Bali Beaches and an Un-Planned Christmas

I’m sold on the un-planned Christmas.

I told people I wasn’t doing anything. Wasn’t going anywhere. Would stay home and think happy thoughts and that was absolutely my intention. Then a get-together scheduled for December 21st had to be moved. How about the morning of the 24th? Christmas Eve Day? Does that work?

Well..I wasnt’ going to…but…sure. That works.

It turned into a psuedo white-elephant-gift-exchange, great coffee, and lots of laughs. Santa appeared out of nowhere, and carols played non-stop.

Warm and fuzzy inside I walked home with a gentle breeze cooling my face – one of Bali’s stellar-weather days – glad that I’d had Christmas Eve morning with good friends.

I’d barely gotten inside the house when my phone beeped a Whatsapp message. It was my neighbor next door inviting me to an impromptu lunch – if I didn’t already have plans for Christmas tomorrow. The complexion of my solitary holiday was changing fast.

I’d love to!

The high-octane energy of a family with a young child is a whole different ball game from the gray-haired gatherings I’m used to. But who can resist a five-year-old dynamo on pink roller skates?

We were well entertained and the meal of four-hour Balinese green beans, chicken betutu, cream-cheese mashed potatoes, and homemade frosted Christmas cookies was magnificent. The wine didn’t hurt either.

All that and a mystery guest. I finally got to meet a person I’ve been hearing about for years and if anything, the glowing reports were too humble. He’s one of those down-to-earth, funny, sincere, fascinating VIPs that you just wouldn’t expect to run into at your neighbor’s spur-of-the-moment Christmas lunch.

After two celebratory days I didn’t want the fun to end. I suggested to Ketut that it was time for another motorbike adventure. My back took weeks to recover from the marathon ordeal I put it through three months ago, but a visit to the beaches south of Ubud wouldn’t be a taxing trip. I wanted to check out the rumors that there are actually people down there – visitors – domestic tourists – because in Ubud they’re rare as unicorns.

As with most outings, eating figures in at some point. For this trip I wanted to stop at Cantina Warung. It’s on a dirt road that dead-ends somewhere between Seminyak and Canggu, and it’s so close to the ocean you almost feel the salt-spray on your skin. We’d check out Sanur and Kuta beaches on the way and easily be back in Ubud before the predicted afternoon downpour.

There was no traffic as we approached Sanur. The bodies standing in the water were fishermen, not tourists. Ketut thought he saw one family that probably came from another part of Indonesia but the few people enjoying the sun and sand were local. I’d expected that. Sanur isn’t the hotspot for vacationing party-ers who want a nightlife.

We hopped back on the bike and continued our search. Traffic by the Mall Galleria was almost non-existent.

In Kuta and Seminyak the story was the same with a slightly different twist. Here there were no locals, just a smattering of visitors and miles of empty lounge chairs on the deserted beach. Were we too early? Were the partying people still in bed nursing hangovers? It was getting on toward noon – surely they’d be up by now – if indeed they were here at all.

On the bike again I hollered through my mask at the back of Ketut’s helmet. “This adventure’s making me hungry. Let’s get lunch.”

There are several restaurants in Bali that are so enchanting I just want to keep eating so I can sit there for hours guilt-free. Cantina Warung is one of those. A constant ocean breeze, the rumble of breakers rolling in, comfortable chairs…don’t ever underestimate the importance of cushy seating – it’s huge…and today there were people sunbathing. People swimming. People walking dogs. We’d finally found PEOPLE!

We settled in and ordered lunch. Ketut is predictible – fried chicken and coca-cola. I had the BBQ chicken burrito with fries and a mojito. Not sure why the french fries came garnished with herby greens. They were easy to remove. But I have to say, that chicken burrito with chunks of avocado, crunchy lettuce, a sweet-and-spicy barbecue sauce on the melt-in-your-mouth grilled poultry – oh my! I’m drooling just remembering.

We’d whiled away about an hour and a half when Ketut pointed to a sign that I’d ignored and said, “Look. Our table is reserved for eight people at four o’clock. We can stay three more hours.”

