Go Light on the Blues – A Family Gathering in Bali
22 Jan 2014 2 Comments
in Bali Tags: Bali, beer, Bob Marley, don't worry about a thing, global village, Jack Daniels, Minnesota, pizza, polar vortex, Reggae, Ubud
Monsoon Yoga
13 Jan 2014 6 Comments
in Bali Tags: Bali, incense, Iyengar, King Dancer, leonard cohen, monsoon, Nescafe, Nightengale, rain, Yoga
Holy buckets of water Batman!
What do you do when the house is clean, you’ve already written the great American novel (unpublished as yet…a minor detail), the laundry’s done, and rain is thundering down? Build an ark? I could, but that’s kind of stealing someone else’s idea.
First I slept in. My phone said 9:18 a.m. when I peeled back the mosquito net and rubbed the sleepy dust out of my eyes.
Then I made a boiling mug of Nescafe, mmmm, drank it on the yoga platform contemplating the sheets of water cascading from the roof.
Then I made another boiling mug of Nescafe.
Serious rain. This calls for Leonard Cohen and incense. I found Leonard in iTunes and lighted the sweet, tangy dupa. Ahhh, the perfect environment for monsoon yoga! If you’ve never practiced yoga two feet from cascading sheets of water with the inimitable Leonard’s dark, scratchy voice just barely audible above the downpour, I can tell you, it creates a rather rare and wild mood! Truly delicious!
Here’s a glimpse of my world. Who took the photo? I had 10 seconds to position the camera, hit the button, and strike the pose. So for you perfectionist Iyengar yogis out there, cut me a little slack if my form isn’t perfect!
I wish I could put into words the exquisite thrill of this morning. I’ve always liked the rain, but here I’ve grown to love it. When water forms a solid wall of sound, and the wind brings a dewy film of moisture to my skin, a shiver of excitement vibrates through me. It is as though the rest of the world disappears. I have shelter, and music, and the day is mine to explore uninterrupted. Does that make sense?
Oh! Gotta go! Leonard’s singing Nightingale and I have to join in. It’s like singing in the shower. There are some things you can do better during rainy season. Belting out a song at the top of your lungs is one of them. And I’m told a lot of Balinese babies are made in January. The communal lifestyle where everyone hears everything puts a bit of a damper on some activities, until it rains!
Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it…
13 Jan 2014 2 Comments
in Bali Tags: Bali, birds do it, cole porter, farmers daughter, garden, Jungle, Ubud, writing
I’m a farmer’s daughter. Even after we moved to town, I spent summers driving tractor, hoisting bales onto the hay wagon, and swatting mosquitoes. While classmates were traveling to Europe, or hanging out at the local drive-in, I was thirty miles from nowhere harvesting alfalfa. And here’s the scary part: I liked it. Love for the land and its produce is intrinsic, a part of who I am.
So when I asked Ketut to take care of the garden, I imagined he would water it when it was thirsty and keep the grass cut. After all, that and a little fertilizer does the trick in Minnesota. Right?
What was I thinking? This is Bali. A garden here looks more like the Disney Jungle Cruise on steroids, and I’m clueless. I’m learning to stand back and let those who know what they’re doing, take charge. So when Ketut showed up with a wicked curved knife in his hand and said, “Cut garden,” I just backed out of his way, nodding assent.
I didn’t pay much attention until I heard a tree crashing to earth. To my dismay, I found Ketut, knife flailing, doing battle with the jungle that appeared to be swallowing him alive.
“Ketut!” I must have sounded alarmed because he stopped hacking for a moment.
“What?” he said, looking at me, eyebrows raised.
“Snakes!” I think I may have been shouting. “Hati-hati!”
“Where snake?” he said and I immediately felt stupid.
“No snake,” I replied, “Just…please be careful!”
He grinned, “Ya,” he said. I don’t want to know what he was thinking.
Several hours later the ground was littered with hacked vegetation and instead of a mass of tangled vines, there were identifiable plants.
“What will you do with all of this?” I asked him, motioning at the piles of tropical foliage.
