I want, I want, I want!

11 Jan 2013 2 Comments

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

It is like living in an art gallery, this home where I stay in Ubud. The Balinese are born with the creativity gene. Whether it expresses itself in painting, carving, music, dance, or hundreds of other endeavors, there isn’t one of them that escapes it. It is their birthright. They are nonchalant about it. Of course I paint. Of course I carve. Of course I build complex towers of fruits, and sweets, and whole chickens for temple offerings…of course.

I love the art that graces my balcony.

There is a humble clay pot on a pedestal in one corner. 

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And a handsome sculpture of Buddha’s head on a pedestal in the opposite corner.

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Seven women in white robes, one holding a golden light, occupy a huge canvas to the left,P1020306

and two women in dark robes holding flowers wisper to each other on the right. P1020308

I want these two paintings. They have enchanted me. I want to own them. What’s that about?! I just got rid of everything and the last thing I need to be thinking about is re-accumulating stuff! And these are huge, probably 7 feet wide by 5 feet high. Then of course I’d need a house to hang them in…!

And so it goes, the urge to own, to possess beauty, whatever that means. But for now I am concentrating on the inner, rather than the outer trappings. I can appreciate these paintings on my balcony while meditating, or doing kabalabahti, skull shining breaths! I can own the visual joy and the subtler energy of them without allowing them to become baggage to be transported, stored, and eventually begrudged as a burden.

I have much yet to learn about possessions and it is far too soon to experiment. Each thing one owns carries with it a weight and a responsibility. I make no judgement about that, I simply state it as fact. But the truth of it is something to ponder, something not to forget.

Happy Birthday to Me!

05 Jan 2013 7 Comments

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

I don’t often post poems, but today is my birthday (it’s already January 6th in Bali) and I will do as I please!

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Kadek let me photograph her as she sprinkled holy water on the small house altar this morning. She moves gracefully, gliding like a beautiful swan. She is the inspiration for my poem.

BEAUTIFUL SWAN

In my whiteness
I watch gold-skinned women
in the temple garden.
 
One climbs
the stairs
to apologize…
 
“I make offerings
so sorry
did not see you.”
 
It is her task
to prepare
my breakfast.
 
Today she wears
a teal kebaya
with hot pink sash.
 
Tiny pearls of perspiration
glisten
on her upper lip.
 
I admire the sarong
woven in traditional
ikat style.
 
“It is made by machine
not good quality,”
she wants me to know.
 
“It’s beautiful!” I say,
and it is
because she is wearing it.
 
The color combinations
would not please
the Western aesthetic.
 
But this is Bali,
contrived fashion rules
do not apply.
 
She carries woven trays
mounded with offerings
trailing clouds of incense…
 
stopping at each altar
to sprinkle holy water
and pray.
 
Who are you,
beautiful swan?
What is your story?
 
Your knowledge is ancient
I am awed and humbled
by your mysteries.
 
Teach me, my sister,
help me understand
your incomprehensible life.
 
 

Sacred Cock Fights

05 Jan 2013 7 Comments

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

Mr. Duffy lived a short distance from his body. James Joyce captured my current state in that brilliant sentence.

I’m back in Bali, but parts of me are still arriving and parts of me never left! It is an odd sensation, very odd, and one that I enjoy exploring in my discovery writing. I’ve been half way around the world twice in 45 days with a quick back-and-forth hop between Minnesota and New York sandwiched in-between. My mind goes and my body tags along, sometimes kicking and screaming. Then my body arrives but my mind may have taken a side trip and doesn’t catch up until later.

But the parts of me actually here are residing in this charming, second floor room with many windows and great, western light.

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The balcony wraps the corner and extends to an area where I can sit and write, daydream, or observe the daily life of an upper class Balinese family.

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This part of the balcony overlooks the family temple, but also the public temple across the street. I arrived in the middle of a very important three-day ceremony. There has been constant activity, not the least of which are the cock fights. Yes, cock fights. I requested an explanation from my host, Joni K, about the sacredness of fighting cocks…”Why in the temple?” I was curious. In that slightly apologetic way that is so engaging, he explained that at first, long time ago, just two ‘chickens’ fought so that the blood could be used for offerings. “But,” and the dimples appear, “people enjoy. Now many chickens fight and much money is made and lost.” He told me how much cash is bet on a single fight. “Who keeps the money?” I asked, thinking it might all be donated to the temple. “One who has winning chicken,” he replies. I thought for a moment then said, “Joni, where can we get one of these chickens?” His uproarious laughter warmed my heart. I haven’t lost my touch. I can still make the Balinese laugh.

