The Crabby Old Lady Syndrome

16 Jun 2016 12 Comments

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

Mild panic grips me when children visit. My house isn’t fragile, but little ones have a way of ferreting out exactly what I don’t want them to find and desiring it. If parents hesitate to say no, I’m left in the awkward position of either allowing the treasure to be handled or becoming The Crabby Old Lady.

Don’t get me wrong, I have colored markers and reams of paper. When my girls were little those would have kept them enthralled for hours. There’s also a covered cup with dice inside that can be rattled, or opened to explore the contents. Dice. Right. That’s about the extent of my toy collection. Balls roll off the edge of my living room and drop two floors to the garden. Can’t have balls. Everything requires storage space. There’s not an extra inch of that.

Dad always said, “Necessity is the mother of invention.” So when Ketut and Komang brought three-year-old Nengah to visit me yesterday, it was time for creativity overdrive. I remembered a collection of empty yogurt containers that substitute for the non-existent Tupperware here. My guests watched with curiosity while I assembled the bottoms with the matching tops and stacked them, one by one, higher and higher. In less than a nanosecond we were embroiled in a wild game of build the tower and knock it down. Everyone within miles heard Nengah’s shrieks…and mine!

I don’t remember when I’ve had so much fun. Later, alone in the happy aftermath, I waxed reflective. It struck me as ironic how the richness of life seems to multiply with simplicity. True happiness requires so little.

Who stole my time?

14 May 2016 11 Comments

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

sun capturedI didn’t come to Bali to recreate a life of frantic busy-ness. That’s what I left behind, a frazzled, strung out, head spinning schedule that fried me to a snarling crisp! I’ve done well to maintain peace, my cherished sacred idleness, until now.

It changed abruptly after the last trip back to the States, the catalyst that shot me into this altered state. Where did all these friends come from? How did I make so many promises? I didn’t join a new group or link arms with a cause, but maybe there’s a different kind of magic at the four year mark. Maybe until then I was still a tourist, a visitor who may not be committed to the long haul. Perhaps now I emanate a more settled energy that attracts responsibilities like ants to sugar.

This kind of frenzy used to make me feel alive. I needed the chaos, the structure. Over-commitment was my comfortable familiar. Then I moved to Bali where I knew no one. As years drifted by I’d taken my blissful solitude for granted. I was unaware of the subtle shift slithering in under the radar. The first month I thought, After such and such, things will slow down. The second month came and it was as though I’d hit the accelerator instead of the brake.

I’ve got to get them back, the week-long stretches of unassigned leisure. In my body there’s a gnawing resistance to the calendar squares with writing on them. They’re all activities and people I enjoy but taken together it’s overload. My nervous system is tuned to Bali’s rubber time, a phenomena that defies explanation but cannot be denied. It’s lackadaisical in nature, capricious, and gives the illusion of eternity melting, expanding, turning inside-out and looping back upon itself until there are no days, weeks, months or years, just one long continuum of lifetime after lifetime.

Without spacious hours to gaze into the distance and think of nothing, confusion sets in and the panic alarm goes off. Why have I fallen back into this? What forces, inner and outer, have propelled me headlong into an old, unwanted behavior?

I don’t know the answer, but the question calls for a serious stint of discovery writing. I want to oust the slumbering ghosts that have awakened and come out to wreak havoc with my peace!

 

 

 

 

Three Strengths – One You Don’t Want

04 May 2016 15 Comments

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

 

You’re so strong! How many times have I heard that throughout my 66 years? But it’s true.

I have physical strength –

Emotional stamina –

And willpower –

Muscular arms and legs, probably earned from early years lifting hay bales and running through farm fields doing all the tomboy things I loved, still ripple under loosening skin. And by sheer force of will, I’ve maintained my weight and continue a regimen of daily exercise.

But looking back, emotional stamina was a double-edged sword. On the positive side, it kept me sane when my world, at various times, sank into the abyss. But the dark underbelly of that strength hindered me from moving out of difficult places. I knew I could manage extreme mental anguish so I did. Rather than change what I was doing, make different choices, I stayed and endured far too long.

