Curried Cabbage and Whipped Skim Milk

22 Apr 2020 10 Comments

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

I’m embracing my kitchen ineptitude with undaunted optimism. My expectations are low so when an experiment emerges not only edible, but really good, I’m more surprised than anyone.

I’ve had a few successes lately, but there’s no danger of big-headedness. My domestic inadequacies go way back.

I spent my sixteenth summer walking in circles. Grandma B was the accountant for a company in Minneapolis that sent out promotional packets to their customers. All that summer I walked around and around a long table with five others collating napkins. Each one had a different picture and inscription signifying a special day: Happy Easter, Merry Christmas, Happy Birthday, Happy Anniversary…you get the idea.

If you think isolation is boring, try walking around a table eight hours a day five days a week for three months.

Grandma liked to put her feet up when we got home and I was thrilled to be allowed free reign in her tiny kitchen. All through June, July, and August that year, as temperatures hugged 100 degrees (37.7 celsius) I baked potatoes, lasagna, apple pie – that oven ran from 6 p.m. onward and Grandma never questioned my judgment. Until one night…

I’ve long forgotten what dessert I made, but I do remember wanting to serve it with whipped cream. All we had in the fridge was skim milk. I was convinced if I just beat it long enough and added enough powdered sugar, I could turn that bluish liquid into a fluffy white miracle.

Gram was stretched out on the couch. A fan droned monotonously and did little more than give slight movement to the blistering air. I’d had the good sense to chill the milk in a stainless steel bowl to give myself every advantage. I pulled it out of the fridge and revved up the hand mixer. Five minutes passed, then ten as the beaters ground away.

Grandma lay peacefully, eyes closed, a slight smile on her lips, Fifteen minutes. Twenty. There was hot-engine smell coming from the mixer. The milk was still milk. I’d been steadying the bowl with my left hand but let go to wipe sweat out of my eyes.

The bowl shimmied to the edge of the counter. I jerked my left arm down to catch it and my right arm up. Whirling blades spattered milk on the ceiling. With the clatter of metal against floor tile, I burst into tears. Grandma’s hand flew to her mouth but her shaking shoulders gave her away. She was laughing.

That was fifty-four years ago.

Yesterday I decided to do something with the cabbage I’d blanched and frozen two weeks ago. Suspicious brown spots were appearing. How about creamed cabbage? Never mind I had no cream. No milk either. I had butter. Maybe a white sauce – throw in a little curry powder… There you go – creamed cabbage curry!

I melted the butter, mixed flour with water and poured it in. In no time I had dumplings, great lumps of pasty goop floating in a greasy sea. Unfazed by this minor setback, I let it cool, put the mixture in a blender, and turned it into the smoothest, satiny-est gravy you’ve ever seen. Back in the pan. Add chopped cabbage and throw in a few red pepper flakes and – oh yes – the curry powder.

I sat down to enjoy the feast. The first bite hit my tongue. Odd flavor. Dust?

It didn’t occur to me until later – after I’d visited the compost pile with all but the first two bites of my grand experiment – to check the expiration date on the curry. You don’t want to know but I’ll tell you anyway.

February 28, 2016.

I was right.

Dust.

Black Snake in the Kitchen!

20 Apr 2020 7 Comments

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

There’s so much excitement – where to begin?

Since you already know about rats in the attic, it would be logical to mention snakes. Ron Lilley, the local expert on all things reptilian, says if you have rats, beware, snakes will come. He didn’t say it exactly like that, but close enough.

I was in the garden about to empty my bag of compost when a leaf moved. The wind, you say? No. It was in a sheltered corner where humidity hangs like a wet towel, deathly still.

Except for that one leaf.

I froze and a black shadow with yellow racing stripes glided across my path. He was a good meter long (a little more than a yard) and utterly undisturbed by my presence. I couldn’t say the same. I gave him plenty of time to disappear then did my compost dump and beat it back to the house.

I had nasty snake-dreams all night.

