How many days of ‘poor me’ do I get?

22 Dec 2020 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, lockdown, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

It’s a compulsion. Whenever I meet someone I haven’t seen for many months, the first thing I want to ask is, “How has it been for you – this year…” I want to add, ‘from hell’ but maybe it wasn’t for them. The question has to hang there, open-ended, untainted, allowing for either possibility.

I can tell you how it’s been for me. In a word, brutal.

I’ve lost a dear elderly uncle and a young friend. The struggle to keep my nervous system in balance has taken intense focus and sometimes outright trickery. Like now. I’ve been listening to Epic Choir chanting Om So Hum for an hour and I’ve just hit replay. Like the vaccine, I need a second dose and I can’t wait a month. Having soothing sounds in the background makes my body believe all is calm, normal, in control, even though my mind isn’t convinced. So while my body’s distracted, I’ll occupy my mind with this task of writing.

Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

But besides being brutal, I’ll tell you what else this year has been for me. Revelationary. Twenty-nineteen has been a time of intense self-discovery. And as you might suspect, most of it exposed the dark side. Fears came barrelling to the forefront. Old insecurities lit up like fireworks. Regret, blame, shame, guilt…all sat in judgment as months passed and reality settled over me like a burial shroud.

Then one morning I woke up thinking, How many days of ‘poor me’ do I get?

That sounded suspiciously like the old Sherry, the pre-Covid Sherry. So I laughed and answered my question: As many as you need, kid, but don’t make it a habit. I’m trying to take my own good advice. I allow myself some sadness – deep enough and painful enough that it approaches depression at times. But I love my natural optimism too much to risk losing it forever in the Slough of Despond.

Over the years I’ve learned that awareness of a problem is the first step in the path to managing it. My self-discovery journaling was all about getting to the root causes of my destructive patterns so I could take a different way forward. This year has given me enough psychological fodder to occupy me for the rest of my life, and it’s not over yet. My heart breaks at the thought of those who don’t have the mental steel-trap that I use to lock out despair and force myself back to sanity. It’s a gift that has enabled my survival during difficult times.

But the unrelenting length of this extraordinary set of circumstances concerns me the most.

In our instant gratification society we haven’t developed ‘staying power.’ I watch my children getting stretched to their limits, adjusting, then getting stretched again. (Okay, I started to feel anxious then realized my music had stopped. I just hit replay – going into the third hour of Om So Hum…!) They (my children) are young, resilient, creative, employed, and healthy. So are my grandchildren. What a blessing. I’m grateful every moment. But nothing for them is as it was. Two of them are working from home with toddlers. Locked down and locked in both by legal mandate and by snow. And there’s that 24/7 togetherness…I rest my case.

Then, as if conjured from the ether, I was given another self-discovery tool that left my mouth gaping. Gene Keys. I’d never heard of it so after accessing my scary-precise and in-depth free profile, I did some research and found that the profile info is a mere surface scratch. Richard Rudd studied the I Ching, astrology, and another body of learning called Human Design. He used aspects from all of them and came up with this vastly complex system that spits out information about you, perhaps as you’ve never seen yourself before.

To try it, click here. There’s a button for a Free Profile. Enter your birthdate and place and time of birth. If you don’t know what time you were born, just plug in 12:01 – a minute after noon. No problem. Mine nailed me, calling out both my strengths and my shadows. It brought me to another level of understanding about what I need, what I may want that doesn’t serve me, and antidotes for the pitfalls in my personality.

I’ll try anything if I think it will shed light on this creature that I am and help me navigate my life more effectively. I don’t have a lot of time left. The luxury of learning ‘the hard way’ is a thing of the past. I want to come out on the other side of this Covid freak-show a wiser, healthier, more compassionate human.

How many days of ‘poor me’ do I get?

Hopefully, soon, that won’t be a question I even have to ask.

One Stellar Day and The Eleventh Hour

11 Dec 2020 2 Comments

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

I had a stellar day.

I used to have them regularly. In fact, it was the odd day that wasn’t. But it’s been a long nine months since I’ve experienced twelve hours that were gorgeous from beginning to end.

It began with a moody sunrise.

Clouds stirred a potent stew setting the stage. Anything could happen.

