“…This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year’s threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath, the door of a vanished house left ajar…” Margaret Atwood
We celebrated last night.
In the northland, days slowly shrink away until sunset is complete by 4:30 in the afternoon.
For me, Winter Solstice is a sacred time. After living for ten years 8 degrees south of the equator, where the sun rises at 6:30 a.m., and sets at 6:30 p.m. 365 days a year, the vast differences in the length of daylight from summer to winter here, the spring to fall cycles of birth and death, the drama of all that, must be given a place.
I was immersed in Balinese culture. I felt first-hand the power of their rituals, their honoring of nature, their acknowledgment of unseen energies, their deep respect for the animate and inanimate, and I changed.
Or perhaps something dormant within me woke up. My shamanic Viking ancestors knew what the Balinese know.
Until then, I was skimming the surface, living a half-life, unaware of what I was missing. When I broke the surface and plunged into the realms of the unseen, everything magnified, especially my capacity for joy.
Once that metaphysical line has been breached, there’s no going back.
So last night, we four codgers channeled our ancestral energy. We paid homage to the darkness and welcomed back the light with fire, drumming, and feasting. Individually, we let go of worn-out beliefs that no longer serve us, making room for new growth.
We had a blast, ok? We challenged our stuffy, Scandinavian comfort zones. We stepped outside the boundaries of the same old same old. We honored the past and welcomed the future. We ushered in the light.
Then we feasted on colorless food true to our Norwegian and Swedish roots. Lutefisk with melted butter, potato/parsnip/pear soup with walnut/garlic/parsley garnish, and lefse. The peas and cranberry sauce added a festive pop. And bread pudding for dessert made a sweet finish to a magical night.
It’s almost in the rearview mirror – this never-to-be-forgotten year. Even though turning over the date on the calendar won’t change reality, there’s something about ditching the double 2-0 that feels hopeful.
I’m not setting out to bash what we’ve gone through the last ten plus months. A microscopic virus has accomplished what monarchs, armies, and governments never could. Overnight it brought life as we knew it to a screeching halt.
I want to acknowledge and honor the significance of all of it. Once. Then it’s face forward utilizing what I’ve learned in preparation for a very different future.
So what were my lessons of 2020?
Number one with fifty exclamation points:
I need people
Boy, oh boy! Do I need people! A deep-seated belief that I’m a loner, perfectly happy to entertain myself for days on end, ended when that became my reality. But it’s not just people. It’s friends who care, who are committed to being there for each other – give-and-receive relationships that spring from the heart and don’t disappear when times get tough. Living alone with neither a partner nor pets, these friendship connections have kept me sane.
Number two could be listed shoulder-to-shoulder with number one, it’s that important:
I need ritual
I have to know there’s something to wake up for, something to occupy the beginning hours of the day. Fortunately, that routine was already in place, it just became longer, and vital. First, I journal with coffee. When I realized coffee was adding nervous energy that exacerbated anxiety I switched to ginger tea. Journaling finished, I do a yoga workout to hypnotizing hang drum music. After that, relaxed and soothed, I sit in meditation. By then I’m starving and ready to mindfully savor every bite of breakfast.
I need to move my body
Yoga’s great, but a walk gets me out of the house and out of my head into the empty sidewalks of Ubud. Sometimes I stop at Circle K even though I don’t really need anything, just to say a few words to another human. Sometimes it’s the library. The disorganized shelves of used books for sale are like hunting for treasure in a sea of trashy romance, but it passes time.
I need sunshine’s vitamin D
Rainy season came and cloudy days along with it. I wasn’t getting out as much and my thoughts grew steadily darker. It dawned on me one bright morning that I no doubt lacked vitamin D, a mood elevator delivered naturally via sunshine. I was out the door in a hot minute. That day I walked four miles and felt almost euphoric. Now I’m more cognizant of the shift toward depression and avail myself of stabilizing sunlight whenever that golden ball appears. It works like magic.
