The ‘I’m Getting Old’ Myth

07 Jun 2014 9 Comments

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

I’m getting old. It feels weird to look at my arms and see skin hanging off the muscle like wrinkled fabric. I still have really good muscles but the skin, OMG! The thighs are just as bad but I make it a point not to look at them.

Others my age cover their arms. I refuse. That’s part of the adjustment. How vain do I need to be? It’s a valid question. How vain do I need to be to continue to support the image of who I am, or an image of what I want others to believe I am?

We need to assimilate age, to accept it and become it. Otherwise we succumb to the impossible quest for eternal youth like Dolly Parton (71) or her counterpart old whatshisname Kenny Rogers (79)! They’ve been under the knife so many times that there probably isn’t an inch of flesh anywhere that hasn’t been sliced, pulled up, and tacked in place.

Dolly PartonKenny Rogers

And what are those glove thingy’s that Dolly’s wearing! Probably a distraction to camouflage really old hands!
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I’m on a rant, but I’m finished now. Don’t, however, tell me that getting old beats the alternative even though it does, so far. The 50’s ease us into the idea. Oh yeah, I have a laugh line here or an eye-wrinkle there, and oh yeah, I need bifocals. Then we’re 60. Things still aren’t too bad if the lights are low.
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But hold on to your perky tits, darlings, it’s a slippery slope from there!
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So here’s what I’m saying. If there’s too much identity linked to the packaging, getting old is going to be a very difficult, or a very expensive proposition. But if life gets richer, raunchier, and more succulent with each passing year, a subtle exchange occurs. We turn inside-out. I kid you not. The inner workings of the mind, our passions and dreams, become paramount and the carcass is just a vehicle to get us from point A to point B.
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Which behooves me to say, take good care of that carcass!

Hate your job? Try this…

14 May 2014 5 Comments

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

I’m sure you work hard. The stress level is crushing. The equipment is outdated and your boss breathes down your neck. I’m sorry.

Perhaps you would like to change places with the building crew that arrives in the back of a battered pickup truck every morning, hauled down from their homes in mountain villages in the pre dawn chill. They’ve already cooked the rice and vegetables that they bring along to sustain them through the day. I try to be up before they arrive.

P1060507This time I’ve been awake for hours. I know in a general sense what is supposed to happen today. I’m eager and a little apprehensive.

Before sunup ten people gather in my garden. They’re here to pour concrete for the second level. I know the drill, breakfast first. I’ve set out ten glasses with coffee and sugar. The water kettle is boiling.

P1060511 The boss is a jovial bloke and to look at him I’d never know how quickly he’ll rally the troops and get things moving. Time is never wasted but neither is it rushed. Everyone knows his or her place and what is expected. First the tower and cable must be installed that will carry the bins of concrete to the second floor, fifteen feet above the ground.

P1060537The column goes up while my back is turned to photograph the women carrying bags of cement from the garden to the mix site in the back. It’s done by hand, or head shall we say, with smiles and waves.

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This is a specialized crew that comes complete with the mixing machine.They know exactly how much rock, sand, and water must be added to the concrete for just the right consistency. P1060525

I watch as the motor for the generator is cranked, and cranked, then cranked again. With a chug-chug and a puff of dirt-black smoke, it grumbles into service. The mixer turns and women come from both directions with tubs of rock and sand on their heads. A bag of concrete is dumped in, then water, one after another, robotic in their consistency, until the contents is ready. The man at the lever flips the bucket over into the waiting bin. Grey slush pours out and is whisked heavenward to the second floor. It’s a scene that cannot be believed. I took a short video from the terrace that tells the story much more eloquently than I can. View it in all its intensity here. It’s in real time and just as loud in reality as it sounds virtually.

After staring open-mouthed and mesmerized at the perpetual motion below, curiosity gets the best of me and I climb the makeshift ladder to check out what’s happening upstairs. It’s only a little more chilled out up here. The lumpy liquid pours out of the chute and is troweled into place by the dude in rubber boots, knee deep in the slush.

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 They’re hard at it for five hours then it’s finished. The equipment is gone. The people have vanished. Lingering diesel fumes hang in the air but otherwise there’s not a trace of the industry that hummed so efficiently around me mere moments ago. It’s almost too quiet. I feel stunned, like I’ve been pulled out of a blender just before it pulverizes me. My eardrums still vibrate.