My morning routine behind me, I readied my computer to tune in to Jessa’s class. My oldest daughter has created a niche for herself that nobody else can occupy simply because they haven’t walked in her shoes. This child of mine heard a different drum and listened. From an undergrad in psychology, she enrolled in the California Institute of Integral Studies for her Masters in Women’s Spirituality which took her to the Goddess Temples of Malta for ritual, dance, and music. There she experienced the archaeological remnants of pre-patriarchal culture. 

After grad school, Jessa was hired by Yeungnam University in South Korea where she taught English to English Literature majors for several years. During that time, she explored other parts of Asia. Every so often I’d get a message: I’ll be out of touch for a while Mom…I don’t want you to worry….which would instantly trigger acute anxiety and push all my fear buttons. With a local guide, she journeyed by donkey along Tiger Leaping Gorge, completely off-the-grid. That visit to the matriarchal Mosuo community on Lugu Lake near the Tibetan border in China gave me weeks of nightmares. She loved it. Leaving Mother Lake: A Girlhood at the Edge of the World, by Yang Erche Namu, is the memoir of a young Mosuo woman. If you want your eyes opened to an alternate universe, read that book.

For ninety minutes I scribbled notes as Jessa presented her class Crossing the Aquarian Threshold: The Jupiter Saturn Grand Conjunction. Forty of us Zoomed with her on a deep dive into the ramifications of the planetary alignment that will arrive on Dec 21, 2020, the Solstice. Her diverse perspectives and surprise ending gave me so much hope for the future that, as soon as she finished, I had a full-blown meltdown. I know, that doesn’t make sense. I should have been overjoyed, not unglued.

I think it was the build-up of nine months of horror, holding myself tight to maintain sanity, making daily life-and-death decisions, “Can I see this person? Am I Covid free? Are they? Should I go to the store? The restaurant? The library…?” A message of hope seemed too much for my nervous system to bear.

There’s nothing like a blubbering, cleansing cry to refresh the soul.

It took a while but eventually I collected myself and made a huge bowl of fresh mango topped with homemade granola for lunch. Ketut appeared just in time for Nescafe and gosip, a favorite pastime that isn’t really gossip. I don’t know how we got onto the subject of the Cempaka tree and its metal heart, but I learned that Cempaka heartwood is incredibly strong, like metal, and is used for temple structures and wood carvings. Ketut wanted to know if there were such trees where I come from. I said there might be one in a botanical garden inside a glass house to keep it warm, but not growing wild like Bali.

Good laughs, always good laughs with Ketut.

After sitting all morning, I needed to move my body. For several days I’d been itching for new reading material. Ubud’s Pondok Pekok is a lending library about a quarter-mile from me. It also has a section of used books for sale ranging from seventy cents to $3.50 USD. They’re not in any logical order so it’s a game of hunt ‘n’ peck. I’ve passed hours paging through musty tomes, but this time it went fast.

I found three good novels, then a splash of color caught my eye. Out of a stack of used and abused children’s books I pulled this gem.

The cover sold me. Tell me, who could resist opening this book? It was in utterly pristine condition – an enigma in the Ubud library world. Every page was a feast for the eyes.

Graeme Base is an author/illustrator, a rare bird in literature, and he’s written this story in delicious rhyme. Above are pages two and three of Hubert the elephant’s birthday party mystery entitled The Eleventh Hour.

The feeling that I’d struck gold lingered as I hurried home and rearranged furniture to prepare for the next event of this exceptional day. My table found a perfect spot under the ceiling fan – also the best location to catch cool breezes. I use the term ‘cool’ loosely as rainy season is upon us with high temperatures and 99% humidity.

Ketut had challenged two friends to a few games of Texas Mean which he always wins. But not this time! Our precocious thirteen-year-old neighbor took four out of five rounds and I got lucky with one. She was blissed! He was skunked (overwhelming defeat – check it out) but took his losses with jovial goodwill.

A few hours later, games finished, I started to return the table to its original position. But the chair and ottoman I’d moved out of the way and tucked in a corner looked so inviting I couldn’t resist a sit-down. Before me stretched the wide-open view of sky and clouds. I day-dreamed until it was too dark to see. Wholly at peace, full from heart to toes with gratitude for life, I pulled myself out of my cozy spot, showered, grabbed one of the new books, and went to bed.