I need purpose
This one’s tricky. From my arrival in Bali in March 2012, until I returned from Italy in March 2020 and found the island in lockdown, my purpose and single-minded focus was writing. I wrote two novels, a memoir, poetry, this blog, and an occasional short story. My entire life centered around writing and writers’ groups. Literally, overnight all desire to write vanished. I’m still trying to figure out why. But whatever motivated me prior to Covid was suddenly as utterly absent as my non-existent sex drive. Months passed and I regularly engaged in other projects, cooking projects, sewing projects, puzzles, and a plastic-bag-flag project. But I’ve found nothing to replace the all-consuming passion I once had for writing.
I need adventure
Perhaps some people get their excitement fix from movies or TV. I’ve never developed the habit. For me, it has to be an embodied experience. Go there, do that! But in my Covid-altered state, I forgot that I could jump on the back of Ketut’s motorbike and take off for favorite haunts or discover new ones. Even a bike tour of the backroads surrounding Ubud is adventure enough to scratch that itch for days. Now that I’ve remembered what pure joy it is to ride, it’s become part of the survival plan.
I need hope
We all need hope – a belief that 2021 will be better. But I’ve let go of the fantasy that there will be a return to what was. After flailing about for the first few months of the pandemic it began to sink in how destructive and broken the old ways were. Some were already obvious. Others have come boldly to the forefront to blatantly challenge history as contrived by and for the privileged few. In spite of the chaos, loss, and irreversible damage, Covid has pushed a massive reset button. For that, I am deeply and truly grateful.
Tomorrow is the 31st here in Bali. Fireworks and parties are banned and I can’t say I’m sorry. On this night in the past, Ubud has sounded like a war zone until three or four a.m. Instead of tossing sleeplessly for hours, tomorrow, in the silence, I’ll pay my respects to 2020 for the things it’s taught me. Then I’ll burn the calendar – a letting-go ritual signifying endings. I’ll bring out the fresh, new one with the number prominently displayed at the top. 2021. I’ll crank up the music to that iconic song from the Broadway play, Hair, This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, Age of Aquarius…
Creating a Life That Fits Like Skin was the title of the first blog I posted when I moved to Bali. I knew I’d found my place, my people, my authentic self, and I thought I knew why.
The island nurtured me. The natural beauty of tropical rainforests, rugged coastlines, pristine beaches, and cloud-shrouded mountaintops offered ever-changing vistas. Exotic temples and terraced rice paddies awed me.
People were kind, welcoming, generous, and devoted to their Hindu rituals. They were other-focused – as non-narcissistic a group as could possibly be – devoted to the common good. They respected themselves and others and went about life with quiet dignity.
Those were my surface perceptions. They were all true and fed my starved soul. But there was another energy, something deeper, hidden, that hummed in me and came alive when I heard the metallic frenzy of a gamelan orchestra, saw a cremation pyre shooting flames and black smoke skyward, and I prickled with gooseflesh when the ogoh-ogoh monsters paraded the dark streets on Nyepi Eve.
I had much to learn about my Pluto heart.
In the holy springs of Tirta Empul, thirty minutes outside of Ubud, there are twelve gushing fountains to cleanse the body. Past another wall are four more for purifying the mind.
The water was chilly and fish nibbling at my legs distracted me. When I reached the fourth cascading fountain and ducked into it, Bali spoke: “If you dare to truly know me, you must accept the darkness with the light.” It was as though I’d been zapped by lasers. My eyes sprung tears, my body trembled, but my heart knew. This was the missing piece, not just in Bali, but the thing that had gone so terribly awry with my life.
The Balinese have a foot in both worlds, the seen, and the unseen. Their rituals strive to maintain a balance between the two realities knowing that both have their place, that neither is inherently good nor bad. Ancient texts written on strips of preserved palm leaf, instruct those who can read them in astrology, myth, medicine, and magic, both black and white.
Darkness is paraded in the streets as though to say, “Look, everyone! These are the symbols. They represent what we cannot see. Look!” Offerings are piled in towering stacks and people gather in dance, trance, and prayer.