“Make new,” he said, whatever that meant. I didn’t have to wait long to find out. He grabbed a handful of the most colorful branches and carried them to the garden’s edge. With a few swift motions, he jabbed the stalks he had just cut, back into the ground.
I watched with my jaw hanging open. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Make new,” he said again. “Rain come, grow-grow.” I almost laughed at the impossibility of that idea. If I stuck a branch from, oh, say an oak tree, in the corner of the yard in Minnesota, no amount of rain would make that sucker grow! But I bit my tongue and said nothing.
Just then a movement under the bushes froze me in my tracks. I stared into the darkness. Plop! It wasn’t a snake, snakes don’t plop. I squatted on my haunches and peered into the undergrowth. A warty, brown blob stared back at me. It looked like an alien life form. “That has to be the ugliest frog I’ve ever seen!” I said.
Ketut joined me for a look. “Married,” he stated matter-of-factly. Then I saw the problem. It wasn’t one, but two ugly-as-sin toads, enjoying a moment of intimacy in the garden.
A song came to mind…Cole Porter…Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it…
I left the garden, Ketut, and the toads to their business, poured a glass of wine, and pondered the rich layers of this experience. What a privilege to have so much to learn.
A few hours later we had another epic monsoon. Today those plants look like they’ve always been there. They didn’t miss a beat. No post traumatic transplant stress for them! Suddenly I’m aware of the possibilities. Seeds. Everything I eat has seeds, and here they’re probably not the GMO variety. What if I planted chili seeds, and papaya? How about a few garlic buds, and ginger root? Mango? Visions of eating delicious meals harvested from my back yard garden plays like a B movie through my head.
I run the idea by Ketut. “Possible,” he says. Of course it is. Just about anything is possible in paradise.
Only When It Rains
11 Jan 2014 11 Comments
in Bali, Poetry Tags: Bali, Indonesia, Orange is the New Black, rainy season, writing poetry
While subzero temperatures hammer the snowy Midwestern United States, I get up every morning glad that I’m not there. My sister reported -37 Celsius (-34 F) and the pipes froze in the new home of a friend who posted devastating pictures of the damage on Facebook. Schools were closed for two days because of severe weather.
Don’t get me wrong, they’re tough Minnesotans and they almost like it, don’t cha know! But after a while it gets to even the most stalwart among them. Except my dad. I’ve never heard him complain about anything. Ever.
So I’m not complaining about the rain, really, I’m not. After all, it’s warm, and its making things even more impossibly green than before. But it’s frequent, and it’s torrential.
If you live in a house in cold climates, you have walls, windows, and insulation. If it rains, chances are it’s cold. You batten down the hatches and go about your business inside.
I have no glass in my windows. My house is three-sided with the fourth open to nature. When it pounds down as hard as it did today, I can’t hear myself think. So I run about with the camera trying to capture the wildness of it. Or I make a huge bowl of popcorn, plug in headphones, and watch Orange is the New Black – as many episodes as it takes.
And then…
when there’s nothing left to do, no escape, I write a poem to express what I’m feeling in the moment, not so much by the story, but by the way I tell it.
ONLY WHEN IT RAINS
“Do you miss them?” she asked, lines of concern creasing her forehead. A leaf sashayed to earth. Darkness in the west rumbled a warning. She waited for my answer, her cigarette curling plumes of smoke upward in the thick, still, air. Do I miss whom, I wondered. My family? Children? Ex-husbands? She flicked an ash over the rail, still waiting. She was random like that. Her questions seldom hooked into any previous conversation. I liked that about her. It left options. I could choose the meaning I wished, she didn’t care. Hanging out with her made me feel loose, and silly, and a little sad. “Not usually,” I said, brushing a strand of wet hair off my face. “Only when it rains.”
Aging-growing up fast in reverse!
05 Jan 2014 22 Comments
in Bali Tags: aging, awareness, Bali, Indonesia, inner work
Remember when you were a baby and you ate and slept and grew at a phenomenal rate? Of course not. Babies don’t have a huge measure of self-awareness. That kind of consciousness doesn’t begin until around age 2 or 3, and then it’s on a very elementary level.