What made this day special, superbly elevated above endless days before it?

  • The message of hope
  • My blubbering melt-down
  • Gosip with Ketut
  • A successful treasure hunt
  • Fun with friends
  • Cloud-dreaming

People. Learning. Variety. Challenge. Surprise. Fun. And HOPE. Hope that there will be much more of this in the weeks ahead. I don’t think I can wait nine months more for another perfect day.

If you want a peek at where else Jessa’s been and what she’s done, here’s the link to the credentials page on her website. And to all who are reading this – wherever you are – I hope you’ve had more than one stellar day. It isn’t quite enough.

P.S. A recording of Jessa’s class Crossing the Aquarian Threshold: The Jupiter Saturn Grand Conjunction is available for $35. Please include your email address so she can send you the recording. You can make your payment via PayPal paypal.me/jessawalters or Venmo. Once she receives payment, she’ll email you the link to download the recording, along with a bounty of resources she references in her presentation.

The recording is about 90 minutes. One of the participants, Mary Foley, had this to say: “Such an amazing presentation, thank you so much! I love how much you bring from your work in somatics and racial justice. You weave a picture of hope without letting us off the hook for the tremendous amount of work we have to do!”

For more information and for other offerings, you can visit Jessa’s website: www.jessawalters.com

Blame it on Thanksgiving

28 Nov 2020 5 Comments

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

Thanksgiving morning dawned, hot, muggy, and slightly overcast.

There was no planned outing with friends to a local restaurant for roasted stuffed turkey with all the trimmings. Such gatherings are discouraged for now, and to actually find a restaurant open, and not only open but serving turkey which is outrageously expensive to buy here…well…it just wasn’t going to happen.

I awoke with reasonably good intentions of accomplishing something, but a goal as fuzzy as that rarely gets much traction.

So I napped and read, read and napped, and thought about Thanksgivings past.

The table was set for ten or twelve. Before Dad said grace, and before digging into moist slices of turkey, candied sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and stuffing with gravy, we took turns telling what we were grateful for.

Between snoozes and the interesting story I was sort of reading, I rehearsed my current litany of blessings, see-sawing between past memories and present realities when suddenly… I had an overwhelming urge to sort through files. Trust me, this never happens. I knew I had to act and act fast or the notion would pass.

Soon the floor around me was littered with stacks of ‘keepers’ and ‘dumps.’

And then…

There it was. The packet of old photos Mom sent home with me when she was divesting herself of a lifetime of family history kept in picture albums. I’d never bothered to open it.

Oh, my! Ms. Bouffant 1969.

I was 19. How did I even get my hair to do that? I probably slept on giant brush rollers all night, then teased the curls into rats’ nests, smoothed the top and spray-lacquered it to the consistency of a bike helmet with Superhold Aqua Net. Remember Aqua Net? Superhold was purple.

aqua net hairspray 80s - Yahoo Image Search Results | Aqua net, My childhood memories, Memories

I came across other shots equally as humiliating, but my pride will only allow one at a time.

As it happened, I actually accomplished quite a lot in spite of my very slow start. Eleven fat folders became four skinny ones. I found poems I’d forgotten I’d written and old diaries that jogged more memories.

So I wasn’t really alone for Thanksgiving. Old ghosts came back to remind me how truly grateful I am NOT to be living in the past. No matter how tough this Covid year has been, and no matter how uncertain the future seems at the moment, helmet hair and Aqua Net are forever behind me and that’s worth celebrating!

We Can’t Plan for a Future that Has No Past

16 Nov 2020 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, Poetry, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , ,

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to speak of many things…”

I hadn’t read through the whole poem of The Walrus and the Carpenter, by Lewis Carroll until today. It’s a horrible story! But that well-known line captures the feeling I’ve had for months – the necessity to state the truth of the situation and move forward.

Moving forward means going toward the future, a future that has no basis in past experience, nothing to look at and say, “When this happened before, this is what I did.” If Covid has done nothing else, it’s shown me how much I’ve depended on the past to navigate and plan for what’s next.

So now I’m flying by seat-of-the-pants intuition and my gut.

