied a ladder propped against the trunk. Look closely…it’s there. Being unfamiliar with the species of Tree or the possible nature of her fruit, my first guess assumed harvest. The Tree had produced something delectable that Ketut would gather. I parked myself on the balcony in a position affording the most advantageous view and waited. My patience was rewarded. Ketut climbed the ladder with a wicked-looking curved knife in hand. On his way up he chopped at a few stray branches and sent them crashing through the vegetation below. Next thing I knew, the ladder was below him. He was scaling the trunk and hoisting himself into the thick crown of leaves above him.

Ketut in The Tree

In the next instant he was hacking off branches at an alarming rate. Well, I mused, maybe this is a pruning rather than a harvest. What if the doves have a nest in there? What if he upsets it and they can’t go home? Anxiety was setting in. At the onset I had feigned nonchalance, observing but trying not to be obvious about it. Now I was fully engaged, horrified, not wanting to believe my eyes. Hack, hack, hack. More and more branches crashed through the palms and frangipani below. I had to bite my tongue to keep from shouting Stop! Please stop! Ketut, after all, is the gardener and the garden, after all, is not mine. With each loud whack of the knife and each crashing fall of a branch my heart sank a little deeper into grief. I turned away and busied myself with distractions not wanting to see what I feared.

Later, after all had been silent in the garden for some time, curiosity compelled me. I had to look. Mon Dieu! Butchered! Denuded! The Tree stood naked and grotesque against the sky. This was abominable! I needed an explanation. My thoughts were stormy…Where is he? Where is that Ketut…that butcher! He’d better have a good story because I an not happy.

Naked Tree

I found him, of course. Summoning as much composure as possible I inquired, politely, about the tree. It was for safety, he said. Too much wind, tree fall on house. What about the birds? I needed to know. Was there a nest? Many nest, Ketut smiled, but no egg. He further explained that he was not finished. The whole top of the tree would be cut off but his knife had broken. The whole top of the tree. Then what? I asked. He smiled that angelic smile…Then, one month maybe, new tree!

I’m sensing a theme here…first the frog, now the tree. Death and rebirth. Transformation. For my last visit to Bali I lived at the edge of a rice paddy. I arrived when the new shoots were tender green rows against the muddy earth. I left just before harvest. The paddy was a golden field, ripe, mature, and I had grown as well. This time I live at eye-level with the treetops. My neighbors are the birds. I am in mid-heaven, halfway between the sacred and the mundane. And I know why I’m here. Yes, to rewrite the manuscript…yes, to hold a workshop…but the greater purpose, wrapped all around in this beautiful cocoon of my home, is to liquefy. I’ve already felt the beginning of it. I could be terrified, or I could yield into acceptance. What choice does the caterpillar have? What choice do I?

A lone dove sits on a naked branch of The Tree. One month, little friend, I tell her, one month.

Romeo Declares His Love From My Garden

20 Jul 2012 2 Comments

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

I am sitting on my balcony at the little desk listening to night noises…a frog with a voice 2000 times his size is making himself heard. It must be a mating call, nothing else would be so raucous and urgent! Wherever you are, lady frog, put this poor guy out of his misery! And somewhere there is music, dreamy, mellow music that I can hear when the frog takes a breath. It is an otherwise lovely evening.

My House Frog

Ancient Hindus believed that frogs cast the world into orbit in space and symbolize darkness. In other cultures frogs represent transformation and rebirth, similar to the butterfly. It is fitting that I should have monsieur frog as my constant companion here at Rumah Kita. (However, I much prefer the strong, silent type in the photo to the raunchy fellow in the garden!) If I could describe in words the sound my Garden Romeo makes, it is similar to incessant loud hammering on a hollow wooden box. Try that sometime and know my suffering! He goes on for hours! I have threatened to personally transport him to someone else’s garden far, far away from his lady if he doesn’t quit. My menacing words go unheeded.