The Midwest, mainstream, white Anglo-Saxon Protestant box I was raised in had no room for deviant behavior. Even Catholics were looked upon somewhat askance. For those of us who need the Plutonian connection with the underworld, there were few options. Some turned to opiates and alcohol to brush elbows with darkness. Others, like me, looked for it in marriage and found it in divorce.
It’s taken time to understand the message of that holy spring.
I didn’t know how to care for that other side of me. I created a facade for the person I thought I should be and played the role, denying self and watching my life disintegrate. This quote by C. JoyBell C. says it well: “The caterpillar does not become a butterfly by telling everybody it has wings. It actually buries itself in darkness and grows those wings.”
The Balinese know that darkness comes out sideways causing great harm if left to fester unattended. Shamanic rituals offer an outlet for dark energies and are essential to everyday life. On this island of mystery and magic, I’m free to embrace the shady underbelly that makes me who I am. The shadow deserves to live openly, to dance with darkness and claim its place. When all has been said the truth will out: without darkness light has no significance.
I owe many of the articles I write to the quirky friends I’ve made in Bali. The reasons we choose this island are different for each of us. But I’m drawn like a sugar-seeking ant to those sweet women who, like me, don’t shy away from intense inner work.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all about issues, tendencies, addictions, and destructive patterns that resurface in a different disguise just when we think we’ve conquered them once and for all. When mutual trust and respect pave the way for sharing at this level there is an equal and opposite reaction toward lasting friendships and insane fun. Balance. Bali is all about balance.
With that introduction, allow me to begin again.
So, dear soul sister, about your shit…
Bali magnifies and accelerates the processing of shit.
Maybe it’s the heat, or the multitude of busy spirits, or the daily abundance of prayers and offerings to maintain equality between the light and the dark – or all of the above.
Whatever it is, your shit will come up here, bigger and stinkier, until you own it, embrace it, and make peace with it – until you love your shit as much or more than you love your sane, sensible, enlightened self.
How do you do it – the owning and embracing?
Make a shit altar – a beautiful shit shrine.
Make a representation of every shitty thing you imagine about yourself and place it on that altar. (I would avoid real excrement – just FYI.)
For example, if you are stubbornly attached to some destructive behavior, maybe write the name of that behavior on a rock and stick chewing gum to it.
If you think you’re not good enough, smart enough, rich enough, whatever enough, put a photo of yourself flat on the altar and set an empty bowl on top of it – leave your face exposed so you have to look at your poor, empty self.
Many gurus advocate writing your shit down and burning it.
I say, face it head on, day in and day out, honor it and celebrate it. Have fun with it.
You get my drift?
Burn incense to your shit.
Make offerings to your shit.
Talk to it.
Let your shit stare you in the face until it makes you laugh.
When a breakthrough comes, change the representation of that piece of shit on the altar. Maybe the rock, in time, becomes a precious gem stone; the bowl fills to overflowing and you’re standing tall on top of it.
Remember that all those shitty things happened because a little girl, who still lives inside you, didn’t know how to separate truth from lies, she didn’t know that the things she suffered were not her fault, she took all the blame.
When you can weep for the little girl and have compassion for how hard she tried, what a strong little fighter she was, you can begin to love yourself.
Shit matters.
This may sound ridiculous but it works. It puts substance to the demons and forces you to confront them. It allows you to interact with them in the physical dimension. It brings humor into an otherwise dark equation. It is ritual, which is essential to our well being but has basically been lost in our superior Western culture, which, viewed from this place of immense beauty and profound healing, doesn’t look so superior at all.
Today 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.
I’ll get to the woman in my kitchen, but first: Galungan. There is no translation for that word. It is what it is, a sequence of days in the life of Balinese Hindus that represent weeks of preparation, the assembling of massive penjors to adorn the streets, and elaborate offerings. The belief is that the spirits of the ancestors visit their original homes during this time. Extensive offerings are made in observence of their return. Offerings are also made on the graves of family members who have died and have not yet been cremated. Business slows to a crawl, schools are closed, and the village concentrates on the events surrounding this sacred period.