But by the time you’re in your twenties, you’ve developed a sense of what you look like that doesn’t change significantly for many years. Weight gain and hair color modifications aside, the years from 20 – 40 hold few surprises.
Then the fifties. For women, menopause wreaks mild to acute havoc usually sometime during that decade. But again, it’s mostly an inner change with slowly diminishing estrogen levels causing insomnia, sweats, flashes, and mood swings that make an otherwise sane person wildly neurotic. But it passes, and with the exception of a few wrinkles around the eye-corners, smile lines, maybe the beginnings of arthritis here and there, you’re still the same package.
Of course your genetic inheritance and the way you’ve treated your body to healthy or unhealthy habits, weighs in significantly. But I’m generalizing and drawing upon my own experience so feel free to adjust this information accordingly.
The sixties are different. It’s the growth process in reverse. But unlike the baby that has no knowledge of the sweeping changes in its own appearance, the mature adult not only sees and understands what is happening, but also has to deal emotionally with the loss of youth, vitality, and power.
I am appalled at the speed of change. Tomorrow I turn 64. Only one year ago my skin was still elastic, though a little crinkly at the knees. About six months ago while engaged in an inversion pose, I noticed disturbing sagginess in the skin around my upper arms. It disappeared when I righted myself and I made a mental note to do inversions only in private. A month later I couldn’t deny that the sagginess existed even when I stood upright.
Yesterday I took a long, honest look at myself. How can a heart that feels so young, occupy a body that looks so…mature?! Nothing prepared me for this transition. I’ve watched my parents age, but they’re my parents.
In some corner of my mind I knew that I was seeing my future, but it was far, far away. I tucked that thought in a safe place and forgot about it. Now it’s staring me in the face every time I look in the mirror. I am mentally trying to assimilate these physical changes, but it’s daunting. They’re happening so fast.
I take comfort in things I’m glad about. I’m glad I’m living my dream. I’m glad I’m in a country where old age is honored. I’m extremely grateful for excellent health and a strong body. Those things make it easier. But I remember the title of a book I saw once. I laughed then, but I’m not laughing now. It was called, The Girls with the Grandmother Faces. That’s it in a nutshell. Inside I’m still a teenager. Somehow I skipped adulthood and went straight to old. How does this happen?
From here on, it’s the inner work that matters. Actually, it’s always the inner work that matters. But in the culture of the West, youth and beauty equal power. As I attempt to come to terms with aging, I am engaged in the struggle for power. What makes me significant now? Where is my worth?
It occurs to me that youth and beauty are a hindrance. Anyone so blessed doesn’t need to develop a stunning inner core since the outer is so compelling. This time of life is an opportunity to allow the richness inside to radiate outward. It’s a call to share the wisdom of a lifetime of good and bad choices with those who care to listen. And it’s a chance to become beautiful in a way that time can’t touch. Right! Happy birthday to me!
The Way Things Work-Manifesting 101
30 Dec 2013 5 Comments
in Bali, Holidays Tags: abundance, Bali, blessing, gratitude, Indonesia, manifesting dreams, writing
A dream isn’t necessarily what you might think. Maybe it’s an idea that feels like a longing. It could be a memory of something beautiful that happened once, or a wish you make when you blow out your birthday candles. A dream can be innocent like that, unassuming, sneaky. It can be so low-key and camouflaged that you don’t recognize it for what it really is.
Here’s what I know about manifesting. You need a dream. So to begin, sift through your storehouse of longings, memories, and wishes. Find one that feels important, that resonates, and flesh it out. Give it life. In every possible way make it prominent so you feel it, look at it, think about it, and talk about it every day, many times a day. Focus. As you do this, you create a different reality for yourself, a reality that puts you in the middle of that dream.
Next is gratitude. How grateful will you be when what you imagine comes true? Feel it. Take yourself mentally into the place where your dream has materialized and experience the joy of it in your body. Express thankfulness. Accept no contrary thoughts, doubts, or pooh-pooh’s.
