Which is more difficult for you, too many choices or too few?

Do you love having a multitude of options and revel in the process of narrowing them down to a single, perfect choice? Or are you happiest when provided with only two so you can flip a coin? You may say, “Well, that depends…” But you know what? Not really.

How do you handle abundance?

How do you handle scarcity?

Do you believe there is always more than enough or is there a slow leak in the bottom or your glass?

For me, the more options the better. My brain is hardwired to sift through layers of information and hone in on the nugget, the unexpected thing that’s exactly what I want even if my notion of it is foggy when I set out on the hunt.

So here I am today, looking for a particular item. I have to decide between two options because in the whole of Bali there are only two options, neither of which is what I’ve envisioned. What happens? I freeze up. I simply can’t decide.

The problem is two-fold.

A) I have a preconceived idea of what I want, and

B) I know what would be available to me in America.

So I leave that shop and go to the next. Same two options. And the next. Same. I get myself to a bigger town believing that just around the corner will be Home Depot, or Target, and they’ll have CHOICES!

Why am I so pig-headed stubborn? One reason is because I will exhaust all possibilities before I resign myself to settle for something I don’t really like. (This has not always been so!) Or, once convinced that my desire cannot be met, I’ll rearrange my entire plan so I don’t need what Bali doesn’t have. This approach works better for me.

Here’s the irony: there are exquisite products here that I could only dream about in the U.S.

But to find simple things like a clear shower curtain liner, crepe paper streamers, or hair dye that isn’t purple mahogany or fire engine red, is a different story. Not having access to what I want spurs creativity. I cruise the markets and shops mentally cataloging the proliferation of unusual,unique, and really strange items for sale. What will work instead of__________ (fill in the blank) is my new mantra.

If I were rushed for time or stress-crazed over a deadline, this would drive me nuts. But I’m retired! What a glorious state of being! And if I need a clear shower curtain liner I can go to the plastic shop and buy a hunk of the size and weight I want, take it to the tailor who will hem it and add grommets, go to the aluminum shop and have a pole cut to the right size, then call my handyman to come and figure out how to make it all work. And he will because the Balinese are the most creative, inventive, where-there’s-a-will-there’s-a-way people on the planet.

It’s a different way of life. Magical, frustrating, and every day something new.

Now back to my question: which one is more difficult for you, too many choices or too few?

Can I be happy when I’m not?

It’s easy to be brave when nothing frightens me.

It’s easy to be strong when nothing stronger attacks.

It’s easy to have compassion from a distance.

It’s easy to let go when I don’t really want it anyway.

It’s easy to be happy when life gives me what I want.

But I don’t get spiritual growth points for that! There’s no gain without loss, no enlightenment without accepting and overcoming difficult challenges.

Three weeks ago everything changed. A door fell on my foot. It wasn’t just any door. This door was a very old, very dense Bali door of teakwood that came crashing down in the dark. A goose-egg the size of a softball ballooned, splitting the skin across the delicate arch and it throbbed like a drum being beaten from the inside. Neighbors heard the crash and rushed to my aid but other than an ice pack there was little to be done.

I took two ibuprofen and, since it was night anyway, hobbled to bed.

Backstory:

I’ve always been healthy. I’ve had the kind of body that cooperates no matter what I throw it’s way. It’s a balanced body, strong, hardy, and willing. It likes physicality and too much sedentary downtime is not okay. So as I was saying…

P1070050Day One.

I wake up and try to walk on the bulbous left foot, but it’s more of a limp-hop that deteriorates fast when all the blood in my body rushes to the wound with it’s fiendish pounding. I decide that this will be a writing day with my foot elevated on a stack of cushy pillows.

Day Two.

I tentatively swing my feet out of bed and plant them on the floor. The left one seems to rest on a squishy bubble. I try to walk and the throbbing hop-dance commences. But today is writers’ group and I am determined to go. There’s a length of fabric from a sarong tie that is about the right size so I wrap my foot and try a normal walk. Yes. With the support of the makeshift bandage it’s do-able.