Ibu informed me early that my house offerings this week would be “Mahal!” (expensive) because of Galungan. Expensive. When I quizzed her for exact numbers, the typical $3.50/week for the beautiful creations that she places around the house and yard every day would be a whopping $5.00. I happily shelled out the additional rupiah and eagerly awaited the auspicious date.
She had drawn an elaborate diagram on the tablecloth with her finger showing me exactly where each offering would be placed and how many were required at each location. How do the woman keep all the endless details of the hundreds of ceremonies tucked neatly away in their heads? I have seen Ibu studying the Balinese calendar hanging on my wall. Every Balinese home and place of business has one. In the west, we pencil our appointments and ‘to dos’ in the blank space around the dates. Not so on the Balinese calendar. It’s filled in for you.
Balinese Calendar for March
I’m guessing there may be some hints in the massive amounts of information contained in this document that would help jog the memory. It doesn’t help mine!
But back to Galungan…
I watched as the 67 year old woman made her way along the path to my house. She was in full ceremonial dress, but her sarong was wet up to the knees. Every morning she wades the river to come here. I knew the huge, square woven basket on her head was filled with gifts for the gods. Ibu began the process of sorting and arranging the offerings. Some have fruit. Bananas are an important offering ingredient for Galungan. All have flowers. And there are celophane packages of treats, cupcakes, doughnuts, peanut chips, and little vials of…could it be…jello?! After arranging the proper items in the offering bowls and trays, Ibu began.
She dips the flower in the holy water and sprinkles each offering
The dining table offering
The top of the refigerator offering
The kitchen window offering (so only good things come in)
The stove offering
Ibu was in the kitchen for a long time. When she finished, that tiny space had no less that four beautiful offerings. She completed her rounds, offerings at either side of both the back and front entrances to my home, the front and back yard, the altar, until the scent of incense was sweet and thick in the humid air.
Having completed the ritual she changed into her work clothes and again disappeared into the kitchen. This time when she emerged she had a treat for me. Pisang Lawi. I had never seen this dish before but it is now my favorite treat.
Pisang Lawi, banana dumplings with fresh shaved coconut and a sprinkling of sea salt. TO DIE FOR!!!
We sat together on the platform, each with our heaping plate and steaming cup of Bali Kopi. A friend stopped by who has been in Bali much longer than I have and Ibu rushed to prepare the treat for her, too. She had never exprienced this particular dish before and gushed her enjoyment.
I could try to suggest that I, too, cook in my kitchen, but what I do is a sorry excuse. I heat up leftovers of the fabulous meals that others have prepared for me. I tried, I really did. And I’ll try again…maybe. But with experts who can whip up such things as this in a heartbeat, without scouring the internet for recipes, translating the ingredients into Indonesian, snagging a lift on the back of a motorbike to the market, then fumbling through the unfamiliar equipment that occupies my kitchen…I ask myself, why would I?
It’s 3:00 in the afternoon, still early, but I’m impatient. The air sizzles with excitement, and the methodical background of gamelan holds a promise of things to come. I grab my camera and head for Hanoman. I’ve been told the ogoh-ogohs are already lining up there. Last year I had no idea what to expect so I found a cafe by the street and waited for the parade to come to me. Not this time. I want to be at the starting line. I want to catch the action from its inception and merge with it, lose myself in it’s ferocious intensity.
Nyepi, the Balinese New Year, is a celebration like none other. For weeks leading up to Nyepi Eve, in villages all across Bali, young and old work feverishly creating mosters of enormous size and hideous countenance. Artistic genius is unleashed to create it’s worst nightmares. In parks, garages, and banjars a framework appears first. The next day it has a penis or two immense breasts clinging to it’s skeleton. Every night the gamelan players whip up a frenzy of sound to cheer on the workers. They have already done a full day’s work at their real jobs, but the driving music propels them to slave feverishly on into the night, building a fiend that will storm through the streets at dusk, restoring a peaceful balance to the energy of the island.
