Mysterious Indonesia, the largest island country in the world, is made up of over 17,000 separate island provinces. Most of them have their own language, their own religions, rituals, and customs. The country spreads in a graceful curve just north of Australia and has the world’s fourth largest population.
I’m reminded of the Tower of Babel story – in reverse. According to that tale, the Babylonians were building a magnificent city that would touch the heavens. They wished to make a name for themselves. God foiled their plans by confusing their language.
They could no longer understand each other so all work ceased.
Indonesian leaders realized the only way they were going to successfully govern such a mixed bag of rugged individualists was to create a national language and make it mandatory throughout the entire educational system. So when the country gained it’s independence in 1945, that’s what they did. That action emphasized and underscored Indonesia’s motto: Unity in diversity.
Because this diverse population is able to communicate with each other, the people, goods and wonders of all the islands often intersect.
In Bali, I’ve come to expect the unexpected. Opportunities to experience vastly different cultures and viewpoints present themselves daily. At the same time, the potential for misunderstanding is huge. Patience is essential and waiting until all have had their say, then coming to an agreement that suits everyone is diplomacy at its best. “Good for me, good for you,” is a familiar phrase in Bali indicating a satisfactory compromise.
The Balinese have also mastered kesabaran.* They sit for hours in full temple dress waiting for the high priest to arrive so a ceremony can begin. Unlike us in the West, they don’t expect anything to happen fast, not in ceremony, not in life.
I’ve sat with them on the ground, sweating in my corset and lace, eaten by ants. But when it begins…OMG! The pageantry, the ritual, the sound and color make me forget the hours of discomfort.
Wayan’s journey is proving to be no exception. As we go forward, we make new contacts and realize there isn’t just one option available. Right now we’re in the process of researching an offer that would allow her to begin training sooner and work abroad more quickly.
Every step advances Wayan’s adventure. It thrills me to see how willing people are to help this young woman achieve what very few in her position can hope for. All of you who donated so freely are the ones making this possible.
Hang on, friends! I’ll keep you posted as we go. This promises to be an exciting ride!
In spite of having created my own websites and accomplished other technical tasks on my laptop, setting up a fundraiser for Wayan pushed all my luddite buttons.
Luddite (Urban Dictionary): One who fears technology (or new technology, as they seem pleased with how things currently are…why can’t everything just be the same?)
I’ve never felt so ill-equipped to deliver on a promise…EVER! That will teach me (hopefully) not to offer up specific help without doing a tiny bit of research first so I know what the heck I’m talking about.
But this is not all about me. It’s about my Balinese friend, Wayan, whom I’ve known since she was thirteen – she’s now twenty-one.
Wayan is Ketut’s sister-in-law. The oldest child in her family was a boy. He died young leaving six sisters and his grieving parents to cope without him. When I visited Wayan’s family home, I felt like I’d been whisked backward in time to a much earlier period.
At one point during my visit, Wayan’s mother handed her a large bucket and asked her to get water. I tagged along thinking I’d help her carry the pail. Once it was full it was bound to be heavy.
We walked a fair distance then the path dipped over what looked to me like a cliff. Wayan proceeded as though still on flat ground. I hesitated. Should I follow her, scooching down on my bum? I managed to keep up, slip-skidding sideways, grasping branches, and maintaining somewhat of a grip with my flip-flops – not the best for mountain climbing. We descended a distance of a two-story building then Wayan stopped at a bubbling spring. She filled the bucket, placed it on her head (no, really???) and began the ascent while I clawed my way behind her, crablike, in awe.
I think that’s when I knew this girl could accomplish whatever she set her mind to.
Unlike many young people raised in remote mountain villages of Bali, Wayan had aspirations. As I grew more adept at the language she began to share stories of her life. Her parents could not afford tuition to pay for high school so Wayan worked on a construction crew, carrying washtubs of rocks on her head to building sites. When she had enough saved there was a family emergency and her parents needed her money. “I was very sad, but I must help them,” she said.
Her education was delayed. Eventually, Wayan found a school in Tegalalang that offered night classes. She stayed with a family that had a small cafe there, working in the cafe during the day and going to school nights.
It was during that time, while still attending night classes, she came to work for me. She was even more industrious than I had believed and her desire to excel in everything she did was inspirational.
The need to better herself obsessed her. After graduation, she heard about a culinary program at Crystal College that offered evening courses. She was accepted into the program. Upon completion, she was granted an internship at a five-star hotel in Bangkok, Thailand.