The foot is still happier elevated so I take a seat at the end of the table and make it through the meeting in fine form. Afterwards, a friend invites me to see his new villa, “It’s only 500 meters,” he says.  I struggle with the metric system. Is a meter like a foot? A yard? And if it’s 500 yards, how far is that? We start out and after 10 steps I’m in trouble. But my strong, hardy, willing body won’t say no.

When I get home I go straight to bed with ice packs and my foot propped up far enough so the hammering blood drains away from the wound. “I probably overdid it a little.” It’s my last thought before going comatose.

Day Three.

Okay, let’s just say I do a stupid repeat of day two. I take my foot shopping, walking on concrete floors for hours. What was I thinking? The throbbing that night is intense and I notice a hot redness forming around the split flesh. I take two ibuprofen, slather the open slit with triple antibiotic cream and go to bed with the ice pack hoping I’ll fall asleep before it melts.

Day Four.

My Balinese friends begin to hover, frown, and offer various oils, ointments, and the juice of roasted frangipani stems to apply to my compromised foot. They notice the melted ice pack. “No ice,” they tell me. “Only heat.” They want to know if I’ve seen a doctor. “No, it’s not broken,” I say, after all, I can walk, can’t I? But the inflamed area bothers me. I’ve brought a prescription of antibiotic tablets from the U.S. and decide to take them.

Day Five.

I experience a change in my nervous system. The realization that I am going to have to slow down to a near dead stop and allow this foot to rest if I want it to heal drops into my consciousness. NOOOO! screams my strong, hardy, and willing body. In that instant I know that it’s going to be a battle. My usual practice of denying pain and pushing through isn’t going to work this time. A surge of panic starts at the base of my spine and ripples upward, fluttering around my heart and lodging in my throat. I scramble to the internet and enlist Google. After reading dozens of descriptions I self-diagnose. I’m quite certain that I have sustained a stable Lisfranc injury.

Naming the thing brings a certain peace. But as I read down to the treatment and recovery time a fresh wave of resistance rattles me. It can take up to six weeks of elevation and minimal use of the foot to fully recover.

A touch of insanity seeps around the edges and creeps into my flailing mind. Six weeks! The still functioning logical part of my brain takes a step back. “Oh, you don’t like that at all, do you?” she taunts. “You love to tell everyone else to listen to their body, and look at you! Here’s your chance and you’re behaving like a spoiled brat.” Self-talk can be brutal. But I have to admit that she, I, am right. I grab my notebook. I need to process and writing is the quickest way for me to get to my truth. The first word that appears is OPPORTUNITY.

With that word my perspective shifts. This time of enforced quietude, inactivity, and introspection is an opportunity rich with possibility, I write.

The power of suggestion, when written down, is readily internalized and becomes as solid as fact. When I put those words on paper I know that the time will not be wasted or lost, that it will just be different. Giving honor to my foot, working with it’s healing instead of against it, brings me back into harmony with myself. Accepting the constraints as a gift, an opportunity to explore my own mental and emotional discomfort which are far greater than the actual, physical pain of the injury, provides a rich environment to expand my awareness.

Day Twenty-one.

Today marks the half-way point, three of the six weeks are behind me. The foot is still swollen, the gash is still oozing, but the knob has receded and there’s no infection. It’s healing. But the real progress is in my mind. I’m not fighting it any more. In fact, I’ve grown to quite love the endless hours of confinement. When all of that Type A, produce-or-die energy is stripped away, I become a docile, contented, lazy-ass, slug…pretty much.

 

 

 

Seismic Shifts

For those of us devoted to inner work we are aware when we’re in the middle of something big.

Transitions manifest in various ways. A squirrely uneasiness, a plunge into deep depression, an expectant nervous sizzle, these and other unsettling phenomena like them can signal significant change.