As I turn the corner from Dewi Sita onto Jl. Hanoman I catch sight of the first ogoh-ogoh.
Suckling pigs are used as offerings for the more auspicious Hindu ceremonies. This particular dark spirit looks hungry!
Notice the man standing to the left. Once the framework is hoisted onto the shoulders of an army of Balinese men, these statues do battle with the utility wires that span the streets.
This one has fuzz by his toenails. Where does the inspiration for that come from?
Remember the breasts I mentioned? The flimsy red skirt doesn’t hide much either.
This dude is enormous. He has to be 20 feet tall, at least.
The mammoth boar comes complete with sound effects. It’s either a recording or a human inside who may not be able to talk again for a week!
The attention to detail is astounding.
This team puts on a show! They twirl thier monster, dipping and swaying. They run forward then side to side making their diabolical looking golden buddha appear to be very much alive.
King Cobra is even more stunning after dark. His head and entire body are outlined in lights. His eyes flash red and his mouth glows green.
This one may be my favorite, although that screeching boar is pretty awesome!
I want a skirt like this! Not the tail, just the skirt.
A pack of tomorrow’s leaders sport special hair in honor of Nyepi.
“My dad’s an artist too…!”
Ogoh-ogohs surround the field that is filled with curious onlookers. Notice the mysterious little orbs floating about. My camera does not have a dirty lens. These only seem to appear when I’m taking photos in temples or at ceremonies. ?!
By dusk the teams and their ghouls have all arrived. Now it’s time for the real cacophany to begin hearalding the march to the cemetery where ritual burning of these sinister entities will ensue. One by one the gamelan that accompanies each team plays a frenzied percussian as their group exits the field. The crowd roars its approval while the players hammer out the complex sycopations. Just when I think it can’t get any better than this, the next gamelan begins, racheting up the volume, pulling out all the stops until the roar of the crowd and the ecstatic pounding beat drowns out the memory of anything else.
It is glorious. I walk home through streets, deadly quiet, contemplating the immensity of the moment. All of that, the pageantry, the noise, the hours of preparatory labor, is a grand performance to maintain the balance between good and evil. The Balinese don’t just make offerings to the high spirits. The eve of Nyepi is meant to wake up both the benign and the malignant so they will see the abundance presented on their behalf and be at peace for another year. It feels primal, and right for this place that sits so close to the equator that dark and light, both literally and figuratively, are in balance here.
The next morning I awake to the sounds of Ibu. I shuffle, sleepy-eyed, out of the bedroom, then scurry back for my camera. She has outdone herself. The offerings on this day are heaped with fruits and flowers.
She piles them on top of one another, sumptuous and bountiful. She is elegant in her temple clothes, but I know she has crossed a river where there is no bridge, and walked through the jungle to bring these gifts and bless my house today. The incense drifts lazily in fragrant swirls. There are no planes overhead, no cars or motorbikes in the streets. Bali rests like a quiet green jewel in the blue sea. Any spirits who might be looking to make mischief will assume there are no inhabitants here and pass by.
People who spend any time here will tell you that Bali is like nowhere else in the world. If you have any doubt, come for Nyepi and see for yourself. I find it irresistable, and the longer I stay the harder it is to imagine life anywhere else.
The entrance to the Water Palace was ablaze with light. Instruments of the gamelan glowed golden as they awaited the evening performance.
We had been accosted by a man in a checkerboard sarong as we hurried toward the venue along Jl. Raya. “You see Lagong Dance at Royal Palace? You buy ticket from me. Only 80,000 rupiah.” I told him we were going to the Water Palace to see Gamelan, not the Royal Palace for Legong. “Yes, you go to Water Palace, Gamelan, you buy ticket from me, 80,000 rupiah.” He was walking sideways, ahead of us, earnestly explaining that the price was the same for us whether we bought tickets from him or at the gate. If we bought from him he would get commission. There are many ways to make a buck in Bali, and that’s about what he made when we gave him our business.