But, as I said, it is fitting that my life has abundant frog energy right now. Part of the journey toward awakening is facing and embracing the darkness. I like to call it ‘owning the shadow.’ For someone who spent 3/4 of her life fleeing the shadows this is no small task! How cleverly I disguised the stormy wasteland of my broken self! I took a lot of credit for being strong, capable, efficient, independent, and in need of nothing. That’s a lonely place. Oddly enough, the thing I most feared was being alone.

Enter monsieur frog (figuratively speaking….) I like to think of the tadpole not as a baby frog, but as preparation for the mature frog. It is all a process of growth and change. When I became willing to look at who I really am, alone, clothes off, makeup off, hair gnarly and askew, and all cleverness aside, that’s when the tadpole legs began to shrink and my mature frog-body started to take shape. (I do love metaphor!) As I looked at the real woman, stripped of all trappings, I felt such tenderness and compassion for that person who held herself so tightly, tried to be so perfect, and had failed so miserably! “That’s me,” I thought. “Valiant effort!” I told myself. “But time to let go. Time to just be.” And that was the beginning of this joyous wild ride.

There is no more fulfilling mission than the search for the lost self. Bits of all of us have gone missing over the years. Do you ever answer a question with, “Oh, I used to but….?” That was me. I used to sing. I used to paint. I used to play guitar, and flute, and ukelele, and piano. I used to write…. What happened to all that creativity? I exchanged it for the trappings of sophistication and success. I exchanged it for an empty, soul-less life. My throat goes tight and tears sting beneath my eyelids as my heart expands with gratitude. I was spared. I caught myself in time. I started, again, to write…

Rumah Kita…way better than “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel!”

17 Jul 2012 7 Comments

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

If you haven’t seen The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, I highly recommend it. That and four other movies helped me pass the 26 hours en-route to paradise. It is one of those heart-grabbing tales that touches truth with humor and sensitivity. The movie evoked tears and laughter, both in abundance.

And now I’m back! I’m living in the house of my dreams,  in the place of my dreams, doing what I love. (Pinch me!) When I first saw these rooms filled with light from the 8′ windows on three sides, my first thought was If I ever have the chance to rent this house I’d take it in a heartbeat. I inquired and my name was added to the bottom of a long list of “hopefuls.”  In early June, about a month after returning to Minnesota, I found out my name had, by some miracle, risen to the top of that list. I could have the house for 4 months starting mid-July but had to decide in 24 hours. Although I pretended to weigh the pros and cons, the decision had been made months earlier when I first walked through the door.

Here is my 10′ x 25′ balcony overlooking treetops and rooftops.

My breakfast is served here, on the balcony, by Ketut, my ‘house helper.’ Just so you can be completely envious, this house comes with staff. There is a house manager and a house helper. Pasek, the manager, takes care of the financial affairs of the property and shops for food and other necessary supplies. Ketut’s job is to take care of me. He prepares and serves my breakfast, cleans daily, and changes the bed and bath linens every three days. He keeps the house filled with fresh flowers…truly filled…and tends the gardens. When I want tea, or coffee, or a blended fruit drink I simply request it and it appears with Ketut, on a tray, along with another fragrant bouquet. I am already spoiled beyond recovery!

The night I arrived it was approaching 2:45 a.m. and I had told them to expect me between 1 and 1:30 a.m. But I no sooner stepped out of the taxi and Ketut was beside me, all smiles, in his grey hoodie sweatshirt. He hoisted my HEAVY suitcase over his shoulder and off we went, winding down the narrow path that leads to Rumah Kita, my beautiful new home. As I turned in at the gate I glanced up. The upstairs shined like a beacon. We walked up the staircase to the private entrance and opened the door. Every light in the house was on, the white tile floors were spotless and glistening. And flowers…the perfume of frangipani and blooms of unknown species wrapped me in fragrance and welcomed me in.

Ketut made sure I was comfortable, told me he would see me in the morning, and left me to unpack. Yes, I’d been up for about 28 hours straight by then, but there is something about unpacking that grounds me. When I finally peeled back the blue quilted comforter on the bed it was approaching 4 a.m. But all I could do was gaze in awe out the windows at shadowy palms and a sky full of stars and laugh and laugh and laugh. I was home.