The following day the fogger came. Dengue fever is rampant in Ubud this year. Within days of each other, my neighbor next door and my neighbor downstairs were both suffering. As much as we hate fogging, we agreed it was time.

I put on my mask, closed the windows and doors, then captured the event in progress.

When I first moved to Bali eight years ago, I was equal parts shocked and enchanted by the relaxed approach to just about everything. The one exception was religion. Balinese Hindus do not shirk their duties to God. But other rules can be bent, regulations are more a suggestion than a requirement, and I took to it like the rebel I am. But I’ll have to admit, I still find fogging evil – albeit a necessary evil.

When the poisonous clouds had cleared and the windows re-opened, I sat down to work on my latest edit of Nettle Creek. For many weeks I’ve been unable to focus on ‘real’ writing. It’s great to be motivated again.

I was a few hours into it when the phone dinged a message from my downstairs neighbor.

The black snake is in the kitchen.

A ripple of horror coursed through me. It’s one thing to encounter wildlife when trespassing in their territory. It’s quite another sensation entirely when they trespass in mine.

I raced downstairs and peeked through the kitchen door.

Nothing.

I inched inside and peered under the counter. A long slim neck and triangular head stared up at me. I raced past him, got what my still-sick-with-dengue neighbor wanted out of the fridge and sent her back to bed. Then I posted vigil from the sixth step of my staircase and waited.

A few minutes passed then the head and neck poked into view. Seeing the coast was clear, it slithered – the exaggerated S-curves of it’s body gave me the willies – out the door and into the bushes.

I’m a bit puzzled by friends who tell me they’re bored in isolation. Lockdown here has brought an onslaught of drama like never before. But even in the absence of outside stimulation, isn’t there always something to do – like try a new recipe for instance?

After my foray into skillet biscuits people sent ideas for all manner of delights to make on the cooktop. I’ve been too busy to experiment until today.

Today.

No foggers or rat guys or gas guys or snakes! Today was Skillet Peanut Butter Cookie day!

Just creamy peanut butter, soda, flour, salt, and egg. I didn’t add sugar. Bali’s Morin Creamy Peanut Butter is already too sweet.

When the dough could hold its shape, I rolled it into balls and put them in a non-stick pan. Pretty fork imprints characterize peanut-butter-cookie memories of my childhood – a must.

I covered the pan with a derelict old pot topper that I inherited from some forgotten somewhere long ago. It conveniently lost it’s knob along the way. The hole on top allows moisture to escape.

I put the burner on low and after about 10 minutes, turned the cookies over. For the second batch the burner was on high. It took 8 minutes total and they were perfect without flipping. A dash of pink Himalayan salt on top, a mug of coconut Chai, and I had the best solo tea party ever.

It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, time to pull up the manuscript and do a bit more editing. Then a beverage of choice accompanied by five calorie-dense Spicy Zanana Chips – no more, no less – and my day will be complete.

See-through Teddies and Frothy Negligees

18 Apr 2020 2 Comments

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

My downstairs neighbor messaged me: The rat guys are here.

It was early but I was dressed, unlike yesterday when the gas guy came at 7:30 and needed pliers to get the cap off the old tank. I did his bidding in my pj’s. Fortunately, the days of see-through teddies and frothy negligees are over.

American Eagle tee and comfy sleep pants

The rat guys weren’t expected today. They were here Monday and again yesterday. It was my understanding they’d return in a week to check progress. I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. I’ve learned the secret to getting more help than I’d ever want. It’s the Balinese Apology and I’ve perfected it.

Basically, it’s just being polite times one-hundred. And being polite times one-hundred in the Indonesian language works like a bit of Hogwarts’ wizardry. Mohon maafkan saya, Pak. Saya tidak mau mengganggu Anda tapi saya ada sedikit masala disini. I beg your forgiveness, Sir, I don’t want to disturb you but I have a little problem here.

What that’s gotten me with the rat guys is over-the-top service.

I went down, greeted them, and got the scoop. They were back because it appeared the problem was more widespread than they’d originally thought. They wanted to spray tracking oil (poison?) in the gardens and around the perimeter of the house. I asked if they needed help. They looked amused.