Easier said than done, you say? Of course. But you can control your babbling mind. If you don’t yet meditate, now would be a good time to start. Think of it as daydreaming. We all know how to daydream. It’s about that simple. For down-to-earth guidelines, read this very short but excellent book, Buddha in Blue Jeans, by Tai Sheridan. It takes the myth and mystery out of meditation.
Here’s what you’re doing. You’re creating energy. Powerful, positive energy. Ideas will begin to occur to you. They’re like stepping stones. As you act on those prompts new avenues of opportunity appear. Doors open. What looked impossible begins to sweep you along in a current, as if you’ve caught the jet-stream to Wonderland. And what often ends up happening is that the little dream you began with becomes something far bigger and more beautiful than anything you could have imagined.
Today at two p.m. I was thinking about my kitchen. The dark brown cabinets looked gloomy. I wanted a brighter space. Ketut happened to pop in just then. “I think I want to paint these shelves white,” I said.
“Do now,” he suggested. By three p.m. we were at the paint shop. They had one white. I briefly thought of my Benjamin Moore fan deck that had about 200 variations of that color, then decided this particular shade of Bali white was perfect. “Need oil, mix-mix.” Ketut said, and held up a suspicious looking blue can void of any listing of ingredients. By four p.m. he had mixed the oil (which turned out to be paint thinner that smelled like a cross between gasoline and turpentine) with the high gloss white enamel. And by five-thirty, the job was finished.
I’ve been living with the dark kitchen for months. Until today, I hadn’t taken time to dream something different. As soon as I did, it materialized.
Manifesting has become my favorite pastime. It’s like a muscle that gets stronger with exercise. You may think my kitchen story is lame, a poor example. But that’s part of the secret. Recognizing blessing and honoring it, no matter how large or small it may seem, is the key to abundance. And manifesting dreams is no more and no less than an outpouring of blessing that fulfills the desires of our hearts.
A Very Bali Christmas!
26 Dec 2013 7 Comments
in Bali, Holidays Tags: Bali, Christmas, Christmas in Bali, Indonesia, Smorgasbord Bali Style, Vegetarian Tofu Green Curry, white elephant
Excitement pulses in the air. Merry Christmas! I hear the greeting through my open walls. Will I get used to it…Christmas in the jungle? There are none of the familiar markers, snow, cold, carols playing non-stop in the stores for months. It’s Tess, hanging over her balcony next door, heralding Christmas morning. I step outside into hot sunlight. Nina appears, too. Merry Christmas! Nina will be hosting the party tonight. It’s a potluck white elephant gift exchange. The white elephant concept has been the topic of conversation for weeks. Nina and I, the only Americans in the bunch, understand. Nobody else does. It should be interesting.
It’s a planned potluck as we say in the Midwest, so we all know who is bringing what. I found a recipe for Vegetarian Tofu Green Curry. My task this morning is to cook it so the flavors can blend and intensify prior to serving later on. I initiate step one, grate fresh coconut and toast it. Fortunately, I still have most of the coconut Ketut harvested for me the other day.
The nut scared the daylights out of me when it came crashing into the garden. There is one stately palm beside my house. Every now and then, a mature coconut releases and thunders through the thick foliage surrounding the tree like a stampeding elephant. This one came to rest right by the terrace.
I retrieve a chunk of it from the freezer that keeps things mildly cooler than the refrigerator but far from frozen, and grate it. The instructions say to toast in a dry wok pan over a medium flame. It works! In no time I have a cup or so of fresh coconut delicately browned. So far, so good.
I assemble the next ingredients, garlic, shallots, green and red bell pepper, ginger root, lime leaves, and Thai chilis. For extra flavor, I’m using coconut oil to sauté the first ingredients. Fragrant steam fills the kitchen. In the next moment chili essence hits my tender throat tissue.

After a fit of coughing, wheezing, and tears, cooking continues. Vegetable broth with a few tablespoons of fish sauce, green curry paste, coconut milk, and a mixture of spices, cools the heat of the peppers.
I dice an enormous sweet potato, a jumbo carrot, and firm tofu, toss in most of the toasted coconut, then simmer until the root vegetables are crispy tender.