Both pride and fear played a role. I proudly maintained a placid surface when inside chaos raged. I was complimented on my calm demeanor by co-workers, even complete strangers. My ego, undernourished as it was, feasted on those crumbs of praise and preferred the safety of known misery and a well-studied façade, to the terror of change.

There’s a high price for being strong. It took many years to realize that the same emotional resilience that enabled me to withstand destructive situations without losing my mind, could also be mustered to chart a healthier course. It’s the same muscle, but the more I practiced releasing it instead of gripping tight and hanging on, the more space opened to other possibilities.

Most people reach a transition point. The timing is different but the catalyst is the same. It’s the moment we grasp the concept of mortality, the uncomfortable truth that we’ve reached a place closer to the end than to the beginning. For many it ignites a mid-life crises. For others, depression. But for me it prompted the question: Is that all there is? And my answer: It better not be! The thought jolted me out of apathy. I became more afraid of staying the same, marking time waiting to die, than I was of change.

Beware of the strength that keeps you hanging on, stuck in an unlived life. Does your jaw clench, your neck stiffen, the space between your shoulder blades ache? Do you breathe shallow in the top of your chest while your stomach constricts? Ask yourself, What do I want more than this? What’s the worst that could happen if I just let go? let go

 

 

Monster Porridge and the Cloud-Watching Cook

18 Apr 2016 9 Comments

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

Bali’s climate creates luxurious, grandiloquent clouds, guaranteed to entice the most hardened sidewalk gazer to cast her eyes upward. Today is a cloud-watching day. A day for dreaming, imagining, writing…and cooking?

Cloud-watching days, for me, outnumber cooking days 2000 to 1. It’s rare that I stick my fingers in that soup since both Ketut and Wayan, after a few polite attempts in the past, have declined to eat anything I make. They’ve kindly offered to share with me whatever they prepare for themselves. Both are accomplished kitchen magicians and I bow with gratitude to their superior talents and gobble up whatever appears in front of me.

But for breakfast I’m on my own. It’s my choice. I like to go softly into morning and a steaming plate of spicy omelette appearing at some ungodly hour before my palette has connected with my brain is just wrong.

So I make it myself, and for an otherwise creative person, my breakfast isn’t. I’ve eaten a quarter of a papaya with Bali kopi every morning for the past four years. Somehow I manage to open the fruit, extract seeds, peel and cut into bite-sized chunks with perfect results every time.

But besides clouds, the vast selection of exotic imported foods in the local supermarkets also fascinates me. Spice traders seeking cinnamon and chocolate, passed through Bali and brought with them strange and wonderful things from their own lands. The world has shrunk considerably since then and odd bits of it wind up on the grocery shelves. It’s a favorite pastime of mine to stroll and observe, not only the regional wonders but also the latest foreign arrivals, avoiding the meat case at all costs. Raw flesh and random body parts, waxy yellow chicken feet interspersed with bug-eyed, gelatinous sea creatures guarantees night frights later on.

This time, though, I was on a mission: I craved granola. That taste treat isn’t native to Bali but I found it and the price tag made me wince. It was the equivalent of $10 U.S. for a tiny bag that might stretch to 1 1/2 servings. The raisins, dates, cashews, and almonds, scattered among plump grains roasted to a mouth-watering golden, stared at me through the cellophane bag. My entire grocery bill for a month comes to about that. Granted my shopping list doesn’t include the nuts and berries in the little package. It features produce from area farms, fresh, mostly green, and when Wayan and Ketut have worked their spells, yummy!

P1110401I turned to walk away and the word Monster caught my eye. What was a monster doing in the cereal aisle? Moving to inspect, I found an uncooked, five grain product sans the extra goodies, made in Australia and offered for a respectable price.

I flipped the bag over and scanned the cooking instructions. They seemed manageable: add 2 cups water and boil 5 minutes. The list of proteins, fats, blah blah blah was acceptable, and unlike similar porridges, this one contained a bare .3 grams of sugar. Sold!

P1110403I couldn’t wait to make my first batch. Memories of cold Minnesota mornings, sitting down to a bowl of hot oatmeal mixed with sauteed bananas, apples, and cinnamon topped with a dollop of yogurt made me drool. There was fresh Cheese Works yogurt in my fridge and I imagined the taste of hot cereal with the creamy cool of dairy and drooled some more.