That’s when I ordered two cups with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in each, and a pot of coffee to pour over it. We stretched that out until about two o’clock when all of a sudden Ketut said, “Mungkin hujan di Ubud sekarang.” Whoops! In my idyllic reverie I’d completely forgotten about the afternoon rain I’d been hoping to avoid.

The ride home took us through Canggu. There was a lot more traffic there than we’d seen anywhere else. Shops and cafes were open. Perhaps what I’d heard was true, that Canggu is the hot spot right now. Hot may be too optimistic a word. A warm spot.

As we approached Ubud the road was wet. “Maybe rain is already finished,” Ketut said. Three minutes later we were pelted with huge sloppy drops.

“Do you have your plastic, Ketut?”

“Ya. You?”

“Ya.”

“You want to stop?”

“No.”

“Good.” He laughed.

How precious, memorable, and unexpectedly rich this holiday has been. I could have sat home and survived. I would have called it a fitting end for a year during which many of us have done little other than sit at home and survive. So I’m going to see my unplanned Christmas as a positive energetic shift, a vital lurch propelling us toward a brighter 2021.

May it be so.

How many days of ‘poor me’ do I get?

It’s a compulsion. Whenever I meet someone I haven’t seen for many months, the first thing I want to ask is, “How has it been for you – this year…” I want to add, ‘from hell’ but maybe it wasn’t for them. The question has to hang there, open-ended, untainted, allowing for either possibility.

I can tell you how it’s been for me. In a word, brutal.

I’ve lost a dear elderly uncle and a young friend. The struggle to keep my nervous system in balance has taken intense focus and sometimes outright trickery. Like now. I’ve been listening to Epic Choir chanting Om So Hum for an hour and I’ve just hit replay. Like the vaccine, I need a second dose and I can’t wait a month. Having soothing sounds in the background makes my body believe all is calm, normal, in control, even though my mind isn’t convinced. So while my body’s distracted, I’ll occupy my mind with this task of writing.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

But besides being brutal, I’ll tell you what else this year has been for me. Revelationary. Twenty-nineteen has been a time of intense self-discovery. And as you might suspect, most of it exposed the dark side. Fears came barrelling to the forefront. Old insecurities lit up like fireworks. Regret, blame, shame, guilt…all sat in judgment as months passed and reality settled over me like a burial shroud.

Then one morning I woke up thinking, How many days of ‘poor me’ do I get?

That sounded suspiciously like the old Sherry, the pre-Covid Sherry. So I laughed and answered my question: As many as you need, kid, but don’t make it a habit. I’m trying to take my own good advice. I allow myself some sadness – deep enough and painful enough that it approaches depression at times. But I love my natural optimism too much to risk losing it forever in the Slough of Despond.

Over the years I’ve learned that awareness of a problem is the first step in the path to managing it. My self-discovery journaling was all about getting to the root causes of my destructive patterns so I could take a different way forward. This year has given me enough psychological fodder to occupy me for the rest of my life, and it’s not over yet. My heart breaks at the thought of those who don’t have the mental steel-trap that I use to lock out despair and force myself back to sanity. It’s a gift that has enabled my survival during difficult times.

But the unrelenting length of this extraordinary set of circumstances concerns me the most.

In our instant gratification society we haven’t developed ‘staying power.’ I watch my children getting stretched to their limits, adjusting, then getting stretched again. (Okay, I started to feel anxious then realized my music had stopped. I just hit replay – going into the third hour of Om So Hum…!) They (my children) are young, resilient, creative, employed, and healthy. So are my grandchildren. What a blessing. I’m grateful every moment. But nothing for them is as it was. Two of them are working from home with toddlers. Locked down and locked in both by legal mandate and by snow. And there’s that 24/7 togetherness…I rest my case.

Then, as if conjured from the ether, I was given another self-discovery tool that left my mouth gaping. Gene Keys. I’d never heard of it so after accessing my scary-precise and in-depth free profile, I did some research and found that the profile info is a mere surface scratch. Richard Rudd studied the I Ching, astrology, and another body of learning called Human Design. He used aspects from all of them and came up with this vastly complex system that spits out information about you, perhaps as you’ve never seen yourself before.