It’s a bizarre dichotomy this Bali life. One part of this world is the glitz and glam of all that money can buy, yachts, Hummers, and private jets. The other has barely entered the Machine Age. I’m suspended between the two, well maybe not yachts and Hummers, but I definitely have a foot in the past! And I kind of like it there. I may put both feet in.

Monkey Wars

10 Dec 2013 3 Comments

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

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 Buddha Bakery Sourdough Bread

Bali Buddha Bakery Sourdough Bread

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.

Macaque Monkey King credit animalsversesanimals.yuku.com

Macaque Monkey King
photo credit animalsversesanimals.yuku.com

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

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

Dearest...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

Part Two: Creating a life that fits like skin “Why Bali?”

27 Nov 2013 14 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

In 2010, Jessa was teaching in South Korea. Several months before my sixtieth, the phone rang. “Mom, why don’t you meet me in Bali for your birthday?” Bali? My only frame of reference to that word was the movie, South Pacific…here am I your special island, come to me, come to me…

“Can you come?”

I thought it over for about two-and-a-half seconds. Why not? I was in the midst of a bitter divorce, jobless, I had nothing better to do. Why not meet her in…Bali? Where on god’s green earth was Bali?

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Bali with Jessa, February 2010

I’d been living on savings. In February I snatched another chunk of change from the dwindling account and left. To go from winter in Minnesota, to resplendent greens, thick humid air, happy people, and sunshine, sunshine, sunshine, does a number. My body loosened. My parched skin plumped, and wrinkles disappeared. I felt years younger.

TERRACED RICE PADDY, UBUD AREA, BALI, INDONESIAWe were with a Balinese guide making our way through farmlands and jungle. “I show you rice terraces,” he said. I pictured more green paddies of the kind I’d seen everywhere. We rounded a bend on a narrow piece of trail and my breath caught in my throat. The mountains formed a semi-circle around us. Cascading down their slopes were pools of water, each one reflecting the sun, sky, and clouds. It was the most unearthly beautiful sight I’d ever seen. Something settled into my heart that day. I didn’t know what it was then. I do now.

Back in Minnesota, still winter, late February, I hit bottom. After Bali, the cold felt colder and the dark gray of winter seemed endless. I toughed it out with hours of Qigong and Kettle Bells. Qigong stilled my mental spins. Kettle Bells wore me out. It was the perfect combo.

And I wrote. Writing brought peace.

The emotional pain of that time was glorious. I had the sensation of my body being separated from its parts. An arm floated out in front of me. The left side of my face hung off my shoulder and the ground was too close. Every step jarred. I have never been so disconnected from myself. I felt nut-bucket crazy.

But I had one thing going for me. Over the years I had perfected the appearance of sanity. No matter what kind of chaos was churning around or within me, I maintained a placid, controlled, exterior. There was nothing I couldn’t handle. “You’re so calm,” people said, and I’d smile, certain that if I opened my mouth all the bats in the belfry would fly out.

Crazy or not, employment was a necessity. Driving past a strip mall one day, I noticed a banner in the window. TURNSTYLE CONSIGNMENT, COMING SOON. Consignment shopping wasn’t really shopping to me. It was a treasure hunt. I’d spent happy hours buried in the aisles of such haunts. Turnstyle was a familiar chain in the area. They’ll be hiring, I thought, and did a wheelie into the parking lot.

Two months later I was their newest employee, earning $8.16 an hour. As far back as I could remember I had never made so little money and worked so hard. But I loved it. We were all women, most younger than me by at least half, some two-thirds. It felt like family and it was exactly what I needed.

A friend’s spare room had been housing me. Now, gainfully employed, I found a two bedroom apartment in the Kingfield neighborhood near Uptown with an enormous living room. I didn’t need anything that big, but the minute I walked in, it felt right. The built-in buffet, hardwood floors, and adorable kitchen, charmed me. Plus it had a garage, a luxury in that part of town. I had been there about two months when Jessa returned from Korea. She came to my spare bedroom and stayed a year.

Jessa at sunset - southern coast of California

Jessa at sunrise – California coast

Teaching in South Korea was life changing for her. While there, she had immersed herself in yoga and was ready to pursue it professionally. The living room in our apartment became her studio. We pushed the furniture against the walls to accommodate yoga mats. Each week people from the neighborhood came to her classes. I was a regular.

The year with Jessa was a happy one. I took writing classes and started working on a novel. I held workshops to teach the writing processes I had created and found that it also worked for others. I enjoyed my job at Turnstyle and I adored having Jessa living with me.