This story has a happy ending. I didn’t burn it. It turned out well. But it had not one iota of flavor. Zip. None. The plain yogurt added an essence of sour milk. My taste buds registered a complaint. Not happy. They had imagined something quite different.

The next morning my eyes landed on a container of mango juice, no sugar added, in the ice box. Hmmm. What if…? So I did. I substituted one cup mango juice for one of the two cups of water, mixed in the tasteless grains and boiled. The steam rising from the pan hung in the humid air, fruity and rich.

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I dished up a healthy portion and took a bite: the moment of truth. It was textured and sweet on the tongue. A faint lacing of mango cut the tang of yogurt but still left a surprised wake-up tartness. Perfect! About that time Ketut walked in.

“Wat you make?” he asked and eyed the dish suspiciously.

“Porridge from Australia with yogurt! Here, try!”

To my astonishment he accepted a spoon full. The moment the yogurt touched his tongue his eyes popped wide, a grimace unlike anything that has crossed his placid countenance previously, warped his face. With a strangled gurgle he mumbled something Balinese that sounded like, “OH MY GOD YOU’VE POISONED ME!” and dashed out.

My reputation is secure. And after all, I don’t want anyone getting the mistaken idea that I can cook.  I much prefer watching clouds.

 

 

BALI Four Years Later…

05 Apr 2016 12 Comments

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

I came to Bali in March of 2012. Today I checked the archives of my blog to remember what I was doing this time four years ago and was stunned. Swirling around me in a crazy juxtaposition of images and feelings was a journey, upon a journey, within a journey!

As I revisited those first months I saw myself the way I see everyone who arrives here from the relentless time pressures of the West. In the space of thirty days I managed to tour a village famous for woodcarvings, visit an organic farm, the Green School, the John Hardy jewelry factory, Goa Gajah elephant cave, a traditional market, a black sand beach, GitGit waterfall, the Bali animal sanctuary, and a school for children with learning disabilities. I took a cooking class, attended a Kecak Fire Dance, a Grand Opening for the new Yoga Barn, and a Balinese wedding. As if that wasn’t enough, I walked to a yoga studio every morning for an hour of Vinyasa! I thought, I truly thought I was slowing down. The thing is, compared to what I’d left behind, I was.

Observing myself in energizer bunny mode dazed me.

Then I pulled up accounts of Dewa, the owner and host at Jati Homestay where I spent my first months. I remember how compromised my feelings about men were at that time. The only good man was a…well, maybe not a dead man, but any male with heterosexual tendencies was unwelcome in my world. Dewa cracked the stony wall around my heart with his kindness and laughter.

Besides an inability to slow down, and a desire to avoid interactions with men, my head was wrapped around the novel I was writing, a psychological suspense thriller that distanced me from my own reality and kept me entwined in the imaginary lives of my characters.

And now…

I’ve slowed to a point where I’d make a slug appear speedy. I’ve embraced and embodied, dare I say mastered, the art of sacred idleness. There is nothing I would do today that can be put off until tomorrow, or later, or forever. I meditate and daydream and spend chunks, huge slices of time gazing at clouds. Have you ever been lost in the magnificence of clouds?

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And let me tell you about men. When I moved into a more permanent residence after two months at Dewa’s, and discovered that I would have a man looking after me literally twenty-four hours a day, the discomfort that arose was irrational and immense. I was Ketut’s job. His only job. Many things crossed my freaked-out mind. But I loved my new quarters and as the days passed I grew curious about Ketut. He spoke almost no English but greeted me every morning with, “You want breakfast now?” His quiet, humble ways and attention to detail captivated me and the frozen places within commenced a tectonic shift. Since then I’ve existed almost exclusively in the company of men. First there were the adorable guys who built my house, and now the neighborhood staff, five of them, like to hang out, play my guitar, and beat me at Uno.

Ketut still manages me and I can’t imagine life without his friendship.