To try it, click here. There’s a button for a Free Profile. Enter your birthdate and place and time of birth. If you don’t know what time you were born, just plug in 12:01 – a minute after noon. No problem. Mine nailed me, calling out both my strengths and my shadows. It brought me to another level of understanding about what I need, what I may want that doesn’t serve me, and antidotes for the pitfalls in my personality.

I’ll try anything if I think it will shed light on this creature that I am and help me navigate my life more effectively. I don’t have a lot of time left. The luxury of learning ‘the hard way’ is a thing of the past. I want to come out on the other side of this Covid freak-show a wiser, healthier, more compassionate human.

How many days of ‘poor me’ do I get?

Hopefully, soon, that won’t be a question I even have to ask.

One Stellar Day and The Eleventh Hour

I had a stellar day.

I used to have them regularly. In fact, it was the odd day that wasn’t. But it’s been a long nine months since I’ve experienced twelve hours that were gorgeous from beginning to end.

It began with a moody sunrise.

Clouds stirred a potent stew setting the stage. Anything could happen.

My morning routine behind me, I readied my computer to tune in to Jessa’s class. My oldest daughter has created a niche for herself that nobody else can occupy simply because they haven’t walked in her shoes. This child of mine heard a different drum and listened. From an undergrad in psychology, she enrolled in the California Institute of Integral Studies for her Masters in Women’s Spirituality which took her to the Goddess Temples of Malta for ritual, dance, and music. There she experienced the archaeological remnants of pre-patriarchal culture. 

After grad school, Jessa was hired by Yeungnam University in South Korea where she taught English to English Literature majors for several years. During that time, she explored other parts of Asia. Every so often I’d get a message: I’ll be out of touch for a while Mom…I don’t want you to worry….which would instantly trigger acute anxiety and push all my fear buttons. With a local guide, she journeyed by donkey along Tiger Leaping Gorge, completely off-the-grid. That visit to the matriarchal Mosuo community on Lugu Lake near the Tibetan border in China gave me weeks of nightmares. She loved it. Leaving Mother Lake: A Girlhood at the Edge of the World, by Yang Erche Namu, is the memoir of a young Mosuo woman. If you want your eyes opened to an alternate universe, read that book.

For ninety minutes I scribbled notes as Jessa presented her class Crossing the Aquarian Threshold: The Jupiter Saturn Grand Conjunction. Forty of us Zoomed with her on a deep dive into the ramifications of the planetary alignment that will arrive on Dec 21, 2020, the Solstice. Her diverse perspectives and surprise ending gave me so much hope for the future that, as soon as she finished, I had a full-blown meltdown. I know, that doesn’t make sense. I should have been overjoyed, not unglued.

I think it was the build-up of nine months of horror, holding myself tight to maintain sanity, making daily life-and-death decisions, “Can I see this person? Am I Covid free? Are they? Should I go to the store? The restaurant? The library…?” A message of hope seemed too much for my nervous system to bear.

There’s nothing like a blubbering, cleansing cry to refresh the soul.

It took a while but eventually I collected myself and made a huge bowl of fresh mango topped with homemade granola for lunch. Ketut appeared just in time for Nescafe and gosip, a favorite pastime that isn’t really gossip. I don’t know how we got onto the subject of the Cempaka tree and its metal heart, but I learned that Cempaka heartwood is incredibly strong, like metal, and is used for temple structures and wood carvings. Ketut wanted to know if there were such trees where I come from. I said there might be one in a botanical garden inside a glass house to keep it warm, but not growing wild like Bali.

Good laughs, always good laughs with Ketut.

After sitting all morning, I needed to move my body. For several days I’d been itching for new reading material. Ubud’s Pondok Pekok is a lending library about a quarter-mile from me. It also has a section of used books for sale ranging from seventy cents to $3.50 USD. They’re not in any logical order so it’s a game of hunt ‘n’ peck. I’ve passed hours paging through musty tomes, but this time it went fast.

I found three good novels, then a splash of color caught my eye. Out of a stack of used and abused children’s books I pulled this gem.

The cover sold me. Tell me, who could resist opening this book? It was in utterly pristine condition – an enigma in the Ubud library world. Every page was a feast for the eyes.