Morning after morning in the kitchen nook, with my steaming coffee and notebook, I took myself into the dark places, the wounded places, the broken places. I was nearing retirement. I felt like I had one last chance for a do-over. This time I had to get it right. There were huge pockets of grief as I came face to face with myself. I gave in to it, allowed it. I knew that the more kindness I afforded myself while I learned these lessons, the more quickly I could move on. I was birthing a new life, and this time it was my own.

Our apartment was a hotbed of change. Jessa’s yoga classes were growing. We needed space. My discovery writing pointed more and more to a simpler way. I’d read a book by Karen Kingston, Clearing Your Clutter with Feng Shui. She advised that in order to make room for the new we have to clean out the old. All of our stuff holds energy from the past. Photographs, furniture, everything. We should be mindful of what we keep.

I looked around me. Much of my furniture had been chosen by someone who was no longer dear to me. From the art, to the rugs, to the china, there was a pretentiousness that had never been my style. Looking at my possessions that day, thinking of the boxes stacked in the storage room in the basement of the apartment complex, feeling the overwhelm of it all, I made a decision.

Craigslist became my new best friend. Stuff flew out the door. I began to imagine freedom. The thought was intoxicating.

And then one morning I knew. I knew what I wanted. All the writing, the revelations, the pain, the uncertainty, had brought me to that moment. I wanted to go back to Bali, but not just for a vacation. What if I could retire there?

Fear kicked in with a vengeance. “You don’t know anybody.” “You’ll be lonely.” “What if you get sick?” “What if you hate it?” By now I knew how to handle those inner voices and simply wrote them out of the way.

I booked my first trip for two months. It was a trial run. I figured even if I hated it I could stand anything for that long. In the Bali Advertiser, a magazine for ex-pats with an online presence, I located a writers’ group with an e-mail contact.  I began corresponding with two of the women in the group. Technology also connected me with Dewa at Jati Homestay. I secured a room. He said his driver would meet me at the airport.

As the departure date drew near I was suffused with peace. An underlying excitement existed at all times, but the sense of having fallen in line with something bigger than myself, persisted. I had nosed into the slipstream of divine purpose and was cruising at altitude. It was effortless.

My heart brims full as I write this. The BoHo shirt (Part One) is no longer with me. Come to find out, I prefer less drama in my clothing when my life is full-on incredible. But BoHo ignited a desire, woke me up from a long, slow, sleep.

My reality now defies even my wildest imaginings. When I was gripped with emotion at the rice terraces, I didn’t understand. But, for me, the island is irresistible. I am in love with this place. It supports who I am and who I am becoming. It nurtures my body and reverses the aging process. Its profoundly feminine energy promotes an ever deepening spirituality.

Danielle LaPorte, the creator of The Firestarter Sessions, says, The journey has to feel like the destination. My journey, if anything, has intensified in Bali. The joy of it baffles me, thrills me, fills me with immense gratitude. It is sheer bliss.

If your journey doesn’t fit who you are…

If you’re still waiting to kiss your frog…

Or win the lottery…

Or if you’re in the habit of saying, “Things will get better…”

STOP. Please just stop.

Write a new story!

 

Part One: Creating a life that fits like skin How it began

26 Nov 2013 2 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

I hate to shop. But that day, the day it all started, I was shopping. As I thumbed through the racks holding too many choices, my eyes stopped. My thumbs kept going, but my eyes stopped. The fabric shouted drama. Black and white dots, red roses, scrolls and vines had caught my attention and held it.

Logic said, “No, no, no! That isn’t you.” And it wasn’t me. It wasn’t the well put together, careful, classic me that I knew, the Ralph Lauren me, the Ann Taylor me, the boxed-up-and-labeled me. I pulled it out to study it more closely. It was flowy. Loose. Light. I wasn’t. I shoved it back into place, shaking my head. “Moving right along…” I thought to myself and left the clothing.

I picked up a few gift items, browsed jewelry, and headed toward the cashier. That took me back past the racks. “One last little peek,” I thought as I veered off course and re-entered garment land.

No thumbing this time. I bee-lined for the rogue blouse, hoping in some corner of my brain that it would have lost its charm. As I fished it out, the label faced me. BoHo Chic, it said. “BoHo Chic,” I repeated, then again, “BoHo Chic?”

I found myself at check-out with BoHo still in my hands. “Nice shirt,” said the cashier. Was it?

“Thanks,” I said.