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Since first coming to Bali I have been enamored with the temple drumming. The drum sounds at about 6 a.m. It signals morning and I love the haunting beauty of it coming through the darkness over the rice fields. Now I live across the street from the drum. It sits in a tower of the temple that is eye-level with my balcony. Today the holy man was striking it every 10 seconds as people in ceremonial dress brought their offerings. I caught a photo of him from the balcony. How can you not love drumming…even up close…especially up close! Something primal in me resonates!

Made Parna Painting

Ubud is the cultural and artistic capital of Bali. In this family, both Joni and his uncle are well-known painters. Made Parna paints in the traditional Balinese style and sells his very expensive works in Jakarta. He took me into his studio to see the works in progress. What kind of patience does one have to possess to create in such intricate detail?

This painting by Made depicts Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of knowledge, music, arts, and science. According to Wikipedia, It was with her knowledge, that Brahma created the universe. She is a part of trinity “Saraswati”, “Lakshmi” and “Parvati”Painting Traditional. All the three forms help trinity “Brahma”, “Vishnu” and “Shiva” in the creation, maintenance and destruction of the Universe.

The Hindu religion is complex. Each village interprets and practices it as they see fit. So the moment I think I’ve got a piece worked out I go somewhere else and it is entirely different.

I’ve quit trying to understand. I find it’s better to simply go with the flow whenever I’m invited. And the Balinese are quick to extend that invitation! The very same day I arrived Joni and his wife wanted me to accompany them to the evening temple celebrations. I never say no, but that night I politely declined. I wasn’t sure what remnants of self I could gather up, and even if there were a few shreds on hand, they looked ghastly.

Joni photoJoni’s style is 180 degrees in the opposite direction!

Joni painting contemporary

He sees color and transparency, shape and contrast, and applies it to canvas. His paintings have a satisfying balance which typifies what the Balinese strive for. They believe their rituals serve to maintain a balance between good and evil.

Another uncle is a stone carver. His talent has adorned every building in this family’s amazing complex. The entrance to Joni’s father’s home is a stellar example of the family stonecarver’s genius.

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However, in Bali it is hard to compete with Nature. I have a western view. When my room filled with golden light about 6:30 p.m. last night I hurried outside. This resplendent sunset brought tears to my eyes.

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So here I am, plopped down in the midst of these wildly creative folks in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I can feel inspiration seeping back into my shriveled pores. As each wayward part of me arrives, and I become an integrated being once again, the juices will flow. They can’t help it. Ubud is creativity central.  It’s no accident that I’m here…or almost here!

Lake Imagination…30 miles from nowhere

26 Dec 2012 6 Comments

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

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Frozen Lake Imagination

You’re right. It’s not a lake. It’s a hay field covered with snow. And if it appears to be barren, bleak, and cold, in the winter it is. But someone once-upon-a-time had the romantic notion that it looked like a frozen body of water and Lake Imagination was born. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west here, as it does everywhere on earth. It’s just that it does it more quickly in the winter, leaving only about 8 hours of chilly daylight.

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The climate isn’t conducive to comfort and ease. People here have to pay attention just to survive. If you step outside without the necessary insulation surrounding your body it won’t take long before your extremities freeze solid. I’ll be kind and refrain from saying anything about the questionable intelligence of life-forms who choose to live in this isolated place. After all, it was my home for many years and I have a healthy respect for anyone who thrives under these circumstances.

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View of Lake Imagination through the Christmas Tree

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Indoor hanging gardens at ‘the lake’

But there is a warmth of heart that radiates love when family and friends gather in this place, 30 miles from nowhere, to celebrate rituals and pay homage to the passing of time. My sister lives here and swears allegiance to her Scandinavian roots buried deep in the permafrost. And her husband, though he grew up in southern climes, swears too, although not always allegiance!

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Gwen, the consummate hostess, shakes a stick of Gula Kelapa, coconut palm sugar, threateningly as she prepares Norwegian/Balinese fusion.