Passing through the gate we strolled a pebbled walkway between two lotus filled pools and found a seat a few feet from the entrance to the palace. The air, heavy and moist, threatened rain. Those seated near us were speculating on the likelihood of that happening when the musicians filed in and took their places. There is a relaxed informality inherent in the Balinese alongside a dignified grace. The woman on the right checked her glasses, decided they were adequately clean, and repositioned them on her face. When all were seated a joyous and resounding instrumental introduction welcomed us to the performance.
Gamelan is distinctly Indonesian. It is meant to be played outdoors. As one writer described it, “The open walls allow for the music to flow out into the community where the rest of the people may enjoy it. Inside closed rooms Balinese gamelan is inaudible and it easily trespasses the threshold of pain.” I have experienced it both ways and wholeheartedly agree that it must be played outdoors.
The instrumental introduction was followed by Puspa Wresti derived from the ceremonial Pendet dance. Young girls with bodies undulating disciplined and slow, shower the stage and the audience with flower petals. The flower offerings purify the temple or theater as a prelude to ceremonies. It is a ritual of welcome inviting the audience, and the spirits, to enjoy the delights of the performance.
The costumes, makeup, and artistry of the dancers held us entranced.
The movements of their hands and feet, arms and torsos, necks and heads, and even their eyes, were precise and provocative.
The beautiful Bird of Paradise dance, Cendrawasih, followed. The complex choreography is designed to portray the arrogance of this magnificent creature, and the costuming reflects its glorious plummage. This sweet bird moved too quickly for the night setting on my camera to do it justice!
No performance would be complete without the fierce Baris, glorifying the manhood of the triumphant Balinese warrior. The dance depicts the courage of a hero who is going to war. Once again the careful positioning of the feet, the impossible angles of the fingers, and the whites of the eyes tell the story.
After the intense scariness of the Baris, it was time for the children to perform Kelinci, the Rabbit Dance! They came bouncing out all in white satin and floppy ears looking adorable. And they continued to bounce and playfully bat at each other executing their antics in orchestrated unison.
Each performance was more exotic and technically brilliant than the one before. But at the end of the night I had a distinct favorite. The Panji Semirang tells the story of a young princess. When her husband marries another woman, the princess cuts her hair and changes her clothes pretending to be a man. She moves to the forrest with her servants. Granted, the Balinese men are gorgeous, but I don’t think anyone is going to mistake these beauties for handsome gents!
Throughout the evening a light mist hung in the air, but no one noticed. The magic of sumptuous fabrics, intricate movements, and melodious gamelan kept us spellbound. These ancient stories have been danced for centuries, but they are more than mere entertainment. Woven into the artistry is a thread of reverent awe. The performers are dancing history, and memory, and perhaps even prayer.
It sounds suspiciously like a buzzing mosquito. The sound filters through the thick Balinese air from a temple some distance from here. The holy man is chanting. At first I am convinced there is a bothersome bug circling my head. Then I realize, no, someone is singing! Today in the main temple of Ubud there is a major celebration. Dewa explained it to me this morning. In a few minutes the women will begin parading down the main street with tiered offerings towering on their heads. I set out to observe from a distance. If I wear a sarong I can approach the celebration but cannot enter the temple. I would need a spotless white covering like this woman is wearing before that would be allowed.
This photo was taken by Damian White and I have borrowed it for reasons that will soon become obvious.
I exit my room heading south on Hanoman Street. It is hot. I am on the sunny side of the street. After going a few blocks sweat is literally creating little rivulets down my back. I cross to the shady side of the street and keep going. Passing a beautiful restaurant I feel the pull of refrigerated air. But I am determined so I keep going. I finally reach the intersection where Hanoman joins the main east/west artery in Ubud. I halt on the corner taking stock of the surroundings. Cars, buses, and motorbikes are whizzing and honking past me. The only sidewalk appears to be on the opposite side of the street. There are no stoplights. Challenge number one: get to the other side. I stand on the corner awhile longer, now completely drenched, licking my own salty sweat as it drips off my upper lip.