The spraying finished, I sent them off on their motorbike with thank you’s and smiles and went back to prepping a pumpkin for the most delicious soup on the planet. I’d begged the recipe from a friend who owned a restaurant in Penestanan. It was always on the menu as Aunt Jeffry’s Spicy Pumpkin Soup and I loved it.

I’d just turned on the burner under the cubed pumpkin when my phone dinged.

The rat guys are here.

What? Again?

I hurried downstairs. Selamat siang. Apakah Anda tahu orang orang Anda sudah datang pagi ini? They said they knew their team had already been here but they wanted to install a CCV camera in the attic to watch where the critters (my word) were getting in.

Anda menonton saya juga?

They laughed. “No Ibu. We will not watch you. We watch only the tikus.”

I told them I hadn’t ordered a surveillance camera but they assured me it was included in the price and all they needed was an electrical outlet and my wi-fi password. It was 2:30 in the afternoon when the drama ended. I hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch.

I re-started the burner under the pumpkin, sauteed onion, garlic, chili and almonds (mystery ingredient) and assembled the blender. My belly button was hugging my backbone by the time the soup was ready.

Delicious. I ate like I hadn’t seen food for months.

It was a huge batch. Most of it will be tucked in the freezer for a rainy day which this afternoon turned out to be. The sky blackened and wet-earth smell told me a storm was coming. I hurried to the garden to compost the pumpkin skins and got back inside just as wind whipped rain against the windows so hard it sounded like hail.

I took a video. Well, let’s say I thought I had taken a video. When I downloaded it I saw I’d completely missed the storm and only captured my feet. But you do get a flash of the landscape and a bit of sound. That will have to do until next time.

Mohon maafkan saya!

Escaping the Shelter

17 Apr 2020 6 Comments

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

I’ve waxed poetic to whoever will listen about the return of the electric blue bird with neon orange beak and feet. He disappeared several years ago. And the clever jumping squirrel is back. He, too, has been gone for a long while. Butterflies are mating in my garden once more doing their tandem spiral dance. And dragonflies, by the hundreds it seems, flit about like mini helicopters.

It’s because of this:

No tourists and no traffic. Just a construction worker pushing a wheelbarrow and a dog lazing on the sidewalk.

How did I acquire these photos when I’m supposed to be sheltering in place?

Once in a blue moon I allow myself to walk to the end of the long gang that takes me to the Delta convenience store that is – well – convenient. It’s located on Monkey Forest Road right at the end of my path. I’ve walked that trail a total of three times in the past three weeks and I’ve never met another soul coming or going. It’s an adventure of mammoth proportions and I linger, chatting with the young man behind the counter, asking him whatever I can dream up to make conversation.

“Oh! You have two different kinds of batteries. Will you check the price for me please?” (Nothing in this shop has a price on it.)

He does my bidding and tells me very respectfully that the black package is ninety thousand rupiah and the red is only sixty thousand. I thank him and tell him I’ll take the red.

He sees me eyeing two brands of peanut butter. “I will check the price, Ibu.” (Ibu is a sweet form of respect loosely translated as ma’am, or mother.)

“Thank you.” Their difference is only a few rupiah and this time I take the more expensive one. “It’s very quiet on the street,” I say as I return the unwanted jar to the shelf. “How many people come in the shop in one day?”

“Maybe two or three,” he says. “Until at night. Then it gets a little busy.”

“They come in after work?”

“Not many people working, Ibu.”

He was right. I shook my head. “I know. Very hard times for Bali.” As he was ringing up my items I asked if I could take his photo for Facebook.

“Yes, of course.”

“And the shop, too?” Again he gave me a thumbs-up.

This was a SOCIAL EVENT the equivalent of a masquerade ball. It felt so special. I wore a mask, of course, and stayed a good distance from my cashier friend. Then I walked home.