While it bubbles I have a few minutes to escape for another sunshine fix. There’s commotion next door. To ensure that the party goes on rain or shine, Tess and Paul have loaned a tent for the affair, but the tent stakes are missing. Ketut, the master of improvisation, disappears and returns with a handful of silverware. Knife, fork, and spoon handles inserted into the earth become tent pegs.
The smells from Nina’s kitchen make my stomach rumble. I leave the tent-raising and hurry back to my own fragrant stew. Mmmm! It looks amazing! I chop tomatoes and cilantro, squeeze fresh limes, and add these last minute details to the mix.
Wallah! A little garnish with a red pepper plopped on top and my dish is party ready!
Tess, Paul, and I are the first to arrive. It’s apparent that the women got the memo…wear black!
The tent is in Nina’s yard (Nina’s the one in the middle), Tess and Paul are staying upstairs in the house to the left, and my house is behind the tent to the right. We live in close proximity. It’s a good thing we like each other…a lot! And there’s the elegant teepee! So far the weather is ideal. We may not need the tent but it adds an element of security against sudden climate change.
Sudi and Paul chill with a couple of Bintangs as the other guests trickle in. It’s decided that gifts and games come first. Darkness descends so the group moves inside and the fun continues!
Julie, the neighbor just a little farther down the path, is prepared. She brought games. In animated detail she explains the first one. She calls it Pass the Parcel. It’s like musical chairs but with a wrapped package. As the music plays, the gift is passed from one to the next around the circle. When the music stops, the one holding the gift unwraps a layer only to find another wrapped parcel inside. But a note also comes with each layer bearing instructions that must be followed. This part reminds me of spin the bottle!
To ensure that Dewi, the youngest member of our diverse group, remains engaged and entertained, she is charged with the task of performing every instruction along with the person who was lucky enough to be left holding the box.
Here Dewi and her Dad dance with a chair. Later, Dewi and Tess lay on their backs and ride bicycles. Dewi is in her element. All agree that she’s a born entertainer. Her antics are rib tickling funny.
Finally it’s the moment everyone has been waiting for…the white elephant! Gifts are taken from their place under the tree and stacked on the table in the middle.
Everyone has a turn selecting a wrapped package and opening it.
Stealing is encouraged but I’m the only one who acts on it. Yaniq (in the hat) has unwrapped a jar of peanut butter. There are few things I enjoy more than peanut butter. I really like the photo frame that came in my package, but…gotta have the peanut butter. Yaniq yields his loot without a fight.
The last gift to be opened is a lovely surprise. Ketut made a special trip to Kintamani yesterday to pick up his white elephant. We were all touched and thrilled to get these bracelets, hand-made by his wife Komang, with our names stitched in red letters.
I’m Serry. It’s an upgrade from Zelly. That was Ketut’s first stab at my foreign sounding name!
With all the fun, we’ve worked up an appetite. Christmas smorgasbord in Bali is an exotic feast. The countertop groans with bounty. There is smoked chicken, mei goreng, pumpkin soup, salad rolls, garlic toast, sayur urab, smoked duck, and my green curry. Wine flows freely, as does laughter and conversation. For dessert, Nina breaks out her tins of Christmas cookies, all red and green frosting with sprinkles. We’re stuffed but still manage to put a sizeable dent in the cookie inventory!
Games and gifts finished, Nina disappears with Dewi. The party princess is finally tired and it’s time for bed. I sneak a peak at the clock. Half past midnight! Christmas 2013 has passed. The guests file out, droopy-eyed but smiling. Then Tess and I do what we have probably done after Christmas feasting countless times before…I wash, she wipes, and pretty soon the kitchen sparkles.
Thanks, Nina, Sudi, and Dewi. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a happy good night!
Monkey Wars
10 Dec 2013 3 Comments
in Uncategorized Tags: Bali, bali buddha bakery, Indonesia, macaque monkey king, Monkey Forest, sourdough bread, Ubud
Sometimes a craving for cheese grabs me. I slip on sandals, fling a grocery bag over my shoulder, and I’m off. This means a trip to Bali Buddha Bakery for dark, sourdough bread. Cheese without this bread is only half the orgy. But today I should have gotten the cheese first.