At home I stood in front of the mirror. BoHo stared back at me. “Who wears this?” I wondered as I studied the untamed look of that blouse with me in it. The style, the colors, the complicated pattern, unsettled me. Why had I been so drawn to it? I couldn’t say. And yet I was.

A nervous agitation buzzed through my body like too much coffee. BoHo had stirred a yearning that I couldn’t name, and part of me didn’t want to. But the next day, as I sat with my notebook for the morning discovery writing, questions tumbled out. Why do you love that shirt? I scribbled. Because it represents something I’m not, I scrawled my answer. What’s that? What aren’t you? I questioned again. I’m not…. Whatever I had intended to write didn’t make it to the page. The word that came was like a blue-light special, blaring over the loudspeaker of my mind. FREE! I’m not…FREE! Why aren’t you free? I wrote. That opened the floodgates. I hate my job. I feel trapped in a life that doesn’t fit me. I used to draw and paint. I used to play the guitar and sing. I used to write poetry. What happened to THAT me, the Bohemian me? The blouse with its quirky label scrolled across my thoughts. BoHo Chic…Bohemian Chic…a lump rose in my throat.

Awareness came first, then choice. Do I deal with this? Do I allow change? Or do I close my eyes, go numb, and forget I had this conversation?

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Living life fully ALIVE

Recovering my lost self and reshaping it to fit who I have become was a mind blowing experience. Over the following eighteen months, I literally wrote a new story, the story of a life that would fit who I was at my core, reflect my truth, and utilize my abilities, a life that fit like skin. As I wrote, what I wanted became clear. As my wants became clear, doors opened. As doors opened, dreams manifested, dreams that I didn’t know I had.*

Part Two: “Why Bali?”

There’s more to this story. Stay tuned!

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Bali green

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Puss n Buddha

23 Nov 2013 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

There’s a pile of rubbish behind a thick stand of banana trees. It is a treasure trove of discarded art, broken furniture, and other tids and bits of stuff nobody wants. I rarely pass by, but the other day I had opportunity to take a closer look. There, in plain sight, was one of the handsomest carved Buddha heads I’ve seen. I looked around. Nobody watching. Aware that snakes might have found a comfy home in that tangle, I approached warily, snatched it, and backed off for a closer examination. With the exception of a scrape on one side, the piece was in excellent condition.

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For a few months I’d been eyeing Buddhas in the shops. But I’m picky and it had to be just right, had to speak to me…so to speak. I couldn’t have found a representation more to my liking if I’d designed it myself. Thrilled, I scouted out the perfect spot in the house for my find. The yoga platform was the obvious choice and after a few attempts at positioning, the Buddha was home. It occupied it’s place so comfortably it looked like it could always have been there.

Perhaps the kitty was attracted by the tranquility of the platform. All the peaceful yoga and meditation energy of my home is concentrated there. Cats have a hard life in Bali. They’re a far cry from the indoor pets we pamper and indulge in America. Although they may have a caring human family, there is no way to keep them confined. They roam.

My neighbor’s cats visit me on a regular basis, especially if they smell fish cooking. It’s usually a quick hi and bye if I don’t have treats. But this morning I was well into my second cup of coffee before I noticed. There, curled up beside the statue, was JoJo, the neighbor’s cat. He had found a patch of sunlight in the reverent aura of the Buddha and was fast asleep.

P1050202I chuckled, finished my coffee, and made breakfast. Still there. I began my morning writing and finished my morning writing. His only movement was an exaggerated stretch and he slept on. When I left for a walk about noon, the creature was still comatose. He must have had a hard night.

I’ve never been overly fond of cats. I’m slightly allergic and their personalities are off-putting. Either they’re haughty and unapproachable, or they mew, rub, and pester relentlessly. But this morning, watching JoJo curled up by the Buddha, I felt a little melty inside. We shared the serenity. He didn’t want anything from me other than a sunny spot on my platform. I enjoyed his quiet company, and Buddha seemed pleased.

Hopelessly in Love – Bada Bing Bada Boom

21 Nov 2013 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

I am. There’s no way around it. Deeply, irrevocably, and hopelessly.

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Dewa and his wife, Trina

When I first came to Bali I met Dewa, the proprietor of Jati Homestay where I spent two, delicious, delirious months. Dewa was my introduction to Balinese men. Every morning he greeted me with a gorgeous smile. He patiently answered my questions. I often took my notebook to a table in the breakfast area to write. One day he found me there and asked what I was writing about. “My issues with men,” I said. He put his hand on his chest, utterly crestfallen, and asked, “Me?”