The path to the Delta shop and Monkey Forest Road

Once inside, hands and purchases washed, I ripped open the bag of Zananas. The yellow packaging had caught my eye – a new item in the shop – and anything that says spicy these days is on my radar. While munching on a handful of the chili-coated banana chips I flipped to the back to read the nutritional info and nearly choked.

  • Two servings per package.
  • One serving = 1000 calories.

That’s like 9/10ths of of my daily food intake. I could have one serving of Zananas and a bowl of sprouts to fulfill my sedentary lifestyle limit.

I didn’t spit them out but I made a note to self that unless I wanted to double my size in a New York minute, this bag of treats should last a month.

In my old life – walking, walking, walking – I never counted calories. I ate healthy food and maintained my weight. But in this new life – resting, napping, dozing – a bit of vigilance is required.

Preparing and eating a meal has become one of the high points of every day. I’m grateful for anything that provides entertainment. The Delta convenience store. The cute cashier. My tropical garden. Thunderstorms. The walk-able path. Monkeys in the morning. Rats in the attic at night… The rats have actually provided a week of comic relief. But that’s another story!

It stands to reason if the desirable animals are staging a comeback, the undesirables aren’t far behind.

Hmmm. It just occurred to me. Forget the sprouts. Zananas and a glass of wine, that’s close enough to the calorie quota, and it must be 5:00 somewhere…

The life-or-death importance of how to properly eat an egg

09 Apr 2020 10 Comments

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

The cover of The Lilliputians Newspaper April 25, 2016

My world is Lilliputian. The reality sinks in a little more each day. It’s an adventure to go from my door down the steps to the garden with my parcel of compost, heave it into the bin, pick up the few leaves that have fallen during the night, and back upstairs again. If I were a citizen of Lilliput and only six inches tall, that would be a herculean undertaking. I’d have a hero’s welcome when I returned. If I returned.

Last night, however, there was real excitement.

In the morning the monkeys came as usual. When I caught one trying to crack open a coconut on the ceramic tiles at the entrance to my door, I grabbed a stick and made loud, threatening sounds. He ran but I could hear him pounding again somewhere on the roof.

Out of sight, out of mind. Eventually the pounding stopped.

During the day I made my famous spicy sweet potato dip and bribed my neighbor. If she would do a Tarot reading for me, I’d ply her with rice crackers and dip. It doesn’t take much to lure either one of us from our separate isolation quarters.

It was a fabulous reading. I got the answers I needed. Then we did hers, paying no attention as a storm rolled in and rain pummeled the roof. Deep in spicy dip and Tarot, nothing could distract us.

Around eight p.m. she took her leave. The rain had stopped. Five minutes later my phone dinged. It was a WhatsApp message from my neighbor. There’s water pouring out of the light fixtures.

I rushed downstairs.

It was a flood of epic proportions. The kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom floors were wading pools. Half of her thick foam mattress topper was soaked. Rivulets of water trailed down the walls and streamed from can lights in the ceiling. She’d gotten a shock when she touched the light switch.

It was no mystery what had happened. The monkey, in his attempt to crack open the coconut, had broken fragile terracotta roof tiles. From the amount of water I seriously doubted there was any roof left.

It had only been eight days since I sent faithful household manager Ketut, home and told him to stay there and stay safe for the month of April. In a panic I called and relayed the story.

This morning he arrived, his perpetual sunny smile in place, and by noon the broken roof was fixed.

To revisit the Lilliputian reference, remember Gulliver’s Travels, the political satire written by Jonathan Swift in 1726?

When the small boat Gulliver was traveling in ran upon rocks, he swam to the island of Lilliput where he walked ashore and fell asleep. When he awoke he was surrounded by people less than six inches tall. They had tied him to the ground with hundreds of tiny ropes. He could easily break free, but he didn’t want to frighten them so allowed himself to be restrained until he’d gained their trust.

Gulliver learned that the Lilliputians were at war with a neighboring country. The source of their conflict was a disagreement over the proper way to eat an egg. He agreed to help them.

In Bali and elsewhere, people are being encouraged to shelter in place. But those of us doing so are a bit like Gulliver. We’re allowing ourselves to be restrained.