All the while nursing mild hysteria at being cooped up without nearly enough social stimulation. Not to mention the black hole of lonesomeness for my family a g’zillion miles away. So if what I’m about to say sounds impetuous….

It’s not.

My decision is based upon hundreds of hours of banging my head against a wall, meditating, then banging my head a few more times for good measure. In other words, I’ve thoroughly thought it through, considered all the options, changed my mind then changed it back, and finally have arrived at a place of knowing what I want.

I’m selling the lease on my property here in Ubud and embarking on the next great adventure.

Please check out this link and forward it to anyone you think might be curious or interested. Income Property with Owner’s Studio Suite in Ubud

Bali has been my home for nine years. That’s longer than four of my marriages. I’ve thrived here. The island welcomed me, nurtured me, and grounded me in a deeper understanding of myself. Out of a driving desire to communicate with Ketut’s family, I learned to speak Indonesian and my escapades on the back of his motorbike will remain some of the most precarious and precious moments of my life.

It’s been a glorious ride, literally and figuratively. But my gypsy soul has itchy feet and my Viking heart is pounding a new rhythm.

Do I know what’s next?

Remember, there’s no past giving me clues to the future, and my crystal ball’s gone cloudy. But I can stay in the present moment and take the next right step. Then the next. And the next. To relieve myself of my responsibilities here is the first right thing. The old must be set aside before the new can emerge.

“The time has come...”

Trump was necessary – my parting thoughts…

08 Nov 2020 12 Comments

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

As painful as they’ve been, Trump’s past four years were necessary.

He didn’t drain the swamp, he exemplified it, militarized it, and championed it.

He didn’t build the wall between us and our neighbors to the south, he built a wall between ourselves.

He didn’t lock her up, he unlocked racism and rage, violence and fear.

He didn’t make America great again, he made the world aware of how greatly we need a Truly Great America.

Now, ‘We the people’ have spoken…

‘We the people’ have triumphed…

And ‘We the people’ have a monumental mess to clean up.

The blinders are off – we can see all that’s broken.

We know deep inside it had to be like this,

and we’re grateful…

grateful…

so grateful.

Musings post election, by: Sherry Bronson

Image credit USA Today

More Domestic Distractions. Is there an election?

07 Nov 2020 10 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Covid, virus, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , ,

Of course there’s an election. I know it. You know it. We all know it.

What we don’t know is similar to what we don’t know about Covid. When will it end?

I, for one, am ready for the stress of uncertainty on too many levels to be over. It’s something I don’t want to get used to. I don’t want to adjust and accept it as the ongoing state of things forever and ever, amen. I’m talking Covid now. I know, eventually, the numbers will determine the next president of the United States. But as I watch the corona count escalate with cold weather ahead for many months, I wonder…

It’s not just another flu. In 2018-2019 the U.S. death toll from influenza was 34,200. From January 2020 to the present, the deaths from Covid in the U.S. stand at 242,230. Even I can do that math.

That’s reality. I don’t have to like it, but I can’t deny it.

Until recently I’ve been distraction averse. I liked to ‘knuckle-down’ and get things done. I have an experimental project to finish and a novel to work on. But a new creature has taken possession of my mind/body/emotions and now I PLAN my distractions in minute detail. The rules are simple. They must

  • be mindless tasks
  • require movement
  • take at least two hours minimum
  • feel meaningful
  • produce measurable results on my ‘happiness meter’

Yesterday it was laundry. Today it’s defrost the refrigerator and make beet hummus.

The fridge is done so beets, here I come!

Look at that color. Time for a taste-test.

Whoops.

Dirt. This has that deep-earth essence, so beety, dank…and somehow I’ve gotten overly enthusiastic with the salt. Okay, what now? I refuse to admit defeat. (Sound familiar?) What can I add to beets to dilute dirt and neutralize salt that doesn’t require a trip to the store?

Lentils.

In no time the pot is simmering. Within thirty minutes I’ve added a cup of mushy beans to the contents in the blender and whipped it to a froth.

Taste…

Oh baby! We’re talkin’ perfection here. Not even a hint of mud. Salted just right. The color’s still vibrant and the beans add density, a substantial wholesomeness to the mix.

My stomach reminds me I skipped breakfast and it’s time for lunch.