There’s a phrase in Indonesian for that kind of resilient courage. Keberaniantangguh. Wayan has it in spades. She went to Bangkok and began her work at the hotel. Two months later the hotel and the whole world shut down. Covid had arrived. Wayan came home, devastated. She felt she’d failed.
Her parents had plans for her. She would marry her cousin. That way they’d have a male heir and the home would remain in the family when Wayan’s parents passed on. He’d agreed to come and live with them contrary to Balinese custom where the wife always goes to the family home of her husband. Women inherit nothing.
Wayan wasn’t on board with the plan.
In March, she came to visit so we could celebrate her 21st birthday. She was working to support the family, selling vegetables at the night market in the capital city of Denpasar. When her shift ended around 6 a.m. she motorbiked to Kintamani, 1 1/2 hours away, to cook in a cafe during the day. This was her schedule seven days a week.
“When do you sleep, Wayan?”
“There’s no time to sleep,” she said, and the deep purple half-moons under her eyes confirmed the truth.
Wayan’s 21st birthday dinner at Famous in Ubud
So when I got an excited message from her weeks later that said she was considering a job in Japan, I wanted details. Crystal College works with an international employment agency and they were interviewing for positions at the Park Hyatt Hotel in Tokyo. Wayan had interviewed and been accepted.
I messaged her and asked why she wanted to work in Japan. She sent this reply:
“I want to change my life to be better and all people who underestimate me see me success even though I’m just a poor person. I want to pay for my sisters’ school, I don’t want both of them to feel same as me – can’t continue to senior high school because my parents couldn’t pay for it. I want to build a new house and family temple for my parents. That is why I want to go to Japan.”
Wayan (center) with her parents and two sisters in front of their home
There was only one catch. Money.
Wayan’s current two jobs gross about $10.00 US/day on the days she works both of them. She’s supporting her family since her father is out of work and her mother isn’t well. Her starting salary in Japan would be many times that.
If she wants to work in Japan, she has to pay the agency 35.000.000 rph ($2,500 US) for providing her with two months of Japanese language education, a visa allowing her into the country, a work permit and sponsorship authorizing her stay there, arranging accommodations, providing airline tickets, and a three-year contract. She’d also needs to buy warm clothing – something unheard of in Bali.
That’s when I made my harebrained promise to set up a fundraising campaign to help her finance this opportunity.
It’s taken three days and many frustrations, but as of now Help Wayan Change Her Life is live on the GoGetFunding platform. If you have a little extra to spare, I can’t think of a more deserving person than Wayan to bless with a leg-up.
You know how things that once amazed and delighted you fade to ordinary over time? It happens with just about everything: jobs, clothing, marriage.
When I moved to Bali, I remember sucking in fragrant, moisture-laden air, staring enraptured into bottomless ravines, tasting foods that exploded with heat and thinking, “Please don’t let me ever take this for granted.” I’ve gotten comfortable here, but I’ve never lost the tingle of delight at the scents, the landscapes, and the bursts of fire on my tongue.
Early on, I learned to ask for “Not spicy, please,” whenever I ordered Balinese fare. There’s one memorable eating adventure that still makes me giggle. I’d pointed to the word Rujak on the menu and asked the server what it was.
“Fruit salad,” she replied.
“Safe,” I thought. Little did I know the sweet papaya, pineapple, banana, and watermelon would be served drowned in a dressing heavily laced with cayenne pepper!
I’ll admit, though, there is one thing that did fade over time.
I was curious about the whistling I heard daily. It wasn’t raspy, electrical-wire-humming sound that cicadas make. This was pure, melodious, and it went on continuously for around thirty minutes every morning. One day I was having coffee with my neighbor and there it was. The whistling.
“What makes that sound?” I asked.
“What sound?” It had faded into background noise for her.
“The whistling,” I said.
“Oh, that. It’s just birds.”
Whistling birds circling over my Bali garden
I accepted her explanation and thought little more about it. Nine years later, I sat down to lunch with an expat friend who had lived in Asia most of her adult life. I’d watched the birds circling and whistling that morning and was mesmerized anew by their disciplined flight pattern and ceaseless sound. Once again, I wondered what kind of bird it was. No amount of Google searching on my part had turned up any evidence. She answered immediately.
“They’re a kind of pigeon – like homing pigeons. They’re trained to fly in circles.” I quizzed her for more but she shrugged and said that was all she knew.