In time, cooped up in tight quarters, even if it’s done willingly, patience grows short, tempers flare, and something as ridiculous as the proper way to eat an egg can become the most important priority of life. Be on the lookout for such silliness and take a step back to consider before you engage.

If the enemy is external, say monkeys for instance…

I also had to take a step back and remember they were here first. I’m the shipwrecked giant washed up on their shores, the scary stranger who consumes their food and ruins their environment. The issue isn’t the proper way to eat an egg. It’s domination. Who gets to be here and what price do we pay to stay?

Right now we’re paying the price of our massive consumption of wilderness at the expense of the animal life it supports. If winning this war against disease means going back to the way things were, we’ve lost. That reality is unsustainable. That’s what got us where we are.

If losing means learning how to eat an egg their way, we’ve won. But nobody knows what that looks like. And nobody knows who ‘they’ are.

Lockdown – an Introvert’s Dream

06 Apr 2020 4 Comments

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

Before the c-virus I was happiest spending long stretches of time at home entertaining myself with no distractions. My writers group met weekly and I’d usually have coffee or lunch with friends at least once a week. That was the extent of my social life. If too many dates on the calendar registered upcoming events or get-togethers, a cloud of mild anxiety hovered around me.

It’s not that I don’t like people. I do. I can play nicely in the sandbox with others. I expect to be liked and I think I usually am. That may be delusional, but if it is please don’t burst my bubble.

That was when I had freedom to choose when I went out or when I stayed home.

This is very different. There’s an unseen enemy that could be hiding anywhere, on packaging, in grocery stores, on door handles or money. And suddenly my options have shrunk to zero. I’m seventy years old. If I value my life, if I want to continue to see the sun rise and set for many more years, I have to stay home.

So of course what I want more than anything else right now is to socialize. Isn’t that human nature at it’s worst: always wanting most what we can’t (or shouldn’t) have?

You’ve heard the saying, Be careful what you wish for? I was wishing I could host a small party. There are dear friends I haven’t seen since I returned from Italy. I went immediately into self-quarantine for fourteen days. I was so looking forward to the end of my two-week isolation.

Due to government regulation and self- isolation, those two weeks have stretched to over a month with no end in sight. But today my wish for a party manifested. It wasn’t quite what I’d envisioned, but I definitely had guests.

They were a pugnacious bunch. A fight broke out on my roof and tiles went flying. My Bali expat friends can be rowdy but they aren’t that agile. My roof tiles would have been safe.

The monkey invasion squelched my desire for a party. It reminded me that I really do love being alone. I have vast fields of time to gaze at the sky and daydream. I can write – or not – as the mood dictates.

But there’s an underlying thread that I can’t quite access. It’s a feeling – a sense of divine purpose – that this had to happen. This. Nothing else. And despite the alarming death toll, despite financial ruin, despite a world thrown into chaos, despite the uncertainty, and fear, and hardship, and untold suffering, there’s a place for gratitude. For thankfulness.

In my hours of solitude, that’s what I want to access. Gratefulness, without needing to know why. Thankfulness, trusting that this time is necessary. And acceptance of what is, knowing there’s no other choice.

Guilty as charged!

06 Apr 2020 7 Comments

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

There’s a guava tree in my garden. I’m not a fan. The fruit is loaded with disagreeable little seeds. On the way to the compost bin I glanced up at its branches bending under the weight of ripe abundance and felt judged. In these strange times, why wasn’t I utilizing a natural source of nutrition that required nothing more than the energy to pluck it?

So pluck I did, out of guilt, then probed the internet for a recipe that would turn it into something edible. And there it was. Guava cheese.

In regard to cheese, I’m a solid thumbs down on Velveeta and varieties that fail the ‘smell’ test. Otherwise I’ll try anything. Guava cheese piqued my curiosity.

The instructions called for two ingredients, guava pulp and sugar, in almost equal amounts.