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Two years ago I completed the fiction novel and cast about for what to do next. Many times I’d been told I should write my story. I’d tried, but the tough things were still lodged in a pain place and I couldn’t make myself go back there. All attempts ended in failure. But that was before. Now felt different, so I began. One chapter led to another, then another. I dug through detritus within myself that hadn’t been touched for decades and found it had fermented and become delightfully intoxicating.

Today, as I read the blog and traced those first exploratory steps in a foreign place where I knew no one, not even myself, and superimposed the image of who I’ve become, the magnitude of change hit me. What a testimony to the energetic magic of letting go. If I hadn’t sold everything four years ago and leaped into the unknown…

SIX DEGREES…Who do YOU know?

28 Mar 2016 23 Comments

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

Gypsy egc.

From blond to redhead, from drifting to anchored, from caterpillar to butterfly. Metamorphosis!

I’ve been writing this blog religiously since February, 2012, spilling my beans, airing laundry both dirty and clean, transparently sharing my life with anyone who cares to read. Is that the height of narcissism or the depth of depravity? Maybe both.

Simultaneously, I’ve written a book. Two actually. The first is 100% fiction, a psychological suspense novel entitled, A Subtle Revenge. It sits in manuscript form in a bottom drawer collecting gecko leavings and volcano dust.

The second is creative non-fiction, the real story of my life. Not that the blog isn’t real. It is. But Mating Season for Butterflies, the memoir, goes back to the beginning. It traces the troubled path through my mother’s illness when I was a child, five marriages and five divorces, a court case and the resulting prison sentence. It portrays a conflicted woman without a sense of self, who cycles through the same mistakes and never seems to learn from them. The picture it paints isn’t pretty because the choices I made often had disturbing consequences. But it resolves with an awakening to self-awareness and a second chance. Once I let go of who I thought I should be, and trusted the unfolding of who I was, opportunities appeared that catapulted me into a reality beyond anything I could have dreamed.

The story is finished. No, wait! The book is finished! The story is still very much being lived. But the time has come to search for an agent and a publisher. It’s who you know, the six degrees of separation connections that make the difference. So I’m asking those of you who have enjoyed reading my Writing for Self-Discovery posts over the past four years: Do you know a literary agent who would be willing to take a look at Mating Season for Butterflies? If you do, I’d love to be introduced. My market is women of all ages. The message is hope: It’s never too late to change the course of your life.

 

In Death as in Life

23 Jan 2016 44 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized, Writing Tags: , , ,

DSCN3275I’m at his bedside, an onlooker and a participant. Day melds into night into day into night as time loses definition. Hours are counted by breaths, weaker, weaker, but still he lingers between worlds. He’s back in the Army, Germany, World War II. He stretches out his arm to an unseen stranger, straining, reaching, “Grab hold, I’ll get you up!” I gasp, hold my breath spellbound as he pulls some soldier from long past to safety. The sting of tears barely subsides before the raspy, ravaged voice cries out again, “He’s going up the hill!”

“Who?” I ask wondering what his dream state will offer up.

“Robert,” he says without hesitation, then, “Oh wait. They’re calling him back.”

For hours it’s like this as he revisits his life, sometimes familiar scenes, sometimes places only he has been. “1969,” he says with the ring of authority. “1969 was a good year for blackberries.”

Dying. My dad is dying and I get to be here to experience this once-in-a-lifetime event as he leaves his out-worn body, shedding the earth-bound shell.  In death as in life he sets the example, fearless, patient, kind. I adore him, always have. He’s the best man I’ve ever known, my rock, my hero…my dad.

Too Much Information

02 Nov 2015 14 Comments

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

I want to sit down and write the rest of the story about the writers festival while it’s fresh, while the words and images still reverberate in my skull. I want to turn myself inside-out and splatter my heart on the page so you can feel what I felt. But I don’t know how to do that. So I’ll give you snippets, a quote here, an image there, and try to take you along for a bit of the ride.

An Australian journalist, Liam Pieper, was asked about his experience becoming a published writer. He said that he wrote his first book, The Feel Good Hit of the Year, about his life. He was thrilled when it was published but wasn’t at all prepared for the backlash of judgment against him for his less than stellar conduct toward his mother. His second book, Mistakes Were Made, was about how his life fell apart as a result of the first book. And the third book, the one he’s writing now, is about how he pulled his life together again.