Later that afternoon, I refined my Google search and this time hit pay dirt. It was one of those mind blowing moments of discovery.
Wikipedia told me that whistling pigeons have been used in China since at least the Ching Dynasty (1644 – 1912) and are also popular in Japan and Indonesia. But wonder of wonders, the birds aren’t born whistling. Tiny, lightweight whistles, painstakingly carved, are sewn into their tail feathers. The sound changes with the speed and direction of flight.
I was instantly obsessed and had to learn more. Who makes the whistles? How are the birds trained? This video answered all of those questions and several others I hadn’t thought to ask.
It seemed the flock that circled my garden was the only one of its kind in town. Over the past year of lockdown however, with time on their hands, it sounds like others may have gotten into whistle carving and pigeon training. Now there’s a new school that circles high over my back garden as well. (Pigeons. A band, dropping, flight, kit, loft, passel, plague, school – notice I resisted using plague for obvious reasons!)
The practice in China has diminished due to increasing urbanisation and regulation. I understand why. It’s a noisy hobby.
Ubud is more laid-back. People here can raise anything they want. Across the street from me in the town’s center, a family keeps chickens in makeshift coops on their flat rooftop. When the humidity is high and the wind is right, I’m keenly aware of the pig farm a block away.
It’s the complexity. The element of surprise. The strict rituals of Bali Hinduism nudged up against the relaxed approach to the rest of life that keeps amazement and delight alive in me. There will always be a mind-blowing vista to discover, a suspicious cuisine to sample, a new perspective on an old idea to explore.
Ordinary? I should say not. Extraordinary? Absolutely – like falling in love again with each sunrise.
Standing by the entrance in a wealthy family’s compound
I come from the rugged individualist mindset of the Midwest. When I first arrived in Bali, my senses were assaulted on too many levels to count. One perplexing issue that baffled me was the fact that whenever I left the house I was asked, “Where are you going?” When I entered a shop, salespeople interrogated me. “Where are you from? Where do you live? How long have you been here?” And every time I returned to my neighborhood I was quizzed again. “What did you buy? How much did it cost?”
My sensibilities didn’t know what to do with such intrusions on my privacy. I judged the Balinese to be the nosiest people I’d ever met. To protect myself and avoid being rude, I devised indirect responses that didn’t answer their questions but often brought laughs.
Now, years later, I understand.
The Balinese are straightforward, caring, curious, and engaging. If you’ve gained weight, they’ll tell you you’re a little fat, not to be mean, they’re just honest. If they like the way you look they’ll gush over your appearance and want you to show them how you do your hair all the while with an arm wrapped around your waist. Physical touch is natural and comfortable for my Balinese-women friends.
The first time I was treated so intimately I had to fight tears. I was out of my comfort zone but deeply moved. Such a simple thing, touch. But in the West we’ve assigned innuendoes, connotations, suspicions. We’ve lost the ease and comfort to be had in simple acts of sisterly affection. So unfortunate.
But about walls and neighbors…
Every Balinese family compound I’ve visited is surrounded by a hefty wall. On the inside, often three or four generations of the family live together, share food, a single kitchen, and the duties of everyday life. Their neighbors, with a similar configuration of family members, live on other sides of the wall. As you can imagine, advanced levels of cooperation, and respect are essential.
I didn’t know any of that at first and I wondered why Ketut was constantly in service – helping others in the village build a cow shed, repair a cistern, or loaning his car. I suspected that perhaps it was caste-related as many things are in this Hindu society. I couldn’t have been farther off the mark.
After I’d learned enough of the language to merit deeper conversations, and realized Ketut was willing to talk about absolutely anything, I got around to asking why he was always being called upon to assist.
“If I help them, when I need help they help me.”
“Yes…but…it seems like you help all the time. Does anyone ever help you?”
“Always! Sometimes I do many little things but then I need one big thing.”
This culture, and Ketut’s wisdom, have changed me from an independent, I can do it myself-er, to an integral part of a tight-knit, inter-dependent community. The family on the other side of my wall benefits from Ketut’s ability to fix anything and I’m the beneficiary of his big-hearted willingness to help.
The other night a friend came to visit. She limped in on a motorbike with a flat front tire. Ketut was gone for the weekend so I called my neighbor. He came in a flash with his tire pump and the situation was remedied in no time. Not only that, he sent my visitor off with his pump in case the tire deflated again before she got home.