Gwen, my sister, had offered to let me make a Balinese meal for the yearly Christmas Open House that happens at their place. I knew better! Balinese cuisine isn’t fast food. I could see myself spending an entire day shopping for unavailable ingredients, and another day up to my eyeballs in food prep. That is NOT my idea of “all is calm…all is bright!” So she settled for Norwegian lefse stuffed with Balinese palm sugar and Bali Kopi along with other, more traditional fare.

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Gwen’s home made, hand decorated, amazing holiday cookies.

You see, Gwen thinks nothing of spending weeks making these unbelievable confections. She and her hubby, ‘W’ (not to be confused with the former pres of the U.S., George W) are kitchen wizards.  They imagine that everyone can pull off a gourmet meal at the drop of a hat. I’ve been telling them for years I can’t cook. But Gwen refuses to believe that the same gene pool that spawned her could possibly yield up anything less than a domestic Wonderwoman. I do other things well, I tell myself, and try to remember what those things are.

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Mr. Kitchen Wizard

Actually, I know one thing I do better than some. I play a pretty mean game of Scrabble. Just the night before, after losing all three games of Cribbage to Gwen, I beat her at three games of Scrabble. Then, high on the adrenaline rush of victory, I ate the rest of a jar of caramel corn that W had made. The following morning he got up, noted the empty jar, and promptly popped more corn, made the syrup, and presto! The jar that is sitting on the bar right in front of him was full again.

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Playing ‘Texas Mean’ with the family…mom looks angelic all in white!

One of the highlights of any family get-together is playing ‘Texas Mean.’ Mom and Dad brought the game home with them after visiting our snowbird relatives in southern Texas. In his woodworking shop, Dad copied the wooden board. Over the years he made dozens of Texas Mean Games, passing them out to family and friends. Now, at 90 years old, he still wins almost every time.  He’s sitting on my left. On this day we were playing partners and, true to form, Dad and his partner were undefeated.

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Jessa and her Grandpa.

After the games, Dad relaxed with Jessa, enjoying the sunshine reflecting off Lake Imagination. Several neighbors stopped by to visit. Anyone who lives within a 30 mile radius is neighbor potential since that totals a whopping 12 people. The conversation was a far cry from what I remember from my youth. Back then…waaaay back then…the men sat in the living room and talked farming while the women clustered in the kitchen swapping recipes and neighborhood gossip.

On this day, however, neighbor Kent Lorentzen, was telling about e-publishing his Favorite Farmers Market Recipes cookbook on Amazon. Another couple said they would stop to visit me in Bali on their trip around the world next year. Mom and Dad sat listening, smiling, nodding as though nothing had changed at all, even though as young newlyweds television hadn’t been invented, let alone the world wide web.

I suddenly felt disoriented. Walking to the wall of windows I gazed out over crystalline stillness. Lake Imagination is a place where you are only limited by what you dare to dream. For a minute I saw little Sherry, all those years ago, trying to step in her father’s muddy footprints as she followed him to the milking barn. Her stubby legs strained to reach his stride. Her dream then was to make him proud. And if I’m 100% honest with myself, it really hasn’t changed much.

Suspicious Block in the Third Chakra

16 Dec 2012 2 Comments

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

There is an area where, as a writer, I’m weak. Deficient almost. I can write rhyme, suspense, grief, human interest, self-help. But comedy? I don’t have a handle on that. Humor, unless subtle and understated, is a mystery to me.  I have blogger friends whose posts have me laughing til I weep. I love that! Their tongue-in-cheek irreverence is hilarious. And you know the person at the party whose monologue attracts crowds and keeps them in stitches? That’s not me.

In the February Writing for Self-Discovery Workshop in Bali we will be Writing Through the Chakras. I was thinking about that this afternoon. Where’s the humor in the chakras?

First Chakra:  Survival
Second Chakra: Creativity and Sexuality
Third Chakra: Personal Power
Fourth Chakra: Love and Compassion
Fifth Chakra:  Speaking Your Truth
Sixth Chakra: Inner Wisdom and Knowing
Seventh Chakra: Connection to Outer Wisdom and Spirituality

 

They all sound like pretty serious stuff. So I did a little research and it didn’t take long to find that it is the third chakra, the seat of personal power located in the solar plexus that, (according to purenlightenment.com) houses “the energy necessary for self control, laughter and humor.” And when you think about it, that makes perfect sense…right?

Since I’ve been living in Bali I have learned how to laugh. Authentic, joyous laughter comes from deep within. It’s far different from the shallow ‘head’ laughter that sounds forced and empty. Try it once. Laugh in your throat area then guffaw from your belly. Big difference! If I have laughed long and hard I notice sore stomach muscles the following day.