Graeme Base is an author/illustrator, a rare bird in literature, and he’s written this story in delicious rhyme. Above are pages two and three of Hubert the elephant’s birthday party mystery entitled The Eleventh Hour.

The feeling that I’d struck gold lingered as I hurried home and rearranged furniture to prepare for the next event of this exceptional day. My table found a perfect spot under the ceiling fan – also the best location to catch cool breezes. I use the term ‘cool’ loosely as rainy season is upon us with high temperatures and 99% humidity.

Ketut had challenged two friends to a few games of Texas Mean which he always wins. But not this time! Our precocious thirteen-year-old neighbor took four out of five rounds and I got lucky with one. She was blissed! He was skunked (overwhelming defeat – check it out) but took his losses with jovial goodwill.

A few hours later, games finished, I started to return the table to its original position. But the chair and ottoman I’d moved out of the way and tucked in a corner looked so inviting I couldn’t resist a sit-down. Before me stretched the wide-open view of sky and clouds. I day-dreamed until it was too dark to see. Wholly at peace, full from heart to toes with gratitude for life, I pulled myself out of my cozy spot, showered, grabbed one of the new books, and went to bed.

What made this day special, superbly elevated above endless days before it?

  • The message of hope
  • My blubbering melt-down
  • Gosip with Ketut
  • A successful treasure hunt
  • Fun with friends
  • Cloud-dreaming

People. Learning. Variety. Challenge. Surprise. Fun. And HOPE. Hope that there will be much more of this in the weeks ahead. I don’t think I can wait nine months more for another perfect day.

If you want a peek at where else Jessa’s been and what she’s done, here’s the link to the credentials page on her website. And to all who are reading this – wherever you are – I hope you’ve had more than one stellar day. It isn’t quite enough.

P.S. A recording of Jessa’s class Crossing the Aquarian Threshold: The Jupiter Saturn Grand Conjunction is available for $35. Please include your email address so she can send you the recording. You can make your payment via PayPal paypal.me/jessawalters or Venmo. Once she receives payment, she’ll email you the link to download the recording, along with a bounty of resources she references in her presentation.

The recording is about 90 minutes. One of the participants, Mary Foley, had this to say: “Such an amazing presentation, thank you so much! I love how much you bring from your work in somatics and racial justice. You weave a picture of hope without letting us off the hook for the tremendous amount of work we have to do!”

For more information and for other offerings, you can visit Jessa’s website: www.jessawalters.com

Blame it on Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving morning dawned, hot, muggy, and slightly overcast.

There was no planned outing with friends to a local restaurant for roasted stuffed turkey with all the trimmings. Such gatherings are discouraged for now, and to actually find a restaurant open, and not only open but serving turkey which is outrageously expensive to buy here…well…it just wasn’t going to happen.

I awoke with reasonably good intentions of accomplishing something, but a goal as fuzzy as that rarely gets much traction.

So I napped and read, read and napped, and thought about Thanksgivings past.

The table was set for ten or twelve. Before Dad said grace, and before digging into moist slices of turkey, candied sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and stuffing with gravy, we took turns telling what we were grateful for.

Between snoozes and the interesting story I was sort of reading, I rehearsed my current litany of blessings, see-sawing between past memories and present realities when suddenly… I had an overwhelming urge to sort through files. Trust me, this never happens. I knew I had to act and act fast or the notion would pass.

Soon the floor around me was littered with stacks of ‘keepers’ and ‘dumps.’

And then…

There it was. The packet of old photos Mom sent home with me when she was divesting herself of a lifetime of family history kept in picture albums. I’d never bothered to open it.

Oh, my! Ms. Bouffant 1969.

I was 19. How did I even get my hair to do that? I probably slept on giant brush rollers all night, then teased the curls into rats’ nests, smoothed the top and spray-lacquered it to the consistency of a bike helmet with Superhold Aqua Net. Remember Aqua Net? Superhold was purple.

aqua net hairspray 80s - Yahoo Image Search Results | Aqua net, My  childhood memories, Memories

I came across other shots equally as humiliating, but my pride will only allow one at a time.