A few days later, I needed documents from a village an hour and a half away. My neighbor is in the midst of a building project, a busy man, but he knew the location and volunteered to go with Ketut to pick up the paperwork. Off they went at 6:00 a.m. the next morning and returned four hours later, mission accomplished.
By my accounting, that was far beyond the tit-for-tat code of neighborliness. I remembered that he likes whisky, specifically Jack Daniels. In spite of the tireless service mentality, sometimes it doesn’t hurt to show appreciation in unexpected, tangible ways. From the look on his face when I delivered the bottle this afternoon, he won’t mind lending a hand next time I call.
Funny thing though – about five minutes after I made the delivery, I heard my neighbor summoning Ketut. Laughter and happy conversation has been floating over the wall ever since. Are you thinking what I’m thinking…???
I’ve never admitted this to anyone but as Mother’s Day rolls around, I’m reminded of the strange disconnect I experienced as a mom. Maybe you can relate. Maybe not. Here’s the story.
As a young adult, motherhood wasn’t on my to-do list. I’d never given it much thought. Neither had my first husband. We were about three years into the marriage when his highschool sweetheart wound up pregnant. As it turned out, he was the father. I left him with her in Muskogee, Oklahoma – can’t say I was terribly disappointed to escape Muskogee or my philandering husband.
Children weren’t on the agenda three years later when I married again. But after a tumultuous six months we had a night of unprotected passion and…our divorce was final the day before my first daughter was born.
Six years later, married again, I gave birth to my second daughter near Alum Creek, Texas. My husband was an accountant for a company that laid oil pipelines, hence Texas. Two years after that, my third sweet girl arrived. By then we’d moved into the eye-blink town of Smithville.
My daughters are the joy of my life. As they were growing up, every year when Mother’s Day approached they went into giggling-hush-hush mode. Breakfast in bed was the highlight. I awoke to chocolate ice cream on Trix cereal one memorable morning.
But I promised a confession and here it is.
Every year it was the same. Amid the hubbub of my own household, I forgot that I also had a mother. It would hit me, perhaps the night before, or the morning of, and I’d panic that I hadn’t given a single thought to honoring that dear woman on her special day. It was too late to mail a card, but with a hurried personal call to the florist in my hometown who was a friend from school, and a Happy Mother’s Day Skype with Mom later in the day, I always covered my dilinquent tracks in time.
Mom passed a year and nine months ago. But it’s strange – as that day approaches and I see promos for flowers or gifts popping up on my phone, I forget that I’m a mother. All my thoughts are of her until one of the girls calls with a cheery, happy Mother’s Day Mamma, and I recall that I’m the matriarch now.
As a result of those chotic, childrearing years, I understand if my kids momentarily forget me. In Bali I’m a day ahead anyway and no one caring for toddlers can be expected to keep in mind the time zone variations of my reality on the other side of the globe. It’s a thrill and a joy whenever I hear from them.
Before I bid you a happy day and get on with mine, I want to mention how freeing and healthy it is to have no expectations. It’s the key to contentment. If you don’t expect something from someone, you won’t be disappointed if it doesn’t materialize. Unmet expectations are at the core of unhappiness.
Here’s wishing you a very happy Mother’s Day whether you hear from your offspring or not! Send your wishes to them first If they have children – jog their memory – remind them that you exist. They’re busy!
One of the first Indonesian words I learned was petualangan. Trying to wrap my Midwestern American tongue around that one was a challenge. But so worth it. Petualangan means adventure.
I woke up this morning with itchy feet. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the UNESCO rice terraces of Jatiluwih and they were calling. At 7:30, Ketut popped his head around the corner of the veranda where I was journaling. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and when he asked if I had a plan today, which he always does, I said yes, adventure.
“Where?”
“Jatiluwih. Okay with you?
“Ya! What time?
“9:00.”
“Good.”
It was a glorious morning, sunny with breezes. A quick check of the weather app showed a high of 77°F (25°C) in the mountains where we were headed. This would be a much shorter journey than the ridiculous 12-hour bike ride that left me feeling every one of my golden years for weeks afterward. I estimated one hour thirty minutes to get there and a quicker trip coming home, downhill all the way.
As soon as we left Ubud, the landscape opened. I sucked in lungs full of farm-scented air (through my mask, of course) and shed the cloud of gloom that’s enveloped the town since lockdown, March 2020.