I wavered. Some people are sweets addicts. Some prefer salty treats. I’m the latter. But in the dark recesses of my refrigerator were two atrophying lumps of palm sugar left over from a brunch buffet (a year ago?) when it had been sprinkled atop banana fritters. Getting rid of the sugar while assuaging my guilt over the garden guavas had the intriguing potential of making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

The entire process took an hour – that’s when I decided to quit stirring. But when I poured the hot sticky mess into a buttered pan to harden I had doubts. At 93% humidity, a temperature hovering upwards of 85 degrees (29.4 Celsius) and a 90% chance of rain in Ubud, the so-called cheese was a long way from solid with little hope of achieving the desired outcome.

Six hours later its consistency hadn’t changed. It seemed I’d made a batch of guava paste. I invited my neighbor for tea to sample my efforts.

We’re in isolation, me upstairs, her downstairs. We haven’t been off the property for many days. In a world where people eye each other suspiciously and pass giving wide berth, it’s a comfort having someone to interact with semi-normally knowing that neither of us carries the dreaded virus.

She accepted my invitation.

At the appointed time, Kaye arrived and seated herself at the table. “So this is guava cheese?” she said, poking suspiciously at the uncheese-like substance. “It looked different in the pictures you showed me. Like fudge – you could pick it up and…”

What could I say? She was right. “Yes, yes. Maybe think of it as guava butter and just taste it.” She spread a dollop on a cracker and took a tentative bite.

“What do you think?” I asked. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed.

“Hmmm.”

Her hmmms can mean anything, hmmm good, hmmm bad, hmmm-I-don’t-want-to-disappoint-you-but…

“Well?”

A look of surprise crossed her face. “It’s really quite good, isn’t it?” she said.

We decided it resembled cranberry sauce and would be a tasty accompaniment to turkey – or spread on top of cheesecake – or with real cheese and crackers. Before she left we’d polished off the lot.

Even though my failed guava cheese was a hit, I don’t think I’ll be wasting my energy making it again anytime soon.

The only other edible growth in the garden is a chili plant.

There’s no guesswork involved with those little firecrackers. What you see is what you get, hot, hotter, and hottest in direct proportion to the amount added, no blending, straining or endless stirring required.

I’ll leave guavas to birds and squirrels. Going forward, chilies will be my guilt-assuaging choice.

Update re: ZOOM – As if there wasn’t enough drama and trauma!

04 Apr 2020 1 Comment

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

Because of the late-breaking ZOOM news, anyone who wants to participate in the 75-minute Trauma-Sensitive Yoga session with Jessa Walters, please CLICK HERE, scroll to the bottom, click on the email icon, and request the private password directly from Jessa.

Thank you for your patience. More later … but remember to be grateful …

the sun still rises.

What happens when our freedom to choose is denied?

03 Apr 2020 3 Comments

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

Trauma.

When I was five we moved from our farm to a town of 8,000 people thirty miles away. A year later I awoke to strange voices in the house. Mother was rushed to the hospital where she hovered near death for weeks. She didn’t die but her recovery took years.

As an adult I’ve had multiple marriages and an equal number of divorces. I’ve moved over forty times. But I would never have told you I was a victim of trauma. In my mind, trauma was for the physically abused or war damaged.

I was in my fifties before I read Waking the Tiger, by Peter Levine, and realized the negative patterns that kept repeating for me were trauma-based. I’d adopted those behaviors as survival mechanisms, but in fact they were creating more trauma.

I sought therapy from a brilliant practitioner, Thea Lee. About the same time I began a personal yoga practice that has kept me centered and sane through whatever circumstances have come my way.

We have a situation world-wide that is wreaking havoc on our nervous systems. “The scale of this outbreak as a traumatic event is almost beyond comprehension,” said one expert in an article published a week ago by CNBC. I would encourage you to read it.

I keep hearing the words, unprecedented, pandemic, apocalyptic to describe the chaos the entire world is experiencing. In conversations with friends and family there are other words: tough, depressing, grinding, boring, stir-crazy, frightening.