So how do I translate that belly-type laughter into writing? And should I? Maybe I’m the writer of angst and woe. Maybe I shouldn’t go there. Maybe I need to stay in the subtle, understated realm of the familiar.

That’s what I’ll be exploring as I write my way through the third chakra. Who am I relative to humor? How do I want humor to manifest in my life? I’m excited. Who knows what hilarity will be unleashed when that bothersome blockage is cleared!

Hairball-blocking-your-third-chakra

Battling the Terrors

29 Nov 2012 8 Comments

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

My past frightens me. It is a long, arduous trek through unconsciousness. So much of it seems to have happened to someone else. In all fairness, I should have been institutionalized long ago. I should have cracked. But I was lucky. I perfected a serene, composed exterior. No matter what kind of hell was breaking loose just below the surface, it was my secret. No one ever knew, no one but me.

I rarely tell my life story. When I do, people are aghast. Some refuse to believe me. Some are awed. But all listen unaware of their gaping jaws. The things that are easy to reveal, the five marriages and five divorces, are startling enough without getting into the more disturbing details. “You seem so normal,” they say. I smile, serenely, “I am,” I reply.

Trauma remains in the body. No matter how good a person is at coping with life and covering up the scars, trauma lurks in cell memory. It can manifest as depression, panic attacks, or hundreds of other psychological disorders that keep therapists in business. There were times when the roar of terror and hopelessness in my ears threatened to tear me apart. But I have always seen myself as a happy person. Terror and hopelessness are unacceptable to my self-image. Writing became my salvation. I could scream the outrage into poetry or prose, pound it out on the keyboard turning the insanity into something manageable. But ‘manageable’ was merely survival. I needed to believe there was more to life than that.

Then three things happened almost simultaneously. I began doing Qigong meditation. It quieted and focused my mind. I developed a way of writing that took me behind the scenes in my psyche. I learned my truth. And I made yoga a daily practice. Yoga opened my heart. I’ll never forget the moment I first saw myself with compassion. I felt an outpouring of love for the brave soul who had  willed herself through life, raised three daughters, owned businesses, worked so very hard to be perfect while neatly, in quietly civilized fashion, battled the terrors within. I made a commitment that day to her. It was a promise to pursue the joyous journey no matter what. It was an intention let loose in the universe. I had no idea what metaphysical magic I had put in motion.

But any of you who have been following my blog have an inkling of the results of that promise. I have achieved what few are able to in this lifetime, bliss, in giant portions. I live in a place that nurtures and supports my journey. And the terrors? They are being squeezed out. I love the Leonard Cohen lyrics, “there’s a crack, a crack, in everything…that’s how the light gets in…” My tightly held perfection has cracked wide open and light is pouring in. Natural light. Healthy light. And when the little terrors poke their ugly heads out, they’re zapped!

 

Home is where…???

21 Nov 2012 5 Comments

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

I think she said the 21st floor. Their apartment in Manhattan, just off Times Square, has a twenty-four hour doorman and a gleaming…GLEAMING marble floored lobby bigger and shinier than a skating rink. I took the express ground transport from LaGuardia Airport to Port Authority Bus Terminal and she met me there, all smiles, hugs, and anticipation. Joy. So aptly named.

I’m in New York for Thanksgiving and a long overdue visit. We walk the few blocks to their apartment talking non-stop and I don’t realize we have taken the elevator until the doors slide open. Joy shows me the  room she has prepared so beautifully for my stay and I immediately go to the window overlooking…OMG!

I gasp and take an involuntary step backward. It’s a long way down. They are in a penthouse apartment and the rooftop garden is directly above. She takes me up for a look. It is surreal. We can see the Statue of Liberty, the Hudson River, and Times Square. The lights from thousands of windows shimmer and dance. I’m suddenly dizzy.

Contrast. I have come from the tropical village of Ubud where my view includes infinite shades of green by day and velvet darkness at night, to the sensory overload of New York. Instead of the frogs, crickets and geckos singing me to sleep, the hum of traffic and an occasional siren lull me into slumber. I awaken, not to roosters crowing, but to blue skies, sunshine and honking horns. In spite of the altitude and my terror of heights, I’ve had an amazing sleep and can’t wait to get going. Joy has plans for the day.