As promised, Ketut appeared in the garden below about 7:30 (sunrise is 6:30 and the roosters and I were up at the crack of dawn!) “Would you like your breakfast?” he called up to me. My stomach had been rumbling for several hours by then…”Yes! Please!” He flashed a big smile…”What would you like?” Uh oh! I didn’t realize I might have options…”What are my choices?” I asked. Come to find out, I just have to let him know and I can have anything I want. I settled on fruit, omelet, and coffee, took my journal out to the balcony, and within moments breakfast (and more flowers) appeared before me.

I dined in sheer bliss listening to the Bali morning noises that I love. The house is near the river and overlooks banana palms, coconut palms, and a profusion of flowering bushes and trees. Some of the sounds are different from the chorus of the rice paddies that had become so familiar during my last stay. I love them all!

And I am intrigued by what I am beginning to call the ‘bliss factor.’ There have been times when there were one or two aspects of my life that brought me happiness. I learned to focus on those and if you asked, I would have told you that I was happy. There have been times of tremendous stress and pain but still there was happiness.  Here I experience something else. When I step off the plane and feel the warm softness of the air, see the brown faces and white smiles, my heart leaps into my throat. Tears well in my eyes. I feel a blinding shock of joy explode in my heart. It is a sensation I’ve never experienced anywhere else. I can only call it bliss. Some people meditate for years to achieve this altered state. I simply step off the plane.

From the edge of my balcony….Bali night.

Viking Spirit, Gypsy Soul

12 Jul 2012 2 Comments

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

I was born on Grandpa’s birthday. We had a bond. Maybe because I was the only one who would play checkers with him. Or maybe it was because I inherited his adventure-loving Viking genes. I wish I could thank him for that.

At 18 years old he boarded a ship bound for America to make a life for himself in the New Country. Two years later he sailed back and married his sweetheart. Several months after that, pregnant with their first of twelve children, Rachael and Bendik said goodby to family and left Norway behind.

But it wasn’t just Grandpa who loved adventure. Every summer Dad took a month off and loaded the station wagon. He invented a special “topper” that rode on the roof and held the tent, pots, pans, sleeping bags, clothing, his guitar and my ukelele. It was one of those vehicles that had three seats and one of them faced the back window. My brother always sat back there. My sister alternated between that seat and the middle where I was. I never could ride backward without extreme consequences to my digestive tract. Mom was the navigator and sometimes took a turn at the wheel.

We camped all over the United States and into Canada, stopping at every historical marker, scenic overlook, roadside rest area, and state park along the way. At night, after pitching the tent, we sat around the campfire singing The Wreck of the Old 97, and Down in the Valley, and She Was Some Daisy for a Nineteen Year Old. I lived for those trips.

So the fascination for changing vistas is ingrained. Viking spirit, gypsy soul, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving…I no longer even try to resist. In three days I’ll board Korean Air for another 26 hour flight half way around the world. Excitement ripples in happy waves as I anticipate four more months in Bali.  In the words of the poet, Rumi:

Come, come, whoever you are, wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving – it doesn’t matter, ours is not a caravan of despair. Come, even if you have broken your vow a hundred times. Come, come again, come.

Photo of Tanah Lot, Bali by: gyduvo.blogspot.com

08 Jul 2012 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali

Julie is counting the days until she moves into the new home she is building in Bali. Her move is of special significance to me because I will be occupying her OLD home next week when she vacates. Note that she has two rooms for rent in her brand new house! Julie has also co-authored a book you might enjoy: “A Taste of Bali” that includes her poetry and humorous tales of life on the island of Bali. Enjoy Julie’s blog!

julieinbali's avatarJulie in Bali

Thursday 28th June 2012… the time is right for me to move into my lovely new home in Bali.

The calendar says it’s an auspicious day and the Mangku (holy man) is available to do the ceremony (this always HAS to happen in Bali).  I’m ready and totally excited about moving in – all systems are GO!