That’s something I hadn’t considered. Backlash. People can be cruel in so many places now, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. They can speak out and the world will hear their opinions. What if my memoir is published and I become the target of hate-mail? How thick-skinned am I?

At that point I decided that 10:00 was not too early for a coconut gelato.

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A Mind Less Ordinary, Chaired by Tory Loudon

Fortified by the sugary fix, I stuffed the questions away for later contemplation and moved on. The session entitled A Mind Less Ordinary was an information rich panel of three women with wildly different writing styles and brilliant insights. “I can’t write every day!” Porochista Khakpour, author of Illusion, and Sons and Other Flammable Objects, spouted vehemently. “How can people write every day? I READ every day!” I liked this woman! How refreshing after the directives from so many to carve out time, don’t let a single day go by, appear at the page even if you only write one word, show up!

Anuradha Roy wholly agreed, then talked about endings. “I want to reach a point where every character is transformed at the end, but still leave the reader with questions. The unsaid in a book is just as important as the said.” The titles of her books make me drool: The Folded Earth, and An Atlas of Impossible Longing. Who dreams those delicious titles? Why can’t I?

A writer and teacher of literature in Hong-Kong, Dorothy Tse’s book, Snow and Shadow, has been translated into English. She made this observation. “Fiction is the genre for telling your secrets. You’re wearing a mask. It’s a way to communicate what you would never say about yourself.” Hmmm, she’s right. Maybe I should change my blatantly self-exposing memoir into fiction. Do I really want to serve up all those secrets with my name attached?

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Phillip Gwynne and Patrick Burgess, co-creators of: THE SUN, THE MOON, AND THE TRUTH

But there was no time to ponder the info-bites that were stirring up discomfort. Phillip and Patrick had taken the stage. For the next hour, my mouth agape, eyes tearing up and dribbling over, the story of what these men have done to bring the message of human rights to Myanmar, held me entranced. They were invited to make a soap opera (their words) for the Burmese people, to educate them about human trafficking, domestic abuse, land fraud, and a host of other issues that plague that country. They talked about the difficult, very difficult, process of making the dry stuff of law into a story entertaining enough that people would watch.

They insisted on a well-known female star for the lead character because there are so few women in leading roles in TV series. They also wanted to project a strong message for women’s rights. They chose the title from a quote attributed to the Buddha: Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. When they showed a clip from the series it was all over. I think the ‘now’ term is gutted. I was gutted and ashamed. Here I am, fat cat happy, enjoying life as never before while atrocities are being committed everywhere. Some people care. Do I? 

This is a sampling, a forkful of the whole pie, and I haven’t begun to do this incredible festival the justice it deserves.

The last event of the day was a book launch at Pulau Kelapa, a restaurant overlooking its jungle garden, with Bara Pattiradjawane, a TV master chef. “I am not a chef, I’m a supercook!” he tells fans. “A guy who cooks passionately on and off TV.”

Janet DeNeefe, the founder of the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, who is a celebrated cook and author herself, introduced him. And there he was, in all his passionate glory explaining to us the varieties of chilies used in Indonesian cooking.

Coming from a bland, Scandinavian background, I carefully scrape the seeds out of chilies and pulverize them beyond any knowable substance before cooking. Shame, shame, shame! No self-respecting Indonesian would remove the most heated part of that fruit. Nor would they mince it entirely to bits. It often exists in a dish in chunks. Woe to me if I happen to get one of those in my uninitiated mouth. It can mean burning for hours followed by canker sores galore!

Bara was in fine form. Talking with fervor about his beloved home in Ambon, one of Indonesias 17,000 islands, we were treated to a brief history lesson served up with generous helpings of cooking tips and humor. Ambon made the early traders rich with that island’s natural resource: nutmeg.

But we weren’t to have just a lecture. Bara cooked! Using smoked fish from Ambon, shallots, bean sprouts, roasted grated coconut, chopped long beans, and lime juice, a communal gasp went up when he picked up a bowl of bumbu, the red-hot, blister-making chili spice that Indonesia loves.