As it happened, I actually accomplished quite a lot in spite of my very slow start. Eleven fat folders became four skinny ones. I found poems I’d forgotten I’d written and old diaries that jogged more memories.

So I wasn’t really alone for Thanksgiving. Old ghosts came back to remind me how truly grateful I am NOT to be living in the past. No matter how tough this Covid year has been, and no matter how uncertain the future seems at the moment, helmet hair and Aqua Net are forever behind me and that’s worth celebrating!

We Can’t Plan for a Future that Has No Past

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to speak of many things…”

I hadn’t read through the whole poem of The Walrus and the Carpenter, by Lewis Carroll until today. It’s a horrible story! But that well-known line captures the feeling I’ve had for months – the necessity to state the truth of the situation and move forward.

Moving forward means going toward the future, a future that has no basis in past experience, nothing to look at and say, “When this happened before, this is what I did.” If Covid has done nothing else, it’s shown me how much I’ve depended on the past to navigate and plan for what’s next.

So now I’m flying by seat-of-the-pants intuition and my gut.

All the while nursing mild hysteria at being cooped up without nearly enough social stimulation. Not to mention the black hole of lonesomeness for my family a g’zillion miles away. So if what I’m about to say sounds impetuous….

It’s not.

My decision is based upon hundreds of hours of banging my head against a wall, meditating, then banging my head a few more times for good measure. In other words, I’ve thoroughly thought it through, considered all the options, changed my mind then changed it back, and finally have arrived at a place of knowing what I want.

I’m selling the lease on my property here in Ubud and embarking on the next great adventure.

Please check out this link and forward it to anyone you think might be curious or interested. Income Property with Owner’s Studio Suite in Ubud

Bali has been my home for nine years. That’s longer than four of my marriages. I’ve thrived here. The island welcomed me, nurtured me, and grounded me in a deeper understanding of myself. Out of a driving desire to communicate with Ketut’s family, I learned to speak Indonesian and my escapades on the back of his motorbike will remain some of the most precarious and precious moments of my life.

It’s been a glorious ride, literally and figuratively. But my gypsy soul has itchy feet and my Viking heart is pounding a new rhythm.

Do I know what’s next?

Remember, there’s no past giving me clues to the future, and my crystal ball’s gone cloudy. But I can stay in the present moment and take the next right step. Then the next. And the next. To relieve myself of my responsibilities here is the first right thing. The old must be set aside before the new can emerge.

“The time has come...”

Bali: Before and After

My love for this island hasn’t wavered. I’ve written poems and posts praising her wondrous landscapes and warm-hearted people. My taste buds have acclimated to chilies and fish sauce. I can’t imagine going back to canned-soup casseroles after thriving on fresh-off-the-tree dragon fruit, papaya, mango, and the magnificent red banana.

Here’s what I wrote in June, 2013, a word-picture of the old Bali that put all her eggs in the tourist basket. And the last verse, the Bali now, is a much different scene. As you read it, the word Bule means foreigner and is pronounced Boo-lay, accent on Boo.

Bali Beats

  • Kuta Beach, braid your hair?
  • Won’t take long…buy sarong?
  • Maybe two…good price…
  • Kuta Cowboy nice, you want
  • Mushroom? Weed? Speed?
  • What you need, Bule?
  • Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
  • Gamelan in the streets, cremation tower
  • Dodging power lines, three times
  • Black bull circles
  • Dizzy spirits flee
  • Can you see it, Bule?
  • Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
  • Kecak chorus, chant, trance
  • Women dancing
  • Golden deer and Hanoman
  • In the night by firelight,
  • Are you frightened, Bule?
  • Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
  • Rubbish smoking
  • Choking when you breathe it in…
  • The din of tourist bus
  • Clogs narrow streets
  • Defeats the purpose, Bule…
  • Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali beats…
  • Trash in ocean, river, piling up
  • While Bali smiling for you, Bule…
  • Taxi, yes? Today? Tomorrow, maybe…
  • Where you stay?
  • What you pay, Bule?
  • Bali beats, Bali beats, Bali bleeds…
  • Covid came and Bule fled
  • Business dead, no smiles here
  • Just fear, uncertainty
  • And empty streets
  • So quiet I can hear
  • The beats…of Bali’s…heart

The situation is bleak, and it’s a stern wake-up call. An economy based almost solely on tourism is fragile indeed. But the Balinese are resilient and creative. They will adapt. Many have already gone back to resurrect their paddies and vegetable gardens. But those who no longer have land, those taxi drivers, hotel staff, and restaurant owners who depended upon a steady stream of tourism for survival, are suffering.