Volcanic Eruption

Volcanic Eruption

When the earth’s crust moves, volcanoes, earthquakes and tsunamis result. A movement of mere inches can throw the existing order of things into chaos. When the violence settles, whole land masses have disappeared and new ones have formed from the molten contents spewed forth. Craters and mountains rearrange themselves. Earth-wounds lay open, fragile and unstable.

The energy of our transitions works the same. Just as the earth shudders and trembles, spouts steam, or rumbles sometimes for months, maybe years before a major trauma, so we do likewise before the breakthrough.

A human experiencing change is a microcosm of that magnificent earth force. We are transforming on a cellular level, altering the synapse sequences of nerves, re-routing paths in the brain, overriding destructive programmed responses. It can leave us feeling raw and exposed but at the same time, new, like a landscape stripped of old growth awaiting the gardener.

It behooves us to become conscious of the way we experience these seismic shifts. Whether we’ve sought change or had it forced upon us the opportunity is the same. If we approach the challenges in a spirit of friendliness and cooperation, gratitude will manifest and accompany us on the journey. And as we know, life is only and always all about the journey!

 

Writing Memoir – The Vulnerability Factor

“You should write a book!”

Shouldn’t we all? Isn’t every life worthy? Hasn’t each soul passing through existence experienced the joys and sorrows of living in a unique and personal way?

I’ve tried many times, sat down with the crisp blank Word Document staring me in the face. Where to start? Birth? I don’t remember much. Looking at the whole of my life rolled out through the decades is instant overwhelm. But worst of all, boring. I know this story. It isn’t like writing a fiction novel where the twists and turns are as much a surprise to me as they will be to my future reader.

Looking back at failed attempts I understand why it couldn’t happen until now.

1) Too painful.

To write memoir you have to go back into the stories and re-live them, write the experience of what you saw, the smells, tastes, and textures, the feelings. My heart hadn’t healed enough to go there.

2) Too revealing.

To write memoir you have to accept who you are and write from that place. I wasn’t ready to give up the façade of perfection, take responsibility for my own bad decisions and be honest with myself.

3) Too real.

To write memoir you have to be willing to be vulnerable. Your shadow has to appear in all it’s shameful, embarrassing glory. Because after all, isn’t it the shadow side that makes us interesting…and whole? I wasn’t willing to embrace the darkness of my own truth.

4) Too scary.

To write memoir you have to risk everything. We thrive on connection with others. Shame is the fear of disconnection. To reveal ones self, warts and all, is the ultimate risk. We go to great lengths to keep our sunny side up and numb ourselves to the shameful parts. I was numb.

5) Too soon.

To write memoir you have to have a clear perspective of your purpose. “Because someone told me I should,” isn’t a clear perspective. “Because I love myself and I have an amazing story to tell,” is better. But when you come to the place of knowing that your story isn’t yours, that it belongs to others who are still mired in the swampy numbness of their own failings and insecurities and it may show them a way through, that’s when it’s time.

My time is now. As I muck around in the past, digging up old stuff, the events that light up for me aren’t the ones I expected. And as I write them, the way they present themselves on the page isn’t always the way I’ve rehearsed them through the years.  It’s the most amazing phenomenon. What I’m writing is my life told from a place of wholeness and it doesn’t look anything like the dismal sink-hole I imagined it was.

When I hit a particularly bumpy stretch and make myself go back into it, on many occasions laughter bubbles up. The first time it happened I was dumbstruck. “Why am I laughing? This was a nightmare!” In a flash I realize that I’m laughing at myself, at my naiveté, at my relentless stupidity in not wanting to see what was right in front of my face.

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Walking the labyrinth

I’m loving this memoir writing process. The words tumble out and bounce back at me like the rerun of a movie I watched a long time ago. But I’m seeing it with older, wiser eyes, and a healed heart. And even though I think I know the ending, I’ve let go of the need to control it. I’m willing to be surprised.