P1100559“Just a little, please!” I found myself blurting before good sense told me to keep my mouth shut. “No! No! All of it!” the dark-eyed man beside me shouted. There was wicked mischief in Bara’s eyes as he toyed with his audience. At the end he used about one-fourth of the contents and the result was a lovely heat, perfectly balanced with the other flavors.

It was explained that no oil, or very little, is used in the recipes in Ambon. Everything is fresh and raw, except the fish, he was quick to add. He filled palm leaf bowls with a sampling for each of us along with a lump of cooked taro root.

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The tang of the lime juice, the crunch of the bean sprouts, and the subtle smokiness of the fish sat lightly on my tongue, a most pleasant arrangement. As we finished sampling, a tray of glasses appeared.

P1100566The unattractive, brownish liquid with suspicious, yellow lumps afloat in it, might have been a pass if he hadn’t explained that it was a palm sugar and coconut milk drink with bits of banana and sweet potato added for texture. My curiosity overwhelmed the off-putting appearance and I had a taste. Mmm-mmm good! So next time I want to spice up a rather ho-hum beverage, I’ll throw in some boiled sweet potato, of course.

Bara’s newest cookbook is in English and will be available on Amazon in about 2 months. But I was determined to walk out of there with a signed copy of something. Scooting to the back table where I had noticed a stack of colorful books on the way in, I took a look. As I feared, all the recipes were in the lovely language of Indonesia. Who cares? And it’s about time I learned to cook with metric measures. I grabbed it, paid, and squeezed my way front and center. Signed. Done.

What a high and unexpected note on which to end four days of magic. I was challenged on many fronts, entertained, and informed. I met new people who may become friends and reconnected with old ones. I bought books and made lists of dozens more that I will read simply because I heard the authors speak. And I’ve already made a note on my calendar, October 2016 UWRF: JUST BUY THE TICKET!

 

 

BEYOND THE BALI CLICHÉ

21 Oct 2015 18 Comments

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

I’ve heard Bali described many ways, tropical paradise, island of the gods, exotic, enchanted, magical, the whole package. I’ve used the same or similar words myself, and believed them. I still do. But after an almost four year love-affair, my perspective has broadened. Infatuation has matured into a riper relationship, and the dalliance has become a committed bond.

I used to be blind to the warts, like an awestruck lover. As in marriage, some of the things that wowed and inspired me when I first set foot on this island, are now an accepted part of daily life. I remember wondering back then if living in Ubud would ever feel ordinary. Would I some day stop being amazed every time I woke up to the sound of roosters and the holy man’s prayers?

If ordinary means comfortable and familiar, the answer is yes. I know how to navigate the strange machinations of Indonesian culture. I co-exist with the lack of privacy and the communal assumptions inherent in this society. I know when someone calls me mbak (older sister) it’s a compliment, and that dadong (grandmother) is probably the more fitting endearment for my age group. I’ve discovered where to get the things I need and I’ve realized that I don’t need what I can’t get. I’m learning the language and that goes a long way toward feeling a part of things.

But if ordinary equals mundane, or dull, the answer is no, not ever. Each day I’m inspired or wowed by something new. Sometimes it’s as simple as a neon blue butterfly in the garden. And other times its bigger. For example, I had never walked the Campuhan Ridge. Laziness is the only explanation, as it’s 20 minutes from my house. But when I finally did, it was one of those special moments, like looking into your old love’s eyes and remembering why.

PHOTOS FROM THE CAMPUHAN RIDGE WALK

P1100349Steps down to the bridge at the beginning of the trail

P1100301The path passes along the wall of the Pura Gunung Lebah Temple

P1100339Beautifully paved, the trail is flat and even, though at times hilly

P1100341Sweeping views on both sides kept my camera clicking

P1100343A farmer harvests the mountainside

P1100335After the long hike in full sun, the Karsa Kafe is a welcome sight

Wayans and Waterfalls

08 Oct 2015 14 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

“Come and see my waterfall,” Wayan Massage said in her intense, bossy way. I call her Wayan Massage to differentiate her from the 20,000 other Wayans in Bali. First born children, whether boy or girl, are often named Wayan, and I’ll leave it at that for now because this story is about her waterfall, not her name.