Right now I depend more than ever on my daily yoga habit. It works like nothing else to ground me in the morning and enables me to stay present with the reality of the moment rather than spiraling into the what-ifs that lead to fear and panic.

I’d like to make you aware of an opportunity coming up if you want to add yoga to your bag of survival tricks.

In 2013, my daughter, Jessa Walters, was hired by the University of Minnesota to teach trauma sensitive yoga. She’ll be doing a 75 minute session online.

Jessa Walters MA, E-RYT, TCTSY-F

Here’s what she says about the need for a practice that counteracts the effects of trauma on our body.

“A common dynamic in overwhelming/traumatic experience is the feeling that we have no choice in what is happening. David Emerson. founder of Trauma-Sensitive Yoga, defines trauma as an extreme lack of choice. My whole organism wanted one thing to happen and the other thing happened.

“Experiencing an embodied opportunity (in this case, through yoga) to make choices moment by moment can be a way to counter the impact of the choice-less nature of overwhelming/traumatic experience.

“If you’d like, please join me for a 75 minute Trauma-Sensitive Yoga session over Zoom this Saturday, April 4 @ 5pm Pacific Time (or Sunday 8am in Bali).

“This yoga practice will be slow-paced. All are welcome.

“TO JOIN THE ZOOM SESSION:
To join the Zoom session, you will need to have Zoom downloaded (free) on your phone, ipad or computer. Click on “Join” and enter the meeting ID: 545 061 526. Or click on this link:

https://us04web.zoom.us/j/545061526

“Donations for the yoga class are accepted via Venmo (Jessa Walters) or PayPal (paypal.me/jessawalters). Thank you.”

Just FYI – I downloaded ZOOM this morning. It was quick and painless.

For me, yoga works like a mood-altering drug. If I wake up agitated, anxious, distracted, fretful, I’ll ALWAYS try to talk myself out of getting on the mat.

I’m too tired.

I’ll do it tomorrow – twice.

I’ll walk later instead…

Hopefully while this stupid mind-game is in process, I’m pulling on my leggings and sports bra because once I’m dressed for the practice I’ll do it.

It takes about one-and-a-half sun salutes for a major mental shift to take place. By the time I’m finished I’m an entirely different person, supercharged, happy, and ready to take on the challenges of the day.

If you already practice yoga, you may be curious to see how the trauma-sensitive approach differs. If you’re new to the game, this is the perfect opportunity to begin in the non-threatening, non-competitive privacy of your own home.

If someone in your circles would benefit, please feel free to pass along Jessa’s information.

Meanwhile, watch clouds, count birds, and let your mind/body slow…slow… slow down.

Do you agree with this quote?

“Changing is what people do when they have no options left.”
― Holly Black, Red Glove

You have old skin? Wear a shawl!

06 Mar 2020 18 Comments

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

I thought yesterday would be my last post from Praiano. I’m sorry. There’s too much magic. I have one more story to tell.

Three days ago I stopped at Centro Market for this and that and who did I run into but Felicia. You may remember her from the Cooking in Italy post. We greeted each other like long lost sisters and I caught one word: coffee. I frantically sought help but no one spoke English. What about coffee?

I apologized. By now you probably know my one Italian sentence as well as I do: Mi dispiace, non parlo Italiano! She left and I continued browsing.

A few minutes later I heard, “Sherry! Sherry!” Felicia was back. She handed me a bag with a bowl of something warm inside and made eating motions. I scolded her and thanked her, then rushed home to see what she’d given me.

I pried the lid off. Water spinach. I’d know that veggie anywhere. Along with it, potatoes and ribs. Felicia had evidently run to her house, scooped up a bowl of her dinner, then returned to deliver it while I was still in the store.

I’ve eaten a lot of water spinach in Bali and I can’t say it’s the most exciting dish. But the flavors in Felicia’s combo woke up my mouth. Olive oil, lemon – what else? How could water spinach taste so good? I polished off the meal with gusto but the coffee question plagued me.