 

We’re not in Kansas anymore!

We’re not in Kansas anymore! This photo of voters in New Guinea portrays more eloquently than words the collision of worlds as all of democratic Indonesia turns out to elect its new president. The information in this article, reposted from The Guardian, compares this election with the extraordinary grassroots success of Obama in the United States.

Jokowi and Prabowo both claim victory in early Indonesian election results

Papuans vote in Jayapura in the remote eastern Indonesian province.

Voters in Jayapura, in the remote eastern Papuan province. Analysts fear the dual claims of victory could lead to a constitutional standoff. Photo: Liva Lazore/AFP/Getty

The Guardian, Wednesday 9 July 2014 16.13 BST

by: Kate Lamb, Jakarta

A historic presidential election in Indonesia was precariously balanced on Wednesday after both candidates declared themselves winners, raising the prospect of a tense standoff in the Islamic world’s biggest democracy.

Just hours after the polls closed, Joko Widodo, the governor of Jakarta who has made the fight against corruption and social injustice key policies, gave a live television address claiming victory, setting off scenes of jubilation among his supporters.

“We are grateful that based on the counting of the quick counts, Jokowi-JK has won,” he said, referring to his own nickname and the initials of his running mate, Jusuf Kalla. He cited one of the early post-election counts, which samples votes from around the country and which gave him about 52% of vote compared with about 48% for his rival, Prabowo Subianto, an ex-general and son-in-law of the former dictator Suharto.

“This is the victory of all people of Indonesia,” Jokowi later told supporters. Another credible quick count by the pollster Saiful Mujani with similar figures gave Jokowi 52.95% and Prabowo 47.05%.

But his opponent was in no mood to concede, appearing on television later to say: “We are grateful from the incoming data that we received the mandate of the people.”

Numerous quick counts cited on television channels showed significant variations in result, depending on the political affiliation of the TV channel. The quick counts conducted by the Centre for Policy Studies and the Indonesia Voice Network, put Prabowo in front by 1% to 4%.

Political analyst Yohanes Sulaiman said: “I think basically we are going to be in limbo. Are you actually willing to tell Prabowo to his face: ‘Hey, you are wrong’?”

Prabowo, who was dismissed from the Indonesian army special forces for ordering the kidnapping of pro-democracy activists in 1998, is known to have a short temper.

His supporters admire him for his firmness, arguing that Indonesia, a nation strung across 17,000 islands and home to hundreds of ethnic groups and cultures, needs a strong, unifying leader.

Other analysts believe the dual claim could end up in a long drawn-out constitutional battle that is unlikely to be resolved for months.

The elections are seen as a crucial test of democracy in the world’s fourth most populous country, as they should result in Indonesia’s first democratic transfer of power from one elected leader to another. Indonesia has offered a respectable example, in recent years, of a Muslim-majority country that threw off dictatorship and blossomed economically under a democratic system.

On his official Twitter account, the outgoing president, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, who has publicly endorsed Prabowo, urged for peace to be preserved.

He asked both camps to “restrain themselves and not to mass on the streets to celebrate, until an official KPU [election commission] announcement”.

Yudhoyono repeated his comments several hours later, adding that the conflicting counts did not qualify as the “official results”.

Authorities said up to 250,000 police officers were on standby across the country and while there are fears that the conflicting declarations could cause unrest, as of Wednesday evening there were no reported incidents.

Before the election several credible pollsters had placed Jokowi ahead of Prabowo, but maintained that the race was too close to call.

At the polls, voters appeared to be equally divided over their choice of the next president.

Voting preferences were more pronounced across demographic lines. First-time voters, who account for a third of the 187 million electorate, tended to favour Jokowi.

Anis Komariah, 28, commenting on Jokowi’s reputation for clean governance as she voted in south Jakarta, said: “He is the type of person that is sincere, and the parties that support him, he didn’t offer them ministerial positions.”