Suddenly a menu item from the Atman Kafe that I haven’t yet tried appears like a mirage before me! Watermelon Salad! In my fried brain delirium I do an about face and hoof it back to the Atman in record time. Diving into its shady, welcoming embrace I place my order and it comes quickly, unusual for this endearing establishment!
Ah! Bliss! The cool chunks of watermelon with julienne strips of apple, a hint of red pepper, walnuts, and mint leaves, topped with feta and a faintly sweet dressing revive me. My view as I feast is of a basket of coconuts and the neat line-up of sandals that guests leave at the door upon entering. The staff regularly retrieves any footwear that doesn’t make it properly into alignment and remedy the situation.
I am so happy to be here! After finishing my salad I smell coffee. The Atman advertises the best coffee in Bali. I haven’t tried it yet, but an iced coffee latte sounds like a divine way to finish this meal. It comes with a sprinkling of cinnamon on the frothy cap of sweet Australian milk. I don’t really care if I’m up until the wee hours because of this indulgence. It is worth every sleepless moment!
I finally tear myself away from Atman, my personal slice of heaven, and return to my room. There is no one to offend now if I get a quick shot of the burned roof. I am literally standing in my doorway to take this photo. It was that close!
Home at last, I settle into my comfy chair and open the laptop. Then the mosquito begins its buzzing. When the reality of that sound registers I know that I am missing the ceremony. But I am in Bali. There will be hundreds of ceremonies, festivals and rituals before I leave. I can attend or not as I desire. Today I succumbed to the heat and the Siren’s call of Watermelon Salad. It was the right choice.
It is fitting that my soul-journey would encounter Nyepi. There are only a few other places in the world that observe a day of complete silence. But I assure you, the island of Bali has shut down. If they could have muted the roosters, I’m certain they would have! The closest thing to it that I can remember in the U.S. is when the airports were closed after 9/11. The skies were empty and an eerie silence hung over the land. Imagine if, along with no airplanes, all traffic had stopped, all electricity had been turned off, all stores and industries of every kind were closed, and people were required to remain in their houses. That is Nyepi. The Balinese celebrate the first day of every new year in quiet meditation, introspection, and prayer.
I decide that today, for me, will be a day of appreciating my immediate surroundings (I can’t go anywhere else!) I will devote it to noticing the details that I have been enjoying but not really ‘seeing’ because of the cumulative beauty of this place. Like, for instance, this intensely green plant with shocking pink striped leaves has been here all the time but I just found it.
Look at this orchid inside a half coconut shell. It has been secured to a palm tree and will eventually grow right into the tree. Then the shell will be removed and they will have become one. It will look like the palm tree is sprouting orchids.
Just out of reach as I sit on my balcony is this breath-taking cluster of frangipani, or plumeria as it is known in Hawaii. Butter-yellow with star-shaped orange centers, the flowers are individually delicate but in clusters they seem to shout their presence! You have my attention…I’m listening now…
I am embarrassed at how quickly I become comfortable in a place and forget to fully appreciate the visual bounty. It is like anything, when we have so much we become numb to it. We begin to feelthat we are entitled and instead of being humbly grateful for our abundance, we reach for more, and more, and more. It reminds me of the story that Yvonne (my Dutch friend) shared with me last night.
A fisherman lived in a cozy cottage in a picturesque village. Every day he went out in his little boat and easily caught enough fish from the abundance of the sea to feed his family. One day some visitors noticed the great number of fish available in that area. They approached the fisherman and said, “Why don’t you make nets so you can catch more fish?” The fisherman looked at them and said, “And why would I do that?” The people answered, “So you can make lots of money and hire people to fish for you.” Again the fisherman just looked at them and said, “And why would I do that?” The people said, “So you could make even more money and form a company and export fish all over the world.” In his quiet way the fisherman said again, “And why would I do that?”By this time the people were getting impatient, “So you could take a lovely vacation in a peaceful little village like this one, and relax and fish all day.” The fisherman smiled. “Ah,” he said. “I see.”
So I end this auspicious day of Nyepi with my meditation for you:
writing for self-discovery 
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