I love carrot hummus on toast with egg. It’s my favorite meal. The beets might be even better…

Mmmm! A fresh loaf of sourdough from Bali Buda Bakery…

Sliced, fried, and smeared with gobs of beet hummus…

Topped with egg and served with a glass of turmeric-lemongrass-ginger-tamerind jamu…

My happiness meter is off the charts – I rescued a near disaster and it’s freaking delicious as well as nutritious.

Where’s my phone?

Just a quick peek…

Georgia’s doing a recount?

“Hello, Mingle Café? Can I still get that frozen mojito delivered? Yes? Ok. Bring two. Fifteen minutes? Great. I think I can make it ’til then…”

Domestic distractions for the election that never ends

06 Nov 2020 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Covid, virus, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , , ,

Has it been fifteen minutes? Can I check the results again? Maybe the numbers are different – Pennsylvania? Georgia? Do I want to know? Yes? No? Where’s my phone? Oh. Still in my hand. Hmmm,

I’ve done my morning rituals. I’ve picked spinach from the garden and cooked it. I’ve messaged everyone I know and it’s only 10:00 a.m. The day looms ahead and I need distractions – this election is moving like a herd of turtles and every little percentage point one way or another makes my heart stop.

I open the closet and a pile of dirty laundry tumbles out.

I’ve been procrastinating. Usually it’s just my ‘delicates’ in there. I always do them by hand for various valid reasons. But lacey tops can’t tolerate the massive commercial machines that crank out my heartier garments either. I have three that I wore over the past two weeks. They’re waiting.

All that wouldn’t be so bad, but there’s a queen bedspread with spots that will require bleach, and a white cushion cover that the neighborhood cat decided was his. It’s covered with short black hairs and muddy paw prints. The laundry isn’t good with too many details. They take a straightforward approach and do what they do to perfection. They just don’t do spots.

I take time for a little approach/avoidance conflict and finally give in. I can’t focus on anything more taxing than that anyway. May as well get it done.

A quick glance at the phone still in my hand – no change.

Soon I’m elbows deep in suds. It takes intense concentration to keep from splattering bleach on the dark blue dress I’m too lazy (or stubborn) to change for this task.

My second-floor apartment is a dream, but it’s small. The balcony railings double as drying racks and today there’s a perfect breeze. Here’s the bedspread…

And the cat’s cushion cover…

I used to schedule laundry day when I knew there’d be no friends dropping by for a chat. Garments and bedding festooned from the railings is not exactly an ‘uptown’ look. But Covid has taken care of spontaneous visitors – any visitors…

My lacey blouses hung from window handles flap happily and dry in a nanosecond.

But I’m most proud of my solution for drying two weeks’ worth of undies. At first I tried stringing ropes between chair backs. It worked but was aesthetically grim. Next I ran lines from the daybed posts and looped them around cabinet handles. This was a better solution since I didn’t have to circumnavigate the wash every time I moved. But it, too, was ugly as sin.

I don’t know exactly when inspiration hit, but it was a true ah-ha moment. Now, plastic hangers suspended from the shower head hook onto one another and my ‘little nothings’ drip into the drain – out of sight. Brilliant, don’t you think?

And not a bleach spot to be seen on my dark blue dress.

Normally I wouldn’t write a post about laundry. But these are not normal times.

After I’d finished my task – during which I hadn’t once checked my phone – I had a split-second panic attack. What to do next? Then, Dear Reader, I thought of you. Maybe this ridiculous story about my domestic distraction tactics will give you a moment’s reprieve from the grueling wait.

If so, laundry day was more than worth it.

Excuse me…I have to check my phone…

She Cans While I Contemplate The Third Noble Truth

19 Sep 2020 Leave a comment

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, caronavirus, Covid, virus, lockdown, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

My sister and I began emailing every day at the beginning of lockdown. That’s approximately 344 emails to date and we haven’t let up.

I’m not talking a sentence or two. I’m talking paragraphs – five or ten or more – and photos. Seriously.

Our topics run the gamut. Canning – she has a prolific garden and makes it look easy…

We discuss politics – how can you not. And Covid – again, how can you not. But one of the things I most appreciate is her willingness to ‘go there’ with me, and that could be anywhere from musing on the existence of spirit guides to the likelihood of being rescued from a dying earth by aliens.