Young voters, who have taken to social media in huge numbers during the election – at one point on Wednesday six out of 10 top trending hashtags worldwide referred to Indonesia’s election – believe that Jokowi represents a clean break with the past.

Older voters who are likely to have vivid memories of the mass riots that led to the fall of Suharto in 1998, say they favour Prabowo, seeing him as a strong, commanding leader who they believed would better unify the country.

Rofiq Mohammad, a 48-year-old voter, said: “I think a strong leader is important because we don’t want a situation like the Middle East.

“If things get unstable, everything will go bad and maybe so bad that it will be difficult to come back again. Indonesian stability is the most important.”

However, there appeared to be a consensus among voters in the world’s third-largest democracy that the election should go ahead peacefully amid fears that riots could break out in the event of a tight or contested result. Official results are not expected for two weeks.

Edward Gunawan, a film producer who flew home to Indonesia from Bangkok in the middle of a shoot so he could vote for the first time, said that in recent weeks selfies and pictures of food had vanished from his social media feeds.

“It’s interesting that your news feed is suddenly filled with very serious stuff, but I see it as a very encouraging sign,” said Gunawan, who likened the mood to the election of US president Barack Obama in 2008. “My generation and even the younger generation are getting involved and getting excited about the political process.”

How To Outwit Atrophying Brain Cells

As a native English speaker I have assumptions about language. But the one that troubles me the most as I study Indonesian is the idea that everything I say should translate the way I think it. In other words, I want every word of English to have a corresponding word with an identical meaning in Indonesian. Am I naïve or just stupid?

If you’ve learned another language you know that at first you listen to what’s said, translate it into English so you know what’s being said, think of the answer in English, then translate it back into the foreign language. That’s a bulky, inefficient method and that’s where I’m at.

So the other day when I wanted to say, ‘next time,’ I fished around my brain for the Indonesian word meaning next. Whoops! Sorry. No enchilada. I asked the nearest English speaking Balinese person, “How do you say ‘next time’?” He rattled off a string of words. “Repeat that slowly, please,” I said.  When I wrapped my head around the jumble, it translated as, following the other time only. That doesn’t work for next month though. Next month is, following the month in front. Try happy birthday. It’s no fun at all: congratulations repeat year. I don’t need to be repeating any years, thank you very much!

My favorite is selfish. That one word of English takes no less than four words of Indonesian and it translates literally as, like to make important one’s self alone. Nails it to the wall, doesn’t it?

I was told that Indonesian was an easy language to learn so I plunged in all starry-eyed and eager. Easy compared to what? Arabic? Chinese? But for those of a certain age who want to exercise the brain cells to keep them from atrophying, by all means study Indonesian. It’s 90% memorization and 10% remembering what you’ve memorized. That’s a lot to ask of defunct grey matter. After that the challenge is knowing how to put all those amazing words together in a sentence. It’s tricky. Throw everything you know about English sentence structure out the window and you’re off to a good start.

P1000267This was my humble beginning about a year ago. I found the wooden ice cream sticks, 25 to a package for 40 cents, and bought two packages. I wrote an Indonesian word on one side and its English counterpart on the other and I was on my way. Ah the bliss of ignorance! It really did seem easy until one day I realized I didn’t know how to say anything in past or future tense. That’s when the prefixes and suffixes and all the delicious little extras appeared.


P1070038

 Now, hundreds of words later, I am nowhere near fluent in this ‘easy’ language. These five hundred plus sticks hold the words that I’ve successfully lodged in the memory banks.

P1070039

 And here are 107 more that rattle around like loose marbles, but I’m getting closer.

It’s an undertaking that is humbling and gratifying at the same time. Just knowing I CAN still memorize and retain information is a kick! But being able to communicate in the national language of my host country feels important. It’s my way of saying thank you. Thank you for your kindness, your beauty, your warmth. Thank you for your patience with my assumptions and my ignorance. But most of all, thank you for this amazing life. 