We start out on foot toward the Hudson River. The Intrepid is docked there and the space shuttle Enterprise is now a permanent part of the exhibit on the immense aircraft carrier.

We do some power shopping and wind up at the Eataly for lunch. It is sensory overload! From the fruit stands to the endless varieties of artisan breads, the scents, sounds, and colors are a feast all by  themselves.

Joy has a Roasted Beet Salad and I order the Tuscan Bean Soup. Then we share. Delicious! Fortified, we continue on to check out tickets for Wicked on Broadway. A man playing a saxophone really really well, prompts Joy to trot over and make a financial donation to his effort.

And then we are in Time’s Square. It is a jaw-dropping spectacle no matter how many times I see it.

It’s Tuesday. What are all these people doing on the street? Shouldn’t they be at work somewhere? Unbelievable! Joy reminds me that it is Thanksgiving week and there are thousands of tourists here for the Macy’s parade.

About the time my feet go numb, we are home. Kellen arrives a few minutes later with bags of ingredients that will be essential for Thanksgiving dinner. After eating way too much of Joy’s killer lasagne, we curl up to watch a movie. It is a perfect end to a fabulous day. And in spite of the glaring contrasts, there are similarities that make me feel almost at home. For instance, diversity. People of every ethnicity are plentiful. Languages other than English are spoken everywhere. There are snarly traffic jams and crazy drivers but I didn’t see a single motorbike…not one.

And, come to think of it, there were no offerings to step over on the sidewalks, and no fragrant incense wafting through the air. Nobody offered us transport. There were no sarongs for sale. I didn’t see a single woman carrying a basket on her head. And there were no monkeys in the street. Grover, Cookie Monster, Mini Mouse, and Batman made an appearance, but not a single monkey.

The contrasts make me think of the things I appreciate about Bali. I can marvel at all this phenomenal city has to offer. I can immerse myself in it and fully enjoy the experience. But I will always feel like a visitor. And even though it is my country, and the culture is familiar, and I have loved ones here, it has not called my name. No place but one has ever spoken to me. A little dot on the map on the other side of the world found me and I know it patiently awaits my return. Who could have guessed…?

Photo from the back of Ketut’s motorbike, waiting for the light to change.

Deep Magic

15 Nov 2012 2 Comments

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

The strangely discordant music of gamelan works in Bali. You can hear it emanating from open pavilions, raucously accompanying cremation processions, or drifting in soft tinkling waves on the humid night air. It is pure essence. It works because it is played in unconfined spaces with few or no walls to trap the cacophony. The cymbals, drums and the metallic keys of xylophones create an unparalleled din that is sucked up by the 100% moisture content of the atmosphere. Thereby muffled, blended, and slightly distilled it becomes dramatic background to weddings, cremations, and traditional ceremonies. It also accompanies the Legong, Barong, and a host of other dances performed by outrageously beautiful Balinese women and fierce, masked men.

But……when taken out of context, inserted into a bone dry climate, captured in a room with four walls and a ceiling, and visited upon ears that are tuned to Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and even an occasional Led Zeppelin or Johnny Cash, gamelan assaults. It is instant headache. With every cymbal crash each delicate Western nerve ending spasms. Foreheads furrow, brows knit, the polite, politically correct audience sits on its hands to keep from covering its ears. It won’t catch on here. I guarantee.

I love gamelan. Is it an acquired taste? Not really. As I said, it works in Bali. It celebrates the rich abundance of the island. Life there is lived outdoors in the color and heat of nature. Gamelan proclaims in sound, tangled jungles, volcanic peaks, curling breakers, black sand, pounding rain, relentless sun, terraced hillsides, and deep magic. The complexity of ritual supported and enhanced by gamelan music is the heartbeat of the Balinese people.

I have downloaded a gamelan CD to my itunes. When I’m not in Bali something in me craves that sound. When I know I’m alone and won’t disturb the sensitive ears of my Scandinavian roots, I crank up the volume. Lighting a stick of supa-dupa Balinese incense I close my eyes and sink into the mystery. The frigid temps and monochromatic landscapes of my childhood melt away. In moments I have a headache. But in those moments I’ve been strangely replenished, fed, revived. It’s powerful stuff, gamelan…deep magic.