I’m a Bule who is still here, and while I grieve for my Balinese friends, I also watch wildlife return. Birds and butterflies I haven’t seen for years twitter and flutter about the garden. Fumes from the exhaust of too many cars, buses, and motorbikes, jammed in gridlock, have faded away. The air sparkles clear.

They say it’s like Bali twenty years ago…before the Bule stole her heart.

When It All Comes Crashing Down

Hibernating gets old. Just ask any grumpy she-bear who’s been holed up in a cave all winter in a state of suspended animation…

Does this sound familiar?

Of course Bali doesn’t have cold weather…or bears. But it has more than its share of expats who are feeling the effects of confinement. For the past few days I’ve barely stuck my nose out of the house. I meant to, but it was easier not to.

This morning, for some inexplicable reason, I woke up at 5:30 supercharged. The sky was brightening but the sun wouldn’t rise for another half hour. I made my bed, certain this was a fluke and the jolt of energy was just that, a jolt, and would quickly pass.

It remained.

The voice I’ve come to recognize as my stern grandmother (if you’ve never had a Norwegian grandmother you’ll have no idea what I mean) pulled me up short. Skam på du! she said. I think that’s the only Norsk phrase I ever learned. Shame on you!

She washed my hair once. I was about 4. My scalp was raw from her vigorous suds-ing. When she dumped buckets of water over my head to rinse out the soap, I came up spluttering and choking. That’s my most vivid memory of her.

I threw on yesterday’s clothes, masked up, and bolted out the door.

At 6 a.m. the air was cool and sweet. A brisk pace took me to Ubud Palace. Across the street the traditional market was already bustling. I don’t blend into the crowd very well, so I didn’t stop and shoot a photo straight into the market area where bodies moved shoulder to shoulder in a dense sea of commerce. Had I done so, my actions may have been misinterpreted, or at the very least, unwelcome. I don’t want to be the Ugly American.

But a few paces farther along, I captured the motorbikes lined up in front.

I stuffed my phone back in my bag and continued past the glistening Arjuna statue that marks Jalan Raya’s east end. For probably the 2,578th time in my nine years in Bali, I stopped, backed up, fished my phone out again, got the perfect angle, and took the photo. I’m still awes-struck at the elegance, the intricate detail, and the sheer size of these artistic works depicting scenes from the epic Hindu texts, the Mahabharata and Ramayana.

Still brimming with energy and smiling under my mask, I continued to Delta Dewata, one of two major grocery stores in Ubud.

I assumed it would be open. There was a patch of shade on the flight of steps leading up to…locked doors. I sat on the stairs and checked the time. 6:35 a.m. Their website said they were open every day, 8 – 10.

It wasn’t that I’d intended to shop. But I’d have browsed and found something I didn’t know I needed before resuming my jaunt.

I sat there, plotting my next move only semi-aware of the person working in the shrubs beside me. When a cracking sound caught my attention, I looked up – just in time.

WHACK! A huge penjor crashed onto the pavement, almost taking my nose with it.

I jumped. Probably squeaked a bit.

Then the ah-ha moment. Today is the day for removing these elegant, graceful tokens that are erected every six months during the celebration of Galungan-Kuningan. They invite the spirits of the ancestors back to their family homes to be remembered and honored. It suddenly made sense: That’s why the offerings I’d been seeing were more extravagant than usual.

Now I had a mission. I continued my meandering journey photographing the bountiful offerings and the women making their way to the temple.

Throughout the day, thousands of penjors will be removed. Their splendor has faded. The once-brilliant fabrics adorning them are now washed-out pastels. The spirits of the ancestors left weeks ago.

