Harnessing the power of intention – But it’s Sunday and all I want is pizza

10 Feb 2020 14 Comments

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

Liquid gold sunrise, 7:00 a.m. – I’m snuggled in my morning chair, wooly blanket warming my knees, steaming espresso cupped in my hands, thinking.

Thinking about this cozy house, its perfect size, location, easterly orientation, amenities. Its quality and craftsmanship, the red sofa with Mediterranean blue and granny-apple green pillows that pick up the colors in the painting hanging above it.

The astounding panorama that holds me speechless.

Thinking about how I wondered what gift I could give myself to commemorate seventy years of life and immediately knew: Italy, the Amalfi Coast, Praiano. How until that moment I hadn’t an inkling what I wanted, and yet it was there without hesitation when summoned.

Thinking about the kindness and generosity of my host who makes this trip even more delightful with his helpfulness and relentless humor.

Nicola Irace, superhost, took this photo on my terrace the day I arrived.

The power of intention…has it no limits? It seems to grow stronger as I age. If I have a desire, almost before I put thought to it the Universe delivers. It’s spooky!

Gratitude floods my heart. What a privilege to have the resources, the health, the intact mind (some would argue that) to manifest this dream.

But there are still some things I have to actually go out and get. Today I crave pizza.

This stairway is my ticket to avoid the tunnel. It feels good to begin to know the lay of the land. About halfway up I unbutton my coat and loosen the scarf around my neck. I’m glad it’s February. I wouldn’t want to be navigating these inclines at 93°F (33.8°C) which is the average temperature in Praiano in July.

There are no cookie-cutter houses. Entrance gates and doorways are as different as the people who pass through them. My photo doesn’t do justice to the picture on the upper right. Bright yellow ceramic tiles march up the steps, and the finials on the wall above the door are sparkly green.

Red carnations drip over this home’s receiving area, and a dry fountain stands sentry by another.

I passed on breakfast and now my stomach’s rumbling. I found the menu for Che Bonta online. Pizza, seafood, panini, tiramisu. I should be getting close…yes, here it is. I stand in front of the door and read the sign: closed for the holidays. What holidays?

My dream of pizza fades. The coffee and croissant cafe from yesterday had a breakfast menu. It’s two minutes up the street. As I approach I see a spill of humanity clustered around outside tables – standing room only. It looks like the entire Tour de France in their team jerseys and bicycle helmets has stopped here to eat. Groan. Is this the only place in town that’s open?

Just then the bells in the tower of San Gennaro – the church with the blue dome – peal the call to worship. I forgot. It’s Sunday. The little cafe may very well be the only place serving the public today.

I’m not in the mood to elbow through all that testosterone. Food can wait. There’s another church high on the cliff that’s been on my radar. San Luca. A quick course correction and I’m on my way.

As I approach I hear more bells, then singing. The service is underway. For a half-second I contemplate entering. The thought passes.

I’ll have to come back when I can go inside.

My journey has taken me high up the mountain. On the map this morning I saw Via Duomo, a road leading from this church back to Tutto per Tutti market. But is it a road – or a path – or a staircase? There are no signs. I wander for a while, uncertain. There’s no one to ask.

Out of nowhere a man appears walking toward me. When he’s close enough to hear I say in my best Italian, Per favore, where is Tutto per Tutti? Half in English, half in Italian, he tells me it’s Sunday. Everything is closed. Tutto per Tutti is closed. But there is a small market…he motions me to follow him to the edge of a parking area. “See the car there?” He points. “Centro Market. It is open. You go there. Everything else is closed.”

I don’t have the heart or the language skills to tell him it’s just the landmark I want. I don’t need a market. But I thank him and start walking. Soon I’m overlooking what is by now a familiar switchback. If I go left at the curve it will take me directly to Tutto per Tutti.

I pass the grocery store, which is closed, and just ahead is Centro Market. As was the case the first time I went there, a man stands in the doorway. I recognize him as the owner. “Buongiorno,” I say.

“Buongiorno,” he replies.

I had no intention of shopping today, but all at once I crave human interaction. I nod and he steps aside to let me enter. A bin of enormous red peppers catches my eye. “Grande,” I say, hoping that’s the right word. He smiles and nods. I choose the largest and set it on the counter then make the rounds of the shop adding a couple of tomatoes, biscotti, two apples, and… there it is! Primitivo di Manduria, a wine from the Puglia region. He adds it to my bill. I pay and we stuff it all in my backpack. “Grazie,” I say. “Caio.”

“Buon pomeriggio,” he says. “Rivederci.”

I look up those words when I get home. Good afternoon. Meet again. How lovely is that? Then I empty my pack. What will I do with a giant red pepper? Nothing right now.

After I’ve thrown together egg and toast and scarfed it down, I grab a book, curl up in a lounge chair on the terrace, and promptly fall asleep. I wish I had an app that counted stairs!