I laughed. “No, not you, Dewa. Just other men!”

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My ‘issues’ bouquet

That brought the smile I loved. He disappeared. About fifteen minutes later he returned with a bouquet of flowers in a clay vase. He set them in front of me. “Here. Look at these while you write about your issues with men,” he said.

Bada bing bada boom.

My next residence was Rumah Kita. Enter Ketut.

I arrived from the thirty-hour flight at 2:00 a.m. My driver pulled to a stop in the deserted street. A hooded figure jumped off a bench in front of the convenience store and hurried over. “Good morning!” he said. “You Zely?” In my benumbed state I realized he was saying my name and answered in the affirmative. “I take you Rumah Kita.” With that he hoisted my overweight luggage on his shoulder and started down the path. I paid the driver and hurried after him.

Let me explain that the journey leaves me, not exhausted, that sets in later, just buzzed. So at 6 a.m. when I was still poking around my new house, unpacking, settling in, there was a knock at the door. The hooded figure from the night before stood in front of me, hoodless, beaming.

“Good morning!” he said for the second time in 4 hours. “You want kopi?”

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You want kopi?

“Okay,” I said, wondering why he was here at my door at 6 a.m. Moments later he reappeared with a tray. There was a pot of coffee, a cup and saucer, sugar, cream, and a profusion of flowers: red hibiscus, yellow frangipani, and something periwinkle.

“On terrace?” he asked.

“Okay,” I said again and pattered after him to the broad balcony overlooking rooftops and gardens. The sun was just coming up. “What’s your name,” I asked as he transferred the contents of the tray to the low table and arranged the flowers.

“Ketut,” he said.

“The flowers are beautiful!” I was overwhelmed. “Thank you!”

That was the beginning. Each morning Ketut brought coffee, flowers, and breakfast. He was on hand to take me by motorbike wherever I wanted to go. And as if that weren’t enough, he appeared shortly after noon, daily, to clean my house.  You could eat off the floor. There was never a crumb. Spotless. And after each cleaning flowers appeared everywhere, a frangipani blossom on the vanity, one on my laptop, the bedside table, the statue of Buddha, the incense holder, and a couple on the toilet tank. They were replaced fresh every day, and positioned in new and ingenious places that made me laugh.

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Yes, the toilet tank…really.

I wondered about Ketut. Who had trained him to provide this level of service? Was this the norm in Bali? By the end of four months he knew my routines. On many occasions he appeared seconds after I’d thought, “I’m hungry,” with a snack or a smoothie. “Did you read my mind?” I’d ask him.

“Possible,” he’d reply.

My time was up at Rumah Kita. I returned to the U.S. and Ketut e-mailed. “Apa kabar? How are you?”

“I miss Bali,” I told him. “I’m coming back soon.”

When I returned, I rented the house next door and soon discovered all Balinese house staff are not created equal. Ibu, my new helper, was moody. On a good day she might smile. On a bad day she was a looming thundercloud. The whole neighborhood tip-toed around Ibu. I heard it whispered that she practiced black magic. I really didn’t care, I just wanted her gone.

Each day after Ibu left Ketut stopped by. “You want eat?” he’d ask. I wasn’t his responsibility anymore, so I declined and thanked him. He wasn’t deterred. “Ya, I cook,” he’d say, and so he did, and wouldn’t take payment. Not ever.

That answered one question about Ketut. He wasn’t just staff. We were friends.

I finally summoned the courage to let Ibu know I wouldn’t need her anymore and arranged with Ketut to work for me part-time. I named a figure and asked if that was acceptable. He shook his head. “No pay, it’s okay.”

This time I wouldn’t hear of it. I wrote a contract spelling out what I wanted him to do and how much I would pay him to do it.

Now my life is once again managed by Ketut. I didn’t request them, but every day he fills my house with flowers, and my heart with joy. He cooks. When my supplies are low, he replenishes them. He brings me treats, Balinese sweets and fresh fish from Lake Batur. I asked for cleaning twice a week. He seems to be unconscious of time and my house gets the once-over daily.  He made a lotus pond for me, and manicures the lawns and gardens. No amount of money can buy such selfless giving.

And he reads my mind.

I have papaya for breakfast. Always. At 6:30 a.m. this morning, in the middle of an inverted yoga pose, I remembered I’d eaten the last of it the night before. There were eggs and bread in the fridge. I was recalibrating my taste buds to accept the change when a voice said, “Hallo?” It was Ketut, in my doorway, holding a papaya.