The penjor crashing down in front of me woke me up. It’s as though Grandma Rakel was scolding again. “Pay attention!” she said. “Don’t walk through your life asleep. Be present for the small things – they are your reality. They are right now.”

Wise and terrifying Norwegian Grandmother Rakel, thank you.

Ramping It Up To Highly Contagious Joy

Time passes. Covid remains. I adjust.

For thirty years I’ve been digging around in my psyche, excavating fascinating beliefs about myself lodged there, some true, many not.

By my 70th birthday, in my opinion, I’d achieved a decent level of awareness, had banished the more bothersome demons, and was living my dream life in paradise.

Then Covid hit. I quickly discovered what I didn’t know that I didn’t know about me. I didn’t know that overnight, trauma would erase the progress I’d made and send me careening back thirty-plus years to my un-awakened past.

In that state, I made impulsive decisions based on fears I thought I’d overcome.

Now, seven months later, the more progressed me has been restored and I’m in awe of human resilience – our ability to adapt to bizarre circumstances that defy imagination.

  • I automatically don the mask when I leave my house and have gotten accustomed, here in Bali, to seeing almost everyone’s nose and mouth covered, some more creatively than others.
  • I think twice before I meet with a friend if I’ve been in contact with anyone other than Ketut whose village still has no cases of the virus. I don’t want to be the one responsible for spreading this plague.
  • Even in my own house compulsive hand-washing has become second-nature.

I’ve reached a level of contentment just to be in the present with the way things are because the way things are isn’t 100% bad.

This was recently made clear to me during meditation – that I must accept and unify the dualities in life. Every circumstance has it’s positives and negatives, pros and cons, gifts and challenges.

Acceptance. Allowing what is to just be, without judging it as bad or good, without assigning blame, without getting attached to one outcome or another. Acceptance without expectation. Acceptance with gratitude.

Adopting that attitude creates a peaceful heart.

But for me, there’s a ramp-up mechanism that goes beyond peace and takes me straight to the next level – joy. I heard it in operation this morning.

Hack.

Hack.

Hack.

I ignored it for a while, then curiosity got the best of me and I looked out the window toward the back garden. In the far righthand corner I could see the shivering tops of a two-story cluster of bamboo.

I dashed downstairs, picked my way through stacks of downed trees, and there it was. There HE was. Ketut. The ramp-up mechanism himself,

Uh-huh. See what I mean? What man, woman, or beast could resist THAT FACE? He radiates pure joy and it’s highly contagious, especially without a mask.

She Cans While I Contemplate The Third Noble Truth

My sister and I began emailing every day at the beginning of lockdown. That’s approximately 344 emails to date and we haven’t let up.

I’m not talking a sentence or two. I’m talking paragraphs – five or ten or more – and photos. Seriously.

Our topics run the gamut. Canning – she has a prolific garden and makes it look easy…

We discuss politics – how can you not. And Covid – again, how can you not. But one of the things I most appreciate is her willingness to ‘go there’ with me, and that could be anywhere from musing on the existence of spirit guides to the likelihood of being rescued from a dying earth by aliens.

Yesterday, however, my sister who never complains almost complained. I’d sent her an overview of a project I’m working on and she wrote back: Sherry, I’ve had more time to look at your outline but it’s vague.

My feathers ruffled momentarily, then I realized she probably thought that’s all I had. So I answered…

“Regarding the outline, think of it like this. I have piles and piles of garments in assorted colors for different seasons but I have no hangers so the clothes are heaped on the floor. (The clothes are the content.) Hangers just got delivered.  Now all I have to do is put the clothes on hangers removing the ones I no longer want, sort the colors by season (which are the subject titles and subtitles) and hang them in order in the closet (which is the outline).

“That may be a disorderly way of doing it but that’s my MO.

“Some people start with the outline whether it’s writing a book, giving a speech, planning a course. I don’t. So often inspiration comes in the form of one sentence that intrigues me. So I start the story, or in this case material for a workshop, without much of a notion where it’s going or how it will get there. 