Yesterday, however, my sister who never complains almost complained. I’d sent her an overview of a project I’m working on and she wrote back: Sherry, I’ve had more time to look at your outline but it’s vague.

My feathers ruffled momentarily, then I realized she probably thought that’s all I had. So I answered…

“Regarding the outline, think of it like this. I have piles and piles of garments in assorted colors for different seasons but I have no hangers so the clothes are heaped on the floor. (The clothes are the content.) Hangers just got delivered.  Now all I have to do is put the clothes on hangers removing the ones I no longer want, sort the colors by season (which are the subject titles and subtitles) and hang them in order in the closet (which is the outline).

“That may be a disorderly way of doing it but that’s my MO.

“Some people start with the outline whether it’s writing a book, giving a speech, planning a course. I don’t. So often inspiration comes in the form of one sentence that intrigues me. So I start the story, or in this case material for a workshop, without much of a notion where it’s going or how it will get there. 

“I don’t like to be confined by convention or an outline that presupposes an outcome. I want my thoughts to have free reign, to respond to prompts from who-knows-where, to sprout and grow in whatever direction they will until I latch onto the idea that makes me passionate about the book or the speech or the workshop. That way I don’t get attached to a predetermined form and try to force my story into it.”

When I wrote that it brought to mind my morning meditation.

I’m not Buddhist but I find the practice of non-attachment, The Third Noble Truth in Buddhist teachings, an interesting one to grapple with. Buddhism suggests that attachment is the root of human suffering. And isn’t it true?! When you want so badly to see a certain outcome from your efforts that you try to force your life into that expectation and then it doesn’t turn out that way, there’s such a feeling of futility, remorse, failure, disappointment, in a word – suffering.

But if we approach everything with curiosity and non-attachment we leave our hearts and minds wide open to be delighted. We then live in alignment with our truest, best self, a self that embraces growth and change and allows us to fluidly adjust to new situations.

I can’t tell you how exciting it was to have made that connection.

The non-attachment principle has bothered me for some time – just couldn’t wrap my head around the feeling of chilly disengagement it brought up in me. Now I see it from a completely different perspective, one that liberates rather than withholds. And it never would have happened if I hadn’t gotten my feathers ruffled and felt the need to explain my ‘vague outline’ to my sister who never complains.

All photos taken at The Farm by Gwen Hall.

Do You Remember The ‘Fuller Brush Man’?

07 Sep 2020 14 Comments

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

After three days of solitary confinement I was teetering on the brink. I don’t even have to say the brink of what because you’ve all been there and YOU KNOW.

As a result of my two rather extensive motorbike adventures, my back was telling me in no uncertain terms to give it a rest. So that’s what I’d been doing for the past sixty-two hours – seeing nobody, hearing nobody, speaking to nobody – I was over it.

There’s a Japanese bakery two miles (3.3 km) from my house, Kakiang Garden & Cafe. Pizza is on their menu and for some reason I’d been craving a deep dive into dairy and carbs. Such an indulgence is justifiable after walking two miles, wouldn’t you agree?

I set out.

Photography doesn’t come naturally. I don’t like the camera between me and what I’m looking at. It’s a degree of separation that feels invasive, like I’m robbed of the intimacy of that moment. On the other hand, I believe the old adage: A picture’s worth a thousand words. So when I want to communicate what I’m experiencing with others, I try to remember to take photos.

It didn’t occur to me there would be much worth sharing on this walk until I happened upon a roofless graffiti gallery and suddenly remembered my phone had a camera.

Within a few steps there was another work of art. This rice field abuts one of the busiest streets in Ubud, Jalan Andong.

So many paddies were left fallow for years while money poured in from tourism. Now they’re being revived and what a feast for the eyes.

Once started, photo ops popped up everywhere. Do you remember door-to-door salesmen? One used to come to our house in the 1950’s. Mom knew the sound of his car and she’d say, “It’s the Fuller Brush Man.” He sold pots, plates, brooms – not brushes – yet I never thought to question why she called him that. So I asked Google, What’s a Fuller Brush Man, and found a fascinating story.

This is the Bali version.