The Formidable Power of Intention

28 Jan 2020 8 Comments

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

I careened into 2020 out of control. That’s how the energy of the new decade felt. I couldn’t focus, didn’t want to write, looked for distractions to keep me too busy to think. There’s a word used by my British friends that seems to fit. Scatty.

I was scatty.

Normally, my actions are intentional. I’m calm, well organized, emotionally stable, disciplined, and self-motivated. I set achievable goals and bask in an overall sense of well-being. In the months leading up to 2020 the person that used to embody those attributes went missing.

I felt like a stranger in my own skin.

I couldn’t put a sentence on paper to save my soul, nor did I want to. All that interested me was getting together with friends. Hikes, lunch dates, meetups for coffee, any excuse to be with people would do. I no longer needed long hours alone to recharge. For the first time in my life, people energized me.

I kept waiting for the phase to pass. I made excuses for myself: I was overstimulated from my trip to the States, out-of-town visitors needed my attention, it was just a bad case of writer’s block. Soon, I thought, the old me would be back and life as I’d known it would resume.

But it didn’t.

One morning, a personality test popped up on my phone. Before I was fully awake I’d engaged. Instead of multiple choice, I was told to identify the pictures that most closely answered each of the questions. I found myself sinking into the situation each image represented, feeling the truth in my body.

When my answers were tallied I viewed the graph in amazement. I’d scored a whopping 92% in extraversion which, the results explained, reflected how energetically I engaged with the outside world.

On the one hand, I felt seen. My unusual behavior was validated. By some twist of nature I’d become an extrovert.

On the other hand, it freaked me out.

Grasping for clues, I searched my journal entries and a pattern emerged. My desire going into 2020 was for honest communication, greater authenticity, and to be fully and unapologetically who I am. I’d been thinking about it, journaling about it, talking about it, and meditating on it. My intentions had been broadcast to the Universe in multiple ways, many times a day.

What I hadn’t done was imagine what that would look like in real life. I hadn’t expected a rewiring of my nervous system, or that I would become a social animal enjoying the company of the pack at least as much if not more than my solitary cave. I’d made assumptions based on old programming not realizing that the authentic me was a different creature entirely.

As I come to terms with my updated self and accept the mildly schizophrenic sensations that have accompanied this transformation, I’m in awe of the formidable power of intention. I’m also aware of how unskillfully I used that power. I imagined a slight tweak to my personality. But the words, to be fully and unapologetically who I am, that I unleashed to the cosmos, were not about tweaking. In essence I used a jackhammer to pound a nail.

I wish I could describe how it feels to be so abruptly and thoroughly changed. Everything I do is a new experience even though I know I’ve done it hundreds of times before. Sometimes I’m surprised by what I say though as soon as I’ve spoken I know it’s my truth. It’s like someone else has incarnated in my body and claimed it for their own yet this alien other is more authentically who I’ve always been.

It’s spooky, thrilling and disturbingly new, and slowly, very slowly, I’m starting to write again.

The Momentum of Intention and the Healing Power of Ritual

19 Jun 2016 16 Comments

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

P1110803Today I did something I’ve never done. It felt important to remember Dad in a special way on Fathers Day. In America that falls on Sunday, June 19th.

When the idea dawned to assemble mementos, the 19th was still two days away. As I went about the normal routine ideas floated to consciousness: Dad loved to play Texas Mean! I’ll find the game and set it up. What were his favorite foods? He liked hot stuff, chilies! And raisin pie, and, oh! Flowers!

I fell asleep anticipating Fathers Day morning but awakened at 2:04 a.m. Where was that photo of him that I brought back with me from the States? As I was scouring my brain trying to place it I fell asleep only to awaken again at 4:18. His purple heart and dog tags! Those must be displayed, and pictures of our family…I dropped back into sleep. At 6:00 a sunrise befitting the magnitude of the day summoned me. I scrambled out of bed for the camera and captured a stunning sky.

Still in pajamas, I set about looking for his photo. It wasn’t in any of the expected places, but in the process of the hunt I found others. Perfect! While unearthing the Texas Mean game from its place in the cupboard a collection of old calendars caught my eye. Inserted between March and April, 2015, was my handsome Dad on his wedding day. Beside it was the program from his funeral. Did I want that reminder? It took a few minutes to sort through how I felt. Then one line caught me eye: Died January 29, 2016. Yes, his death was a fact of his life.

As I assembled the keepsakes, a carved Buddha head on the wall just above the display felt off. The eyes, locked into an unwavering stare, didn’t fit. In my scarf drawer was a black loosely-woven shawl. I draped it over Buddha’s head so just the shadow of a face could be seen. That was the missing piece. It represented the veil of sadness and loss that today I’m allowing myself to feel. Then the tears came.