Bali doesn’t produce cheese. Only the large supermarkets that cater to Western diets have a limited (and I do mean limited) supply. The eternal optimist, I approach the cooler, drooling. My eyes flick over the selections. It doesn’t take long, there are only three: parmesan, feta, and mascarpone. That’s it. My taste buds ache for manchego. Couldn’t there be a manchego? Or even a pecorino? Those aren’t so terribly exotic, are they?
I move the three cheeses around in the case, hopeful that I might uncover even a lowly cheddar at this point. No luck. Okay, I gather my thoughts. I already have the bread, what else would be delicious? I resign myself to an avocado and a tomato. My taste buds are telling me that these are poor substitutes. I reassure them that it will be fine, but they’re not convinced.
The path home takes me past Monkey Forest. There are always ten or twenty monkeys hanging out in the trees, on the street, or climbing on the buildings in this area. That’s normal. But today, just as I’m opposite the mid-point of the forest, a virtual river of furry bodies comes pouring over the wall. They dash pell-mell across the street in front of me. There are hundreds of them. I freeze in my tracks, then, as casually as possible while hyperventilating, I retrace my steps until there’s distance between us. I turn and watch them evaporate into the landscape.
Yes, they’re cute. But I’ve seen their teeth. And I’ve seen a bloody hole in the haunch of one after another one was finished with him. They can be vicious.
Later that day, I learn that there was an uprising. One alpha male, the monkey king, took offense at the leader of another troop and ousted him and his faithfuls. My timing was impeccable. I got to see the defeated being banished from their home.
The next morning I awaken to what sounds like Armageddon overhead. It’s a barrel of monkeys on my roof. (It’s true. A group of monkeys can be referred to as a troop or a barrel.) The marauding outcasts are hungry. Apparently they’ve come to me for breakfast. I text Gede, next door, “Monkeys!” and hit send. In a flash he appears with his slingshot and the critters scamper for cover. He never has to use it, he just shakes it menacingly in their direction making shwaa! shwaa! sounds, and off they go.
That afternoon, Ketut comes by. I tell him I want a slingshot. He disappears into the garden and returns bouncing a largish rock up and down in one hand. “No problem,” he says. “You do this, monkey gone.” As if to test his theory, at that very moment a monkey appears on the wall a few feet away. Ketut bounces the rock. The monkey flees.
I love my peaceful community. And it is peaceful. But maybe I love it most because, woven into the tranquility, is the possibility of a monkey invasion or other random surprises. And, better yet, there’s always someone ‘at the ready’ who knows exactly what to do.
Dearest…a love letter
02 Dec 2013 6 Comments
in Uncategorized Tags: Bali, compassion, dearest, healing, letter, love, love letter, self love
Dearest…You don’t know it now, sweet girl, but in twenty years this dark place in your life will be no more than a shadowy memory. If I told you of the immense joy that awaits you, the pain of the present would be too much to bear. But I can tell you that you do find yourself at last. You hit your stride. You finally realize that the person you tried so hard to be was never you, and you shed her like a snake sheds it’s worn out skin.
You’ll grieve, at first, for the lost years. But they weren’t lost, dear one. They are your story. The heat and pressure of them has refined you. It has burned away the superficial, the frivolous, and made you ready. The lessons that have seared themselves into your heart you will teach to others. You’ll let go of everything that does not serve your highest good. In the end, you’ll regret nothing. You’ll be as light and free as air.
Your life will move to a place that supports who you are becoming. It will take you to the other side of the world. And you’ll be astounded that it feels so familiar, like coming home….
———————-
When my heart was breaking open and learning to love, I was overwhelmed with compassion for the person I had been. I wrote this letter to her. It was deeply comforting then, and it has become more and more true with the passing of time.
photo credits: wendythomasrussell.com























Nana is Nina’s paternal grandmother from Poland. Her grandpa is Sicilian. The recipe is Italian. Grandma Nana wrote the directions longhand, Nina’s dad scanned them, e-mailed them, and here they are on the computer, on Nina’s countertop in Bali. Technology!







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