Paradise Found

05 Nov 2012 3 Comments

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

I’m not one for crowds. I like my people in controlled portions, ceremonies and festivals excepted. In those situations crowd energy is essential. So when Ketut and I sit down with the map to find a new coastline to explore, he knows I don’t have Kuta or Canggu in mind. I want something pristine, deserted, remote. There’s a little dot on the map called Soka. It isn’t connected by road to the crazy tourist beaches. Something about it speaks to me.

This morning at 8:30 with thunderheads warm and dark in the west, we straddle the motorbike and head…west. “Maybe big rain,” Ketut astutely observes. “Maybe,” I agree hoping he’s right. A big rain when you’re on a motorbike is a great excuse to stop for a cup of Balinese coffee at a roadside warung to let it pass. There is nothing negative about that possibility for me.

Rice fields with mountains in the distance

After about an hour and three raindrops on my nose, the clouds are behind us. Soka is an eyeblink with a restaurant overlooking the distant ocean. Pretty, quiet, and no surfboard rental shops in sight. Good sign. We continue on. The ocean disappears. It has to be there but we can’t see it. A few more miles and Ketut pulls off the road. After a brief conversation with a local, he translates for me, “Small road,” he says, and we turn around and head back toward Soka.

Small road to the beach

When he turns off on said ‘small road’ I am feeling really happy. There are no guards demanding an entrance fee. There are no motorbikes parked alongside. There are no hoards of people. “Is it private?” I ask, thinking we may be trespassing on some exclusive beachfront property. “No very,” his tone reassures me even if his words leave me a bit muddled as to the exact meaning. We round the corner and, oh bliss! There it is! My beach! The one I have envisioned, longed for, believed in, and needed to find.

Ethereal mist softens the outcroppings of black lava

Breakers just keep rolling in

There are holes in the lava where tepid pools of water are trapped when the waves overflow. Nature’s hot tubs!

Ketut points out that the design on the edge of one pool looks like a snake is coiled there.

I am pretty proud of myself climbing up, but have to enlist help to get back down!

And this is what someone may have seen landing on this same beach centuries ago

There’s a downside to all magical moments. Leaving. At some point, knowing it’s going to take just as long to get home as it did to get here, the decision to leave must be made. We slowly pick our way back to the motorbike noting that the only tracks on the beach belong to us and a cow. Hmmm. A cow?

Back on the highway mid-afternoon hunger sets in. Rounding a curve, there it is, a tidy little warung. Water, soft drinks, bottled fruit juice and assorted Balinese snacks in pink bins line the counter.

Roadside warung

Hidden behind the display in her baseball cap and gorgeous smile, ibu chops the chilis for the mei goreng she is preparing for us. We wait, happily sipping steaming cups of delicious black sludge.

Chopping the chilis

Hunger satisfied, I resume my position behind Ketut when down the road in front of us comes…

THE COW!

And why not? This is Bali after all. Motorbikes, trucks, tourist buses, and a cow. It all seems perfectly normal after a few months here.

Taking Tea with the Prince

28 Oct 2012 7 Comments

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

 

I’ve had tea with the prince. My life is complete.

Several weeks ago I happened upon a construction site. Looking at it from the other side of a yawning gorge it appeared an ambitious project. I followed steep steps beside a waterfall to the bottom, crossed the bridge, and huffed and puffed my way up the equally steep steps to the top of the other side.

Construction site

I wondered if it was another new hotel being built for the booming tourism business here in Ubud. But there was no one to ask so I carefully picked my way through building materials. The project took on a more finished appearance as I progressed. Then suddenly before me was the entrance, a towering edifice with not one, but four tiers of carved Barong faces guarding against unwanted visitors, earthly or otherwise. I began to wonder if this might be a private home. The doorway was constructed in traditional Balinese style, but I have never seen embellishment of this refined detail, even at the Ubud Palace.

Entrance edifice

I crept up the steps to peek, just peek, through the gilded doors standing slightly ajar. In front of me, barring further view, was a splendid Ganesh. Should any of those said unwanted beings happen to pass the first line of defense, his placement directly in front of the entrance was guaranteed to finish the job. My curiosity insisted on seeing what lay beyond.

Ganesh

So I proceeded, and Ganesh didn’t seem to have a problem with that. The scene that met my eyes when I cleared the final barrier was like something out of a fairy tale, or a Disney theme park! On my right, 15′ stone maidens poured the contents of their jugs into terraced pools.  Between the maidens water cascaded over lapped panels of metal. The landscaping was a glorious profusion of Bali’s most exotic vegetation.