A time-out to shower and dress restored my composure. Barefoot, I walked outside, down the stairs, and into the garden breathing the moisture and aromas of breakfast being cooked. I sensed Dad’s presence with me. He loved gardens! Damp and cool underfoot, a slow amble around the perimeter produced yellow, purple, and hot pink blooms. I’d just added two green chilies to the mix when Ketut appeared.

“Ya, good morning. What are you doing?”

“I’m preparing a ceremony for my father.”

His face lit up. “One years, same as Hindu?”

“No, it’s six months since he died. But in America this is a special day for fathers.”

“I will bring offering,” he said. A few minutes later he returned with two palm leaf creations filled with the appropriate grains of rice, flowers, and mossy bits that appear everywhere on ceremonial days in Bali. I asked if it was okay to put raisins, the chilies, and a sweet biscuit on top. He assured me that this is how it should be.

All in readiness, I lit a candle and incense.

The raspy voice of Johnny Cash came to life on the computer: I Walk the Line. It was a song we loved to sing. While it played I made coffee, one for Dad, one for me, and we had our time together.

Underlying the sadness was intense joy filled with loving energy both his and mine. From the moment of intention, my subconscious mind had spun the story. When it was time to bring the idea to fruition, all the needed elements were there for creating an altar of memories.

Ritual is healing. I’ve heard that but I didn’t really understand. Now I get it. It can’t just be a concept. It has to be performed. I’m grateful that I took the time, made the effort, and followed the subtle promptings of my heart.

Happy Fathers Day, Dad, and all my love…always…

Sherry

Yoga, Intention, and Geocaching!

23 Apr 2012 1 Comment

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

There are heart-opening poses in yoga. Some are quite easy, others require a mind-over-matter approach! There is also the opportunity to set an intention for the day. I set my intention this morning to allow my heart to be open to new opportunities in whatever form they presented. I held my intention through the poses which leaned decidedly toward the more strenuous.

(The following pbotos were taken from the Bing search engine.)

We did a lot of this only our arms are outstretched reaching, lifting, holding in front of the body.

And a lot of this, holding, holding…

And the full sun salute series 6 times on each side.

The one pose that was over-the-top doesn’t have a photo anywhere on the internet! Picture this: Stretch out full length on your stomach, legs together. Stretch your right arm straight out from the shoulder, perpendicular to your body. Roll your entire body to the left toward that arm as far as you can keeping the right arm extended. Bend your left knee and bring your left foot close to your left hip but keep it on the floor. Bend your right knee and bring it up beside your left. Now raise your left arm toward the ceiling and then stretch it back as far as you can toward your right arm. Then hold the pose for 2 – 5 minutes. Your shoulders crunch, your heart opens! Wallah!

I walk back home and sit down in the little cafe for breakfast after greeting the others already assembled there. Pulling out my notebook I start working on the next piece of writing when I overhear a conversation between two tables at my left. The man from the Netherlands is explaining to the couple from Canada about his travels geocaching. As I eavesdrop I learn that “treasure boxes” are hidden all over the world with specific GPS coordinates for locating them. They are placed by individuals who have an interest in or love for a particular place. There are actually three right here in Ubud, he says. By then I am shamelessly listening and asking questions. The one he plans to see this morning is in a school for handicapped children. Then the invitation, did I want to come along?

Cause and effect is a reliable force. Here was an opportunity presenting itself not more than a half hour from the time I’d set my intention in the heart-opening yoga class. I ask a few initial questions then accept. We head out, Rob from the Netherlands with GPS in hand, and me, open-hearted, opportunity-seeking adventurer. Twenty minutes later we enter the huge open main floor area of the school. It is spotlessly clean with some structures that appear to be built for large motor skill development. Then we’re directed up the stairs. Three-quarters of the way up Rob exclaims, “There it is!” and picks up a brightly-colored woven basket sitting on the ledge by the stairway. He opens it and removes a notebook and pen, writes his name and the date and something else in Dutch, and returns the notebook and the basket. Then he shows me his phone slash GPS and the button to push indicating he found the treasure.

Wonders never cease. We then observed two classrooms. In one the children are singing, beautifully. In the other they are paying close attention to their teacher. She gives an instruction and they perform the task, then she issues another instruction. A woman tells us that there are children with Downs Syndrome, Attention Deficit, Hyperactivity, Autism and other disabilities. At 10:00 they will be downstairs in the gymnasium for exercise…that is what I saw coming into the building…and we can watch.

The school has a restaurant and is attempting to be self-supporting. All the children and everyone I see working there is Balinese however the school (and orphanage) was founded by Europeans. This is not a tourist destination so information is a little tougher to come by, nor did I find a website.

We thank them and leave, conversing congenially as we walk back. Rob catches his motorbike taxi to the next treasure location. I retire to to my balcony to once again share the events of the day with you swearing never again to underestimate the power of intention.

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