I’ve been to Niagara. I’ve been to Norway. I’ve seen spectacular waterfalls. Bali’s are nice but they’re not in the same league. So I stalled a bit.

“Where is your waterfall?”
“In my village.”
“Is it man-made or natural.”
“Ya.” My spotty Indolish obviously didn’t translate.
“Okay, soon.  I will come soon.” I pictured children splashing around a pile of rocks with a stream of pumped-in water stolen from the paddy irrigation ditches dribbling over the top, a glorified fountain.

A few hours later, Wayan gave my visiting friend, Nancy, a massage. Before I knew it we were scheduled to see the waterfall the following week.

The day arrived and as we were leaving, my phone rang. “Where are you?” It was Wayan.

“Just heading out of Ubud. We’ll be there soon.” Twenty minutes later we turned off the main road down a narrow path. Ubud, so close by, is one of the hottest tourist spots in Bali. But foreigners rarely come to this village and heads cranked around to stare as we passed. Excited children on bicycles shouted, “Hello! Hello!” and we waved and shouted back, “Hello!”

Wayan, her son Arya, and her husband Komang, ushered us through the gate into the family compound. “Oh! That’s new!” I exclaimed at the structure that had materialized where nothing but garden used to be. Komang explained that it was the pavilion where all the family’s human celebrations are held, baby ceremonies, tooth filings, weddings. “It is also the place where, at the end of life, the body is prepared for cremation,” he said.

“It’s very beautiful” I scanned the remaining open spaces. “And where’s the waterfall?”

“I’ll take you later, please sit down.” Balinese hospitality has its rules. We sat on the terrace and drank from the young coconuts offered to us. Nancy had treats for them. Arya was quick to sample and grimace as the bitter taste of the goji berry raw dark chocolate brownie offended his expectations. When the magic moment came, seven of us hopped on three motorbikes and set out.

As we zoomed along my first misconception became obvious. The waterfall wasn’t located in the immediate neighborhood.

P1100253When we exited to another small pathway and came to a halt at the top of a cliff of stairs, my second erroneous perception showed itself. Whatever the waterfall was, it probably was not a playground just for children.

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We started down the steps. When they ended and the land fell away at a near vertical decline, and I realized that I was expected to navigate it to the bottom and come out alive, I decided that just maybe this might be a deep-in-the-jungle, bona-fide, honest-to-goodness real authentic waterfall.

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Anchored by one strong Balinese man stabilizing me from the front, and another gripping my hand from behind, I skidded, slid, and plummeted to a point mid-way down where Komang stopped us. “Do you want to see the temple?” A grassy trail cut a horizontal path to the left. No one had mentioned a temple. Yes, we wanted to see. It sounded like a better idea than continuing the plunge downward. Within a few minutes the jungle opened to reveal simple buildings tucked into the mountain on the other side of the river. “How do you get there?” There wasn’t a bridge in sight.

“Through the water,” Komang said.

Of course. How silly of me. Any Balinese woman could navigate that suicide path down the mountain with an offering tower on her head, dance her way through the swirling water, sure-footed as a gazelle, and land safely on the other side, her precious cargo intact.

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We retraced our steps, resuming the downward journey. Then, with a fair distance still to go, I spied the falls through a break in the trees.

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Stunned by the wild beauty of it, I soaked in the sight and sound of tons of water tumbling over jagged rocks. “We bring the ashes here,” Komang said, and I knew he was referring to the cremains of the deceased and that this spot served a spiritual purpose as well as a practical one.

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Reaching bottom at last, Komang and Arya were soon playing in the cool, calm pool at the base of that pounding cascade of water, Nancy, assisted by Wayan Puji, was scaling the steep rock face to the top of the falls, and Ketut was keeping a watchful eye on us all.

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As I sat surrounded by the raw majesty of nature, I felt ashamed. It had been a while, but once again I had misjudged, and grossly underestimated what Bali wanted to show me. Humbled, I whispered an apology to the silent keepers of that sacred place and begged their pardon. But forgiveness, however generously offered, wasn’t unconditional. My penance, unavoidable, lay ahead: the climb back up!

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