It’s impossible not to feel a surge of joyous abandon when flying through the coutryside on the back of Ketut’s motorbike. The wind in my face, the congenial chatter, the comaraderie, the laughter – it’s a higher high than any drug or drink could possibly achieve.
Soon the road narrowed and we began to climb.
First we passed this guy.
Then we followed this guy.
It probably says something obscene below the big letters. I couldn’t make it out. If you can, and it does, don’t think poorly of me. I captured the photo on the fly and it was too good to pass up.
I wanted to have this adventure during Galungan. For ten days every six months, the ancestors return from the spirit world to visit their villages. As if by magic, streets transform overnight and elegant penjors arch and sway gracefully overhead.
Each town has its own style. You can tell how well-off the village is by the grandeur of the penjors.
The moment I set foot on this island, the profusion of artistic detail amazed me. From temples, to ogoh-ogohs, to the massive bulls and cremation towers that carry the deceased to their final farewell, the creative wizardry of the Balinese people is astounding.
And then…
What is it about rice terraces that unravels me? It’s been that way since my first trip to Bali in 2010. The guide stopped the car and said to walk around the curve and maybe I would like to take photos. Around that curve was the most jaw-dropping view I’d ever seen. Sunlight glittered on hundreds of pools of freshly planted paddies cascading down the mountainsides. I clutched my throat so my heart couldn’t escape, then burst into tears.
Today I didn’t cry, but reverent awe is always there.
At approximately thirty minutes in, our walk came to an abrupt halt. Heavy rains had washed out the land beneath the trail. The concrete path was broken and hung precariously over the abyss.
“What do you think, Ketut? Shall we try?”
He looked at me like I had two heads. “Maybe never come back,” he said.
“Good point. Let’s go eat lunch.”
By the time we’d hiked the thirty-minute return, starvation was setting in. My mouth watered thinking of the overflowing buffet at Billy’s Cafe. As soon as we entered, I realized that was a pre-covid memory. There was no buffet. There were no patrons. The menu had shrunk to a single, laminated sheet, drinks on one side, food on the other. But the view remained.
We ordered and chatted, ate and chatted, sat enjoying the perfect weather, the idyllic view, and the empty restaurant – and chatted – for hours. Bliss.
There isn’t much I enjoy more than lingering over a meal in the company of a good friend. But shadows were growing longer. It was time to go.
My favorite photo of today’s grand adventure is this one. Three Indonesian flags, whipping in the wind atop needle-thin poles marked the beginning, or from this perspective the end of the path through the terraces. Gratitude welled up within me for this country that has been home for the past nine years. I’ve been treated with utmost kindness. I never realized how much I needed that.
As I stood rapt, gazing upward, I could almost hear the national anthem of Indonesia. It’s blared from loudspeakers every Independence Day but I’ve never known the lyrics. Today I looked them up. The last stanza speaks my heart’s wish:
Let us pray
For Indonesia’s prosperity:
May her soil be fertile
And spirited
The nation and all the people.
Conscious be her heart
And her mind
For Indonesia the Great.
Now I’m curled in my comfy cushions at home, relaxed, rejuvenated, nurtured, and at peace. What a perfect day and a magnificent adventure. Thank you, Ketut.
Rainy season wasn’t too rainy in Bali this year. The transition into dry we’re experiencing right now is usually hot, humid, and suffocating, without even a whisper of breeze. But for some blessed reason, the fresh, easterly winds that always begin in June are here now, a month-and-a-half early. The air is clean. Cumulus-cotton-ball clouds float in a sky so brilliantly azure you’d swear Picasso in his heavenly art studio smeared it with leftover Blue Period oils.
Life pulsates in bursts of color and I can’t help but feel hopeful.
Several factors contributed to that positive outlook today. I’ve been trying to track down A Gentleman in Moscow. For months it was making the rounds at every (small) get-together I attended. But I didn’t grab it because I was certain I’d already read it. Then my daughter got hold of the book and waxed eloquent about the plot, the characters. She went on and on and I suddenly realized, whoops! I HAD NOT read it.
Now it’s nowhere to be found.
Today I targeted the Smile Shop. Ketut drove the bike and his daughter came too, crouched in the space in front of him so he could see over her head. That would never fly in the States, but here, families of five somehow manage to ride together on one motorbike.