Fountain wall

There are few places where I’ve stared with my eyes bugging and my lower jaw gaping…the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, the Vatican…my standards are significantly elevated. It takes something pretty special to impress me. This gilded oasis at the end of the rice paddies definitely made the grade. After ogling shamelessly for several minutes, I tore myself away and went home. But I couldn’t get the images out of my mind.

So when I asked Ketut this morning if he wanted an adventure, my plan was to return and see what progress had been made in the past two weeks. We hopped on ‘Pink’ (a fitting name for his pearlized mauve colored motorbike) and were there in a matter of minutes. My jaw dropped again. I hadn’t glamorized it in my mind. If anything it had grown grander in two weeks. We strolled the path toward a group of workers installing a pair of dazzling chandeliers on the porch of the main structure. It would be good to ask permission to be there, I decided.

One of the men was obviously not a worker. His diamond encrusted watch probably cost more than a small oceanside villa, and the two rings he wore, one on each hand, would make Tiffany’s drool. Ketut had addressed one of the workmen but I approached the jewelry and said, “This is amazing. Who is the owner?” The man smiled benignly, almost humbly. “I am,” he said. Then he proceeded to introduce himself as Cok Wah and invited me to sit on the floor of his glistening black marble porch with him. He said a few quick words of Indonesian and I knew he had ordered drinks for Ketut and me. I quickly said, “Not necessary,” also in Indonesian. Again the beneficent smile. “I want you to feel welcome in my home,” was the gracious reply.

So I sat. And as we shared tea and Balinese sweet cakes, Prince Cok Wah told me about his father, the king of Ubud, and how he was building this palace to honor him. He seemed in no hurry to be anywhere else. He explained the two female statues flanking the gold bust of his father at the great entrance. They represented his father’s two wives, the women who had raised him and his five siblings. He talked about other plans he had for the unfinished portions of the project. Then, as I’ve often experienced with Balinese people, the conversation turned philosophical. We contemplated good and evil, light and darkness, and the necessity of maintaining balance in our lives. I kept checking in with myself to make sure this wasn’t some surreal dream, but the tea was wet, cake crumbs were accumulating in my lap, and I was sweating. In a dream I wouldn’t be sweating.

Two chandeliers dripping with crystal were being installed on the ‘front porch’

Then he told me that I would have to come back and see the palace after dark. “The lighting is automatic,” he said. “It comes on at 6 p.m.” He whipped out his iphone (seriously) and showed me pictures of the palace after dark. I told him I would like nothing better and made polite leave-taking noises. On the way out he took us behind the aquarium that is built into the entrance stairway. The aquatic scenery that appears to be in the tank itself is actually painted on the walls of the room behind it.

Aquarium after dark

Ketut had been uncharacteristically quiet during our tea party. As we putt-putted back home he told me that Cok Wah is a member of the Ksatriya Caste. In the Hindu system, they are the rulers. There are three Balinese languages, one for the lowest caste, one for the middle caste, and the most formal one for addressing royalty. Ketut admitted that he did not know the language well enough for addressing a person of Cok’s social status. Rather than insult the man he had opted for silence.

We did return to the palace after dark. Prince Cok Wah was still there. He greeted me by name and apologized that he had to leave but told us to stay as long as we wanted. Evidently a TV crew had been there about a month ago and filmed the palace extensively. The special program was due to air that night and he was going home to watch it. Before he left he escorted us into the compound and seemed terribly pleased to hear our exclamations of astonished awe. Then he was gone.

The main house

View of the entrance from the main house

Detailed carvings on the entrance edifice

The lighting effects on a dragon’s head

Steps ascending to the family temple

The family temple

Gilded woodcarving adorning the structure where important ceremonies are performed, weddings, cremations, tooth filings, and the like.

The pavilion for gamelan and Balinese dance performances is still under construction

We stayed a long time. The almost full moon watched as I took 164 photos. Ketut chatted with the security staff. When it just didn’t make sense to take another picture we found our way out of the magic kingdom, located Pink, and headed home. Ketut, faithful scout that he is, was eager to tell me what he had learned. Evidently the project has been underway for five years. So far it has cost over $80 million (that’s in U.S. dollars). It will take another year before it’s completed. On the back of the motorbike my jaw fell open for the final time today and I repeated the worn-out word that my lips have reverently breathed over and over and over again…

“WOW!”

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