 

The ‘I’m Getting Old’ Myth

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…

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.

I Hope You Dance

No bad dreams this time. Sleep is sweet and morning is a known routine. Ketut’s face appears along with coffee. “Busy today?” I ask.

“Oh no,” he says in a way that always sounds surprised that I would suspect such a thing.  “Finish.”

“But ceremony and dance?” I ask, thinking he means everything is finished.

“Later,” he says.

“Later today?” I ask. Clarification is necessary. I have begun to long for my own bed and a bit of privacy.

“Ya,” he says. We sit, enjoying the steamy warmth. He tells me that all the offerings and food are ready. Now it’s just a matter of the afternoon ceremony for his brother’s little girl and the night-time dance. I tell him I need to write for awhile today, alone in my room.

“No problem,” he says. He will tell his family to leave me alone. That concept simply doesn’t exist here. If you want to be alone surely you must be sick. In this loving, extended family, nobody should ever have to be alone. Groan!

After breakfast I closet myself away with my computer. I close the door but leave the curtain pulled back so anyone who needs to know what I’m doing in the confines of my solitary space, can peek in. Five minutes pass. A tiny face appears with nose smudged up against the glass. Another head, and another. The door opens a crack then three giggling girls pile beside me on the bed and stare at the hundreds of gray words marching across the screen. I suppress the urge to entertain them and continue to type. They watch in silent awe. Maybe twenty minutes later, one by one, they scoot off the bed and run away. Ahh.

A few more minutes pass. There’s a shadow at the window. It’s grandpa. A quick glance in and he proceeds past. A little later it’s grandma. She stops, grins. I grin back and wave. She leaves. How much more time can I take without appearing gauche, ungrateful, inconsiderate, and strange? Scratch strange. I’ll always be strange. I eke out another forty-five minutes, close the laptop, and venture forth.

My timing is perfect. Nita, with her mom and dad, are at the street in front of the compound making offerings. The white clothed priest and his bell have returned. A bit of scrambling ensues and someone locates a chair. It’s brushed off and offered to me, a throne for the queen of everything. I sit, am granted permission to take photos, and the ceremony begins. It’s clear that baby has new shoes!

When the outside ritual is finished the priest moves inside. He chants blessings for the family, for the offerings, for auspicious days, for the ancestors. Grandpa’s sister, old as dirt, sits though it all with me. She tells me she wants a copy of this photo to post on her cremation tower when she dies. It’s a customary practice but often the only photo a Balinese person has is the one the government takes for I.D. purposes. It’s a one-time event and hers was a long time ago. When blown up the grainy reproductions resemble a bowl of Grape-Nuts. I assure her she will have her picture.

The ceremony ends with a meal of course. All the mouth-watering satays, kues, spicy vegetables, soups, and rice appear once again in abundance.

As dusk wraps us all in the soft haze of approaching night, Wayan strolls in with a red drum.

On his heels the heavy gamelan instruments, each one carried by two strapping Bali boys, line up on the mats spread out for the occasion. Children that are too shy to look at me, run for them and are allowed their moment of glory as they pound away. After impressing everyone, they’re shooed to their parents as the men take their seats. Gamelan. Metal on metal softened by drum-thumping rhythm and melodious flute. My heart hammers the same cadence. I peer into the darkness knowing that soon the stunning dancers will captivate my senses.

But what’s this? I don’t think there’s a Balinese woman anywhere that is taller than I am and that’s 5’2″. These willowy wonders are well over six feet! I stare at the beautiful faces, bright red lips, haunting eyes. One apparition is swaying with undulating grace right in front of me. The sister-in-law sitting beside me makes a comment and even though I don’t know the words, I’m familiar enough with bawdy Balinese humor to know she’s not looking at the feet! I discreetly jab her ribs with my elbow and she roars with laughter. The dancer is unruffled.

They’re men. The last dance like this I attended the performers were nubile young girls. Although the guys do a spectacular job it isn’t the same.  I ask Ketut.