Nengah’s eight. I told her to find three things she wanted hoping that would give me sufficient time to scour the shelves for ‘my book’ before she got bored and grumpy. Ketut’s been with me many times and has learned the fine art of digging through the detritus for the diamonds. When I stole a peek he was guiding Nengah though girls’ clothing bins, holding up one item after another for her approval.
He was too efficient. She’d already scored three cute shirts and I was still pawing through dusty tomes.
“Find one more thing, Nengah. And Ketut, don’t you need jeans? Maybe look for jeans!” When I’m on a mission I’m a shameless manipulator.
With feverish intensity I fingered every used book they had, even glanced through the ones written in German thinking my prize could be hidden anywhere. No luck. But tucked on the shelf labeled Science, I found The Calcutta Chromasome by Amitav Ghosh, one of my all-time favorite authors. If you haven’t read The Ibis Trilogy, start there. He’s an exceptional story-teller.
The timing was perfect. Nengah added a pink headband sprouting shiny golden hearts to her stash, Ketut had a pair of barely-worn jeans looped over his arm, and I didn’t find A Gentleman, but I did find my dear old friend Mr. Ghosh.
I’m glad in a way that A Gentleman in Moscow wasn’t there. Sounds silly, but I haven’t spent hours in the Ubud library for months. That gives me a great excuse to peruse their massive Used Books For Sale section and abandon myself to the search again another day.
Back at home, seven juicy carrots waited to be turned into carrot hummus. I’ve grown addicted and panic sets in when the supply runs low. I propped the doors open at either end of the galley kitchen and hummed contentedly as those cooling easterly breezes traveled westerly unhindered. When the carrots, garlic, lime juice, coconut oil, salt and chilis were pureed silky-smooth, I tasted. You’ve watched the restaurant scene in the movie When Harry Met Sally? Uh-huh. It was that good.
Great weather, a successful treasure hunt, perfect carrot hummus…not even the rampaging troop of monkeys that barreled over the roof jostling tiles as I sat down to write, could mess with my peace of mind. And I just checked the weather app – ninety percent chance of rain tomorrow. What luck! A perfect day for reading.
Is there a less becoming word in the entire English language? Picture the garden slug, a serious plant pest that resembles a gelatinous, greyish blob that slimes along leaving a glistening trail of mucus wherever it goes. That turns my stomach.
I awoke feeling sluggish this morning.
Yesterday, in an effort to change up the routine I found a yoga video with new moves. Flat on my back, I watched the nubile, twenty-something yogini raise her straight legs off the mat and…hold it…hold it… I did the same…eight, nine, ten…lower slowly, slowly…
I didn’t notice any negative bodily responses at first. In fact, I went about my day feeling a bit smug. That is until bedtime when I turned off the computer and tried to stand. The catch in my lower back was familiar. I straightened slowly and probably uttered a few expletives, polite ones, then searched for the bottle of ibuprofen that I keep on hand for just such emergencies. I popped two, massaged the offending area with skin-stinging Cap Kapak oil, then went to bed and slept like a rock.
Six-o’clock roosters were full-throttle as dawn filtered through my curtains. With concentrated awareness of my body, I sat up. So far so good. Gingerly, I stood. Not so good. But not terrible.
That’s when I made my decision. Today would be a day of complete and utter indulgence. I’d give my body exactly what it needed: rest. I’d yield to every whim and fully embrace my slug-self.
A shivery thrill trickled through me. I walked to the curtains, started to pull them aside then stopped. Too bright. I closed them relishing the softness of filtered light.
Whim #1 – prolong morning – don’t let the outside in too soon.
With that decision, undetected tension through my shoulders dissipated like a sigh. What had I been carrying that eased simply by leaving my draperies shut? I made a note-to-self to ponder that in my journaling later.
Some people love lounging in sleepwear all day. I’m not one of them. I briefly entertained the thought but found it unappealing. Usually, yoga clothes go on before my eyes are fully open. There’d be no yoga for my tender back this morning. I checked with my body and the answer was clear – long white tee-shirt with peekaboo shoulders and formless shape over stretchy leggings – heavenly.
Whim #2 – dress in the ultimate slug-appropriate garb.
Fully clothed, I ambled to the kitchen to heat water for ginger tea. Since eliminating coffee several months ago, that has been my go-to drink while journaling. I’ve brainwashed myself into thinking it’s an acceptable substitute but my coffee craving hasn’t subsided.