Most of Jl. Andong is a serious shopper’s paradise. Many businesses export their goods but they’re always willing to sell to walk-in customers. I haunted this stretch of roadway when I was buying pieces for my house.

As I strolled past a virtual cornucopia of visual delights, I almost wished I could start the treasure hunt for furnishings all over again.

And then…I arrived.

It was too early for lunch and I’d already eaten breakfast, but there’s always room for dessert. I ordered an avocado coffee. And, yes. It is absolutely as decadent as it looks, avocado blended with ice cream poured over espresso with a squirt of chocolate and another scoop of ice cream. Pure heaven.

For a couple of hours I kept company with my thoughts, scribbled ideas in a notebook, watched butterflies flutter their mating dance, listened to chatter in the kitchen punctuated by frequent laughter, and absorbed the energy of life going on around me.

I still wasn’t in the least hungry, but I’d come for pizza and no way was I leaving without it. I managed to eat one piece. The rest is in my fridge.

More than delicious food, the day refueled me. It smoothed my frayed edges, loosened my knotted muscles, quieted my buzzing nerves. I was reminded that there’s still a world beyond my four walls and it beats with a strong heart.

Just Turn Your Pillow Over

01 Sep 2020 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Covid, virus, Poetry, wisdom, Writing Tags: , , , , , ,

This is Ketut’s helmet. It looms directly in front of my face as we race through the countryside.

When you see the occasional white moon at the bottom of an otherwise spectacular shot, that, too, is Ketut’s helmet.

For example, here…

And again here…

It’s only on steep downward inclines that I can actually see what’s in front of us, which happened several times today.

Wanderlust has bitten hard.

You might have thought after the grueling 170 km (105 mile) journey a week ago I’d have had my fill of the road for a good while. It seems to have worked the opposite.

I love the coastlines of Bali but terraced mountain paddies long ago stole my heart. A motorbike adventure is one of the safest, most gratifying pass times during this era of Covid. Sidemen was calling.

Tell-tale sounds of a damp morning woke me. By time to leave the rain had stopped but serious-looking clouds threatened. We took precautions, suiting up in water-resistant gear.

A friend who’d heard about our trip to Rumah Gemuk let us know she was available for future events. We invited her along and the three of us set out.

For a while we followed a garden that was following an ambulance.

Can you guess what captured the attention of these guys so completely that they totally ignored the road ahead? I have to admit, she was a stunner…

Truck art. I wonder if the driver knows…

Finally the traffic and bustle of village life lay behind us and we started the climb. Soon paddy-magic was everywhere.

In no time we’d reached our destination. Warung Uma Anyar is a local eating spot occupying a lofty perch with a spectacular view of Mount Agung…sometimes.

But not today.

Those same moody morning clouds obscured that majestic mountain. But rolling foothills and surrounding peaks provided a more-than-sufficient visual feast.

And speaking of feasts, this is not your average roadside stand. The presentation, the flavors, the damask tablecloths set a tone in keeping with something much more refined. I love to bring unsuspecting guests here. Our friend made appreciative noises as we settled in for a leisurely afternoon.

Roasted peanuts and spring roll appetizers were followed by heaping plates of local fare and somehow we started talking about dreams. I told them I’d had a very strange experience a few nights ago. I’d awakened around one a.m. with a poem in my head. It was an odd little ditty that I’d never heard before. I grabbed my phone and wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget by morning.

Ketut and our friend listened attentively as I rehearsed the words:

  • Lit I a moon so big and bright
  • That all could see it day and night
  • Lit I a sun so faint and small
  • That none could barely see at all

They frowned at me in silence for a few long seconds, then my friend asked, “What does it mean?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Is there more?” Ketut wanted to know. “Maybe there’s more. You should have turned your pillow over so the dream would continue.”

We stared at him, fascinated. “Really, Ketut? That’s what you do? Turn your pillow over then go to sleep and you’re back in the dream?”

“Yes. But only good dreams. For bad dreams, don’t turn your pillow over.”

Breath-defying views, wonderful food, humid warmth with a just-right breeze – a perfect day. But nothing compared to that nugget of Ketut’s folk wisdom that left us howling with laughter.

Previous Older Entries Next Newer Entries