My friend is thoughtful, helpful, generous, and kind and has single handedly ruined me for anyone else. I am deeply, irrevocably, and hopelessly fond of this special man who asks so little and gives so much. Terima kasih, Ketut. Thank you. You healed my heart.

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Ketut, his wife Komang, and their daughter Nengah

A Nightmare Worthy of Stephen King

15 Nov 2013 11 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized

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Stephen King Comicon.jpg

I’ve been reading Stephen King’s book, On Writing.  We’re talking the author of Carrie, and The Shining here. That Stephen King. I don’t like horror stories, so I don’t read Stephen King, but how scary can a book on writing be, I wondered. It appears it was just scary enough.

I always read myself to sleep. So last night, lulled into slumber by the horrormeister himself, I had a nightmare. I dreamed I was writing a book. And it wasn’t just any book, it was a story worthy of Stephen King.

A teenage boy, probably 14 and immature for his age, starts to lose weight. As time passes his skin becomes transparent. Brown moles pepper his back and bony chest. His mother doesn’t seem to notice. He becomes listless and won’t leave his bed.

Nobody knows that a mutant life form inhabits his mattress. When it was small it survived on the flakes of skin that sifted down through the layers of padding. But now it has grown long tentacles that search for nourishment and moisture. As the boy sleeps, the frond-like arms brush over his skin, licking up the sweat.

At first that’s enough. But the organism forms an attachment to the boy. It waits in the darkness for his body to sag into the bed. Then it waits longer until his breathing indicates sleep. It quivers and moans until it can send it’s tendrils up and feed.

How disgusting! I am totally grossed out. But that is the story I was writing in my dream. I watched my own process, imagining the most awful scenarios to move the plot forward. I agonized over specific words and replaced them with more graphic ones. By the time I woke up I had a fairly complete short story. (The ending is positively gruesome!) And I assure you, I jumped out of bed and turned my mattress over to make certain it was all a product of my overactive imagination.

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Huffington Post Photo

That dream taught me something. The imagination is a remarkable tool and it’s unlimited. Before the dream I told myself I could never write a horror story. Obviously, I was wrong. Not only can I write such a story, I can write it in my sleep!

Inspiration comes in strange ways. I don’t believe I would choose to use my creativity to produce terrifying scenarios. But the novel I am currently writing has some dark chapters. So does life.

I think I’ll leave On Writing to the daylight hours. I’m sure I have a copy of Little Women around here somewhere. One Stephen King inspired nightmare in this lifetime is enough!

The Scary Thing Under the Sink

07 Nov 2013 8 Comments

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

I’m okay with snakes, spiders, large flying insects, bugs that have no aerodynamic stability and careen with a loud splat to the floor, dying on their backs because they cannot right themselves. I live in a jungle. I know these things exist and, after all, they were here first. I don’t want to see them, but if I do, I’m not that surprised

Tonight I washed the dishes and turned off the light on a tidy kitchen. As I scanned the house one last time before retiring beneath the safety of my mosquito net, I spotted the used cup and saucer from afternoon tea, sitting on my desk.

Some people have absolutely no trouble at all waking up to dirty dishes. Those people are not me. I snatched up the offending items, flicked on the kitchen light, and scrubbed them clean. As I turned to leave, a patch of wall by the waste bin moved, ever so slightly. A little tiny Shit! escaped my lips. I bent down to get a better look, not really wanting to, but feeling compelled. The wall scooted into the darkness under the sink.

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I was faced with a decision. Do I get the flashlight? How badly do I need to know what’s hiding under there? I could go to bed and let the night sort it out. It would certainly be gone by morning. The part of me that thrives on drama, grabbed the flashlight and flooded the under-the-counter gloom with brightness. There it was, paralyzed in the beam, a fuzzy, brown, very large, arachnid. I couldn’t avoid an involuntary shudder.

Now what? My eyes were riveted on the spider and the light in my hand was steady. But a shadow, lurking in the dark bowels that held the underside of the sink, moved. Very, very slowly, I repositioned the light. A head with bulging eyes on a reptilian neck, stared back at me. In some corner of my brain I begged, “Please don’t be a snake, please don’t be a snake!”

The rest happened fast. The spider shifted, the reptile darted, and I fled, slamming the door behind me.

I am comforted in the knowledge that the under-the-sink-dweller is not a snake. I can be almost happy sharing my kitchen, knowing that she eats spiders. But she’s awfully big, and doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before. That worries me…just a little.

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