I texted Nicola, told him I’d run into Felicia and she’d said something about coffee but I hadn’t understood what she wanted. He explained it’s customary when you meet a friend you invite them in for coffee.

“You mean immediately, like right then?”

“Yes.”

Oh, darn. I’d blown that opportunity.

But there was still Felicia’s bowl. My mother taught me never to return a dish empty. Oh, Mom! Your words still ring in my ears after all these years. I had to return the bowl filled with something and time was getting short.

Felicia’s house is about ten steps from Centro Market. I’d noticed the market had a kilo (2.2 pounds) of Himalayan pink salt for $3 U.S. That’s much cheaper than what I pay in Bali. I wanted it and a box of goji berry tea. It was my last day in Praiano. I could kill two birds with one stone.

With the translation app’s help, I wrote a note in Italian telling Felicia how my mother taught me never to return a dish empty. Then I heated a pot of kale/carrot/sausage/lentil stew and spooned it into Felicia’s bowl. I’d stop at the market first, pick up my tea and salt, then I’d drop the bowl off at Felicia’s.

As I entered Centro Market, there was Felicia chatting with the owners. After a boisterous greeting I took the bag out of my purse and handed it to her. At first she said No! No! Then she read the note and laughed.

Another volley of Italian and – there it was again – coffee. This time I was ready.

“I don’t want to disturb…”

“Non disturbare! Non disturbare!”

I left with Felicia. As soon as we were seated at her kitchen table with steaming cups and tiny anise cookies – because you never JUST have coffee – I whipped out the translate app on my phone and the chatter began.

I was commenting on her fashionable outfit when she stopped me mid-sentence and jumped up. “Un momento,” she said and disappeared. She came back carrying clothing: a spaghetti-strap dress, a filmy red scarf, and a silver camisole.

She talked fast. I thought she was telling me she worked with a resale shop in Positano, that she brought donated clothing home, washed and ironed it so it was cleaned before offered for sale. When she sat expectantly waiting for my response I knew I’d missed something.

“Felicia, per favore.” I handed her the phone. She spoke and I read the translation. Whoops! How could I have been so mistaken?

The clothes were for me.

“But Felicia,” I spoke to the app. “I have old skin! These are beautiful but they show too much!”

She read the Italian and made a very unlady-like sound, grabbed the phone and said: Hai la pelle vecchia? Indossa uno scialle.

I took it from her and read:

You have old skin? Wear a shawl.

I howled with laughter.

There’s a distinct similarity between Italian and Balinese women. They’re both extremely hard-headed and refuse to take no for an answer.

It was time to go but Felicia had one more thing to show me. She rents her house next door to tourists.”Prego! Prego!” she said. Italian spaghetti sauce? No, it means after you, or please, or you’re welcome, or just about whatever you want it to mean! I went in.

She pointed out the new patio garden. Lovely. We toured three bedrooms, two baths, and a large eat-in kitchen. Then she picked up a book and motioned me to the terrace.

For the next twenty minutes Felicia flipped page after page of food images in full-color. Her picture was featured on many of them with her famous recipes. She pointed out her brother’s contributions as well as those of restaurant owners up and down the Amalfi Coast shown with their best aperitivi, antipasti, primi, secondi, insalati, and desserts.

This woman never ceases to amaze me. I could hardly wait to get home and google it. Sure enough Amalfi Coast Recipes is available on Amazon.

There are used copies for sale. They cost just over $20. A new one is $894.94 U.S. dollars. Used is fine. The recipes are in English.

Cookbook under control, I tried on clothes. Felicia wanted photos. I wrapped the scarf around my neck and slipped into the dress. It fit like skin. The cami, too. Surely there’ll be an occasion…?

It’s surreal, like a dream-state. I’ve moved from one unlikely event to the next as though they were pre-planned to happen just so. But they weren’t. Nothing was. What a thrill!

Okay. That’s all. I promise. This really is the last post for a while.

Wish me luck with flights and some interesting travel bans that have just been announced back home. This adventure isn’t over yet.

Previous Older Entries Next Newer Entries