When I opened the fridge, I remembered I’d used the last of the concentrated ginger juice yesterday. The kettle was already whistling-hot. It took about one-and-a-half seconds to know what to do. Nescafe. I rummaged for the little packet of uber-addicting powdered coffee, fake sugar, and chemical creamer. Now we’re talking real debauchery. I poured steaming water over the concoction and sucked in glorious fumes.
Back in the dim cave, I curled up on my daybed with the journal and that tantalizing cup of sin. Once again, stress oozed out of me in the release of self-inflicted restraints. Bliss.
Whim #3 – allow the forbidden treat.
In the midst of journaling, I decided to share my slug story with the world. So here I am, blogging. When I finish I know what other whims I’ll entertain today.
Whim #4 – several naps.
Whim #5 – tarot chips and carrot hummus for lunch and dinner.
Whim #6 – read more of the new book I just started, Overstory, and hope it starts to make sense.
Whim #7 – meditate for an hour.
I’ve never intentionally meditated for an hour. I’ve probably daydreamed for longer stretches, but to sit in meditation for more than thirty-or-so minutes, no. Why haven’t I done it before? There’s always enough time. It’s probably that Capricornian urge to get to work. Produce. Make things happen – core beliefs that coincide with the illusion that sitting in the silence of suspended thought wastes time.
Today it’s all about wasting time. A guilt-free embracing of my total slug. An hour of sitting meditation is the perfect experiment for proving to my inordinately driven, disciplined self that I need more opportunities to give my body rest. More days exactly like this.
I told people I wasn’t doing anything. Wasn’t going anywhere. Would stay home and think happy thoughts and that was absolutely my intention. Then a get-together scheduled for December 21st had to be moved. How about the morning of the 24th? Christmas Eve Day? Does that work?
Well..I wasnt’ going to…but…sure. That works.
It turned into a psuedo white-elephant-gift-exchange, great coffee, and lots of laughs. Santa appeared out of nowhere, and carols played non-stop.
Warm and fuzzy inside I walked home with a gentle breeze cooling my face – one of Bali’s stellar-weather days – glad that I’d had Christmas Eve morning with good friends.
I’d barely gotten inside the house when my phone beeped a Whatsapp message. It was my neighbor next door inviting me to an impromptu lunch – if I didn’t already have plans for Christmas tomorrow. The complexion of my solitary holiday was changing fast.
I’d love to!
The high-octane energy of a family with a young child is a whole different ball game from the gray-haired gatherings I’m used to. But who can resist a five-year-old dynamo on pink roller skates?
We were well entertained and the meal of four-hour Balinese green beans, chicken betutu, cream-cheese mashed potatoes, and homemade frosted Christmas cookies was magnificent. The wine didn’t hurt either.
All that and a mystery guest. I finally got to meet a person I’ve been hearing about for years and if anything, the glowing reports were too humble. He’s one of those down-to-earth, funny, sincere, fascinating VIPs that you just wouldn’t expect to run into at your neighbor’s spur-of-the-moment Christmas lunch.
After two celebratory days I didn’t want the fun to end. I suggested to Ketut that it was time for another motorbike adventure. My back took weeks to recover from the marathon ordeal I put it through three months ago, but a visit to the beaches south of Ubud wouldn’t be a taxing trip. I wanted to check out the rumors that there are actually people down there – visitors – domestic tourists – because in Ubud they’re rare as unicorns.
As with most outings, eating figures in at some point. For this trip I wanted to stop at Cantina Warung. It’s on a dirt road that dead-ends somewhere between Seminyak and Canggu, and it’s so close to the ocean you almost feel the salt-spray on your skin. We’d check out Sanur and Kuta beaches on the way and easily be back in Ubud before the predicted afternoon downpour.
There was no traffic as we approached Sanur. The bodies standing in the water were fishermen, not tourists. Ketut thought he saw one family that probably came from another part of Indonesia but the few people enjoying the sun and sand were local. I’d expected that. Sanur isn’t the hotspot for vacationing party-ers who want a nightlife.
We hopped back on the bike and continued our search. Traffic by the Mall Galleria was almost non-existent.
In Kuta and Seminyak the story was the same with a slightly different twist. Here there were no locals, just a smattering of visitors and miles of empty lounge chairs on the deserted beach. Were we too early? Were the partying people still in bed nursing hangovers? It was getting on toward noon – surely they’d be up by now – if indeed they were here at all.