“I don’t like to be confined by convention or an outline that presupposes an outcome. I want my thoughts to have free reign, to respond to prompts from who-knows-where, to sprout and grow in whatever direction they will until I latch onto the idea that makes me passionate about the book or the speech or the workshop. That way I don’t get attached to a predetermined form and try to force my story into it.”

When I wrote that it brought to mind my morning meditation.

I’m not Buddhist but I find the practice of non-attachment, The Third Noble Truth in Buddhist teachings, an interesting one to grapple with. Buddhism suggests that attachment is the root of human suffering. And isn’t it true?! When you want so badly to see a certain outcome from your efforts that you try to force your life into that expectation and then it doesn’t turn out that way, there’s such a feeling of futility, remorse, failure, disappointment, in a word – suffering.

But if we approach everything with curiosity and non-attachment we leave our hearts and minds wide open to be delighted. We then live in alignment with our truest, best self, a self that embraces growth and change and allows us to fluidly adjust to new situations.

I can’t tell you how exciting it was to have made that connection.

The non-attachment principle has bothered me for some time – just couldn’t wrap my head around the feeling of chilly disengagement it brought up in me. Now I see it from a completely different perspective, one that liberates rather than withholds. And it never would have happened if I hadn’t gotten my feathers ruffled and felt the need to explain my ‘vague outline’ to my sister who never complains.

All photos taken at The Farm by Gwen Hall.

Do You Remember The ‘Fuller Brush Man’?

After three days of solitary confinement I was teetering on the brink. I don’t even have to say the brink of what because you’ve all been there and YOU KNOW.

As a result of my two rather extensive motorbike adventures, my back was telling me in no uncertain terms to give it a rest. So that’s what I’d been doing for the past sixty-two hours – seeing nobody, hearing nobody, speaking to nobody – I was over it.

There’s a Japanese bakery two miles (3.3 km) from my house, Kakiang Garden & Cafe. Pizza is on their menu and for some reason I’d been craving a deep dive into dairy and carbs. Such an indulgence is justifiable after walking two miles, wouldn’t you agree?

I set out.

Photography doesn’t come naturally. I don’t like the camera between me and what I’m looking at. It’s a degree of separation that feels invasive, like I’m robbed of the intimacy of that moment. On the other hand, I believe the old adage: A picture’s worth a thousand words. So when I want to communicate what I’m experiencing with others, I try to remember to take photos.

It didn’t occur to me there would be much worth sharing on this walk until I happened upon a roofless graffiti gallery and suddenly remembered my phone had a camera.

Within a few steps there was another work of art. This rice field abuts one of the busiest streets in Ubud, Jalan Andong.

So many paddies were left fallow for years while money poured in from tourism. Now they’re being revived and what a feast for the eyes.

Once started, photo ops popped up everywhere. Do you remember door-to-door salesmen? One used to come to our house in the 1950’s. Mom knew the sound of his car and she’d say, “It’s the Fuller Brush Man.” He sold pots, plates, brooms – not brushes – yet I never thought to question why she called him that. So I asked Google, What’s a Fuller Brush Man, and found a fascinating story.

This is the Bali version.

Most of Jl. Andong is a serious shopper’s paradise. Many businesses export their goods but they’re always willing to sell to walk-in customers. I haunted this stretch of roadway when I was buying pieces for my house.

As I strolled past a virtual cornucopia of visual delights, I almost wished I could start the treasure hunt for furnishings all over again.

And then…I arrived.

It was too early for lunch and I’d already eaten breakfast, but there’s always room for dessert. I ordered an avocado coffee. And, yes. It is absolutely as decadent as it looks, avocado blended with ice cream poured over espresso with a squirt of chocolate and another scoop of ice cream. Pure heaven.

For a couple of hours I kept company with my thoughts, scribbled ideas in a notebook, watched butterflies flutter their mating dance, listened to chatter in the kitchen punctuated by frequent laughter, and absorbed the energy of life going on around me.

I still wasn’t in the least hungry, but I’d come for pizza and no way was I leaving without it. I managed to eat one piece. The rest is in my fridge.

More than delicious food, the day refueled me. It smoothed my frayed edges, loosened my knotted muscles, quieted my buzzing nerves. I was reminded that there’s still a world beyond my four walls and it beats with a strong heart.

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