“Long time ago,” he begins, “All like this. Only men not married can dance. No girl.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Oh, because all like this. Married no can.” Cryptic Ketut. His answers multiply my questions. But I refrain. Another time.

The mother/daughter dance is next. When little Nengah, Ketut’s baby, had her dance it was with Ketut. I want to ask why this time the child’s mother is dancing instead of her father. But before I can plague him with yet another question, a sweet young female dancer waves a fan in my face. Where did she come from? The fan is an invitation for me to join the dance.

It’s time to leave my body again! I hover in the blue light near the peak of the tarp roof and observe. All eyes fasten on my attempts to move my feet, my fan, my head, my fingers, in unison with my partner’s. Twirl. Repeat. Move to the right. The left. My gaze sweeps over the crowd. I’m getting thumbs-up from Grandma. The gamelan players are amused. The sweet dancer who has to endure my fumble-stumble attempt maintains her deadpan, professional face. Then it’s over.

“Ya good,” says Ketut.

The music ends, the dancers become normal people, and food and coffee makes the rounds. It’s a time warp and for a moment I feel like I’ve always been here, that nothing else exists. It’s that familiar. Gratitude floods over me with goose bumps.

I’m reminded of a song on a CD, a gift from my daughter many years ago. The words encapsulated her wish for me at that difficult time in our lives. Neither of us dreamed of the way it would manifest.

“I Hope You Dance”

By Lee Ann Womack

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
May you never take one single breath for granted,
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed,
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.I hope you dance….I hope you dance.
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin’ might mean takin’ chances but they’re worth takin’,
Lovin’ might be a mistake but it’s worth makin’,
Don’t let some hell bent heart leave you bitter,
When you come close to sellin’ out reconsider,
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.I hope you dance….I hope you dance.
I hope you dance….I hope you dance.
Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone.

Off With Their Heads!

After the bizarre ferris wheel ride in the middle of godforsaken nowhere that followed a day of new experiences one after another, I’m exhausted. My roommate is still with her peers at the fair so I have our small room to myself, well almost. The scritch-scratch begins. “Oh no,” I moan as I whip the fuzzy blanket over my head and begin breathing my own fumes. I determine that whatever it is, it WILL NOT touch my skin, not tonight. The noises go on and on and I lay tense and waiting for the inevitable skitter of feet across some body part.

Then the tell-tale rustling stops. “Great,” I groan, “I know you’re just waiting for me to uncover my head and you’ll pounce!” I lay corpse-like, head sweating and hair plastered across my eyes and lips. “Enough already! I’ve had it! I’m done with this game. Go ahead, run over my face, see if I care!” I fling off the offending headcovering and lay listening once again. Still nothing. It takes me about two and a half seconds to fall asleep.

The morning alarm blasts through a dream. I return to my home in Ubud and Pasek greets me full of excitement. The new kitchen has been finished in my absence. He proudly leads me to it. It looks a bit like this, windows crooked, everything cartoonish.

I tell Ketut about the nightmare. “Oh,” says the wise one, “Bad dream mean kitchen good.” He thinks for a minute then adds, “If good dream, then maybe kitchen bad.” Yin yang. Balance. I thank him and suggest that he check on things. He has to go back to Ubud for a few hours today. I’m staying behind to avoid the three hour round trip on the motorbike. He says he will check.

The morning routine is the same as yesterday, but after breakfast, a woman with a box of footed red offering plates wheels in on a motorbike. She’s followed by a virtual army of others, arms full of supplies, long palm fronds, baskets full of flowers, fruits, moss, and a myriad assortment of necessities. Soon they’re thirty strong sitting on the low tables under the blue tarp. Their fingers fly.