Well… the house itself still needs some finishing touches, but that’s no problem.

Look out Rumah Jepun…. here I come!  Updated photos here.

Doesn’t it make you wanna come and stay in one of the downstairs rooms? – just contact me if you are interested

rumahjepun@outlook.com

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Global Cooling Hits Bali

05 Jul 2012 Leave a comment

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

I had a Facebook chat with my friend, Komang, this morning. He was complaining. He said it is cold in Bali right now. I asked him, “How cold, Komang?” There was a pause then the message popped up, Komang is typing…I’m glad that little note appears. At least I know that the answer to my question is being thoughtfully prepared, that the other end of my correspondence hasn’t decided to walk the dog or take a shower. In a few minutes I was rewarded with his answer, “I don’t know…it is so cold I use shocks.” That stumped me. Shocks. Hmmm. Whatever shocks meant to him, I didn’t think it meant the same to me, so I typed my next question, “Are shocks blankets, Komang?” I needed to know. I watched the white blank space waiting for his answer and pretty soon the message popped up again, Komang is typing…He was apologizing,”I’m sorry, I mean socks…It is so cold I sleep with socks AND blankets.” Meanwhile I Googled temperature in Bali just to get a feel for how miserable it actually is. Daytime temperature 77 degrees Fahrenheit the website said, tonight, mid sixties.

Here in Minnesota, in the midst of a record-breaking heat wave, 77 degrees sounds like paradise. I’m guessing the rice paddies and bananas won’t freeze!

As I was zipping along the freeways today, from the skyscrapers downtown to lunch in the suburbs, I couldn’t help but think how radically my life will change in ten days. I am returning to Ubud for four months. In a country where, by law, no building can be higher than a palm tree, there’s a different code. The pace is slower. Everything I need is within a few minutes’ walk. I like seeing chickens on the side of the road, clucking and pecking. I like watching the motorbikes come early in the morning with huge crates of produce, fresh from the fields, strapped on the sides. I like the pageantry of the cremation procession that stops traffic for hours. And I know that I am viewing it all from my white, Anglo Saxon, privileged perspective. But there is an authenticity there that disappeared from our Western culture about the time plastic was invented. It calls to me.

I have always felt a deep relationship with antiquity. The ruins at Pompeii, the architecture of European cathedrals, Chichen Itza, all fascinate me and create a desire to know more about the people who lived during that time. In Bali the ruins are there but so are the people, living and believing much as they did hundreds of years ago.  And if Komang says it’s cold, who am I to disagree? In a land that rarely sees the thermometer dip below 83, a night in the mid 60’s would seem frightfully chilly.

Crazy Hot

28 Jun 2012 2 Comments

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

It’s hot in the Midwest. People do crazy things when it’s hot. Like my artist friend, Carol, for instance. We had a nice chat while she watched butter melt in a frying pan on her 104 degree deck. Her plan? Cook an omelet right there on the sweltering deck. That’s right, an omelet with mushrooms, peppers, onions…the whole shebang. She e-mailed me later. It didn’t work. The whole project was relocated to the kitchen stove. But hey! I give her credit for trying.

Then there’s my other friend Gina. She’s into yoga. Now some people like hot yoga and this weather doesn’t even register as warm in their book. Gina, however, decided it was too stuffy in the house for her personal practice so she took it out on the patio. Nothing wrong with that, right? But she felt that clothing was also a hindrance in the triple digit heat. She was upside-down when, through the splayed legs of a perfectly executed downward facing dog, she caught sight of the UPS man coming around the corner of the house. She had forgotten the note she taped to the front door specifying that, in her absence, the package should be left on the back patio. You don’t want to hear the end of that story. It wasn’t pretty.

For me, however, the weather is a perfect conditioner for my return to Bali in a few weeks. I’ve been shivering ever since I came back to Minnesota. Now summer has finally gotten her act together and other than an insatiable craving for DQ Blizzards which must be indulged, I’m as happy as a (steamed) clam.

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