In another corner the bloody business of butchering chickens is hidden from view. Unlike a pig slaughter, chickens are silent martyrs and the men are experts. Short work is made of the slim neck. Then the bird is held over a bowl to collect the blood and flung, still fully feathered, into a big, blue bucket. When it’s filled, the bucket moves to the next crew and the bird is neatly denuded. Rows of plucked bodies are strung on long skewers ready for the barbecue pit.

I pick my way through woodchips and bits and discover another enclave of men gathered around chopping blocks. These fellows are cutting up the onions and garlic that I, and hosts of others, spent hours peeling yesterday. But it’s not just garlic, onions, and chilies. There are warty roots, I’m guessing ginger, maybe turmeric, and medicinal looking leaves going into the mix. I smile, shoot a photo, and follow a basin of the chopped mix up the stairs. It’s dumped into a stone bowl and a tall, lean gent commences pulverizing it with a mallet.

The man and woman power represented here to prepare for a child’s birthday party, makes anything a normal family in the States might do look downright skimpy.

In mid-afternoon Ketut returns with a story that my dream was right. The kitchen is completed. “Wait you look-look,” he says with an evil grin. We both know that isn’t possible. I have a good laugh with Ketut at his wry, Balinese humor.

The women are finished. A buffet lunch is spread on outdoor tables. They fill their plates and relax, laughing and joking with each other. When the last bite is consumed, they file out of the compound and head home.

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About this time a bucket of fish goes by. They’re dumped out on boards and heads, fins, and tails get the axe. But that’s it. The bones are left in as the body of the fish is chopped into mush by serious looking knives. Minced bones and flesh are now united with the herb and spice mixture and fresh grated coconut to make the spicy satays that I love.

When the last stick of satays is roasted to a turn, the men are fed and they go home.

I’m summoned into the small room that has been decked out for the ceremony. Already a holy man is seated on the platform. Draped fabrics in red, purple and gold create the backdrop for the plates and mounds of offerings that I watched being made just hours ago. This is where I need my sarong but the borrowed one from Komang works fine. One size fits all when it’s just a two meter length of fabric!

The ceremony takes less than an hour. Children come in to stare for a few minutes then leave. Incense fills the room. The holy man rings the bell in a continual clanging and chants prayers as Komang and Ketut perform the rituals they’ve been taught from birth.

I have so many thoughts. First in mind, I’m embarrassed to admit, is the problem of having so much food in one’s bedroom. On the plus side, the critter that visited me the past two nights probably won’t bother when presented with this smorgasbord! But the ants? The sweet kue will attract hoards of them. And what about flies?

I banish those unholy imaginings and soak in the magnitude of the past three days. Ketut appears. “Finished?” I ask. He looks happy.

“Until tomorrow,” he says.

“What happens tomorrow?” Fair question, right?

“Oh, again for my brother, but this time dance.”

“Huh?”

“Ya. Brother’s baby six month ceremony tomorrow but holy man say have dance.”

“Tomorrow?” I repeat, seeing this wilderness vacation stretching on endlessly before me.

“Ya. Gamelan, like before.” As he speaks we walk toward a light and voices. “Can stay?” he asks.

We round a corner and there are Ketut’s brothers and their wives seated under the bare light bulb with a lone bottle of beer in the center of their small circle. They’re woodcarvers and though they’ve worked constantly all day long preparing for the ceremony, the job that makes money is carving.

I happen to know that neither Ketut nor his brothers drink alcohol. It’s expensive, and as Ketut tells me, “Too strong.” But a guest brought several bottles to the gathering today and the carvers are sharing one.

We leave the jovial group and I tell Ketut that of course I want to stay for his brother’s ceremony and the dance. What a privilege, what an honor, what an exquisite glimpse into a time and place that most Western eyes have never seen.

My roommate appears and we enter our little house together. She drops to the floor, rolls in her blanket, and is asleep. I turn off the light, grope for my sleepwear with one ear tuned for the scratch-scratch, and slide into bed. As I suspected, the ferreting varmint has better pickings elsewhere and I’m left in peace. Sleep descends.

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