On the bike again I hollered through my mask at the back of Ketut’s helmet. “This adventure’s making me hungry. Let’s get lunch.”
There are several restaurants in Bali that are so enchanting I just want to keep eating so I can sit there for hours guilt-free. Cantina Warung is one of those. A constant ocean breeze, the rumble of breakers rolling in, comfortable chairs…don’t ever underestimate the importance of cushy seating – it’s huge…and today there were people sunbathing. People swimming. People walking dogs. We’d finally found PEOPLE!
We settled in and ordered lunch. Ketut is predictible – fried chicken and coca-cola. I had the BBQ chicken burrito with fries and a mojito. Not sure why the french fries came garnished with herby greens. They were easy to remove. But I have to say, that chicken burrito with chunks of avocado, crunchy lettuce, a sweet-and-spicy barbecue sauce on the melt-in-your-mouth grilled poultry – oh my! I’m drooling just remembering.
We’d whiled away about an hour and a half when Ketut pointed to a sign that I’d ignored and said, “Look. Our table is reserved for eight people at four o’clock. We can stay three more hours.”
That’s when I ordered two cups with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in each, and a pot of coffee to pour over it. We stretched that out until about two o’clock when all of a sudden Ketut said, “Mungkin hujan di Ubud sekarang.” Whoops! In my idyllic reverie I’d completely forgotten about the afternoon rain I’d been hoping to avoid.
The ride home took us through Canggu. There was a lot more traffic there than we’d seen anywhere else. Shops and cafes were open. Perhaps what I’d heard was true, that Canggu is the hot spot right now. Hot may be too optimistic a word. A warm spot.
As we approached Ubud the road was wet. “Maybe rain is already finished,” Ketut said. Three minutes later we were pelted with huge sloppy drops.
“Do you have your plastic, Ketut?”
“Ya. You?”
“Ya.”
“You want to stop?”
“No.”
“Good.” He laughed.
How precious, memorable, and unexpectedly rich this holiday has been. I could have sat home and survived. I would have called it a fitting end for a year during which many of us have done little other than sit at home and survive. So I’m going to see my unplanned Christmas as a positive energetic shift, a vital lurch propelling us toward a brighter 2021.
I opened my Crown Chakra to receive wisdom from the Universe, then my Third Eye to see beyond the visible.
image from jillconyers.com beginners guide to the chakras
About that time a thought barged in. Where’s my ear chakra?
Why wouldn’t my ears have a chakra? Listening is far more advantageous than speaking during meditation and if messages were incoming I wanted to know why ears didn’t have their own reception center.
No sooner had the question formed, abrupt and silly as it was, the answer came.
Wisdom of the Universe and visions seen with Third Eye go directly to the Heart Chakra. The heart hears all unspoken information meant for you. It translates and forwards it to the Throat Chakra. The messages coming through the heart enable you to speak your truth.
I no longer cared about my ears. I was awed as the story unwinding in my head continued.
Your gut (Third Chakra) listens to the body and transmits messages to the seat of creativity and innovation, the Second Chakra. There, an appropriate course of action is conjured. That information travels to the Root (First Chakra) communicating what the body needs to survive and thrive. You have two intuitive listening centers, the heart, and the gut. Your ears are for the earth-plane only.
I think this may have been the most elegant download of information I’ve ever received. I’d wondered a stupid question not even expecting an answer. But the Universe honored my curiosity in the most beautiful way.
To be clear, this was for me, nobody else. I’m not a guru of the chakras and I will never challenge someone else’s interpretation. I’m also not a medium. Those gifted souls regularly hear messages for others. Furthermore, I don’t usually post details about my rituals. I refer to them, but I don’t belabor them. It’s the quickest way to lose a reader and I value my friends who follow this blog and respond so caringly. In over 400 posts I’ve only gotten one rude comment and I take full responsibility for that. I broke my own code and wrote a political piece, an area best left to journalists.
So if this is going to turn people off, why am I writing it?
I hope to generate greater interest in meditation. These are strange and complex times. Much of what we depended upon in the past to chart the way ahead doesn’t work anymore. There’s too much unknown. Too much uncertainty. Those who can access their ‘inner knowing’ will gain insights that won’t be forthcoming any other way.
The human organism is vastly under-utilized. We have so much more potential than we employ to our advantage. I’ve been steadily drawn more deeply into the exploration of those untapped reservoirs of possibility and my mind is blown. Over and over again. It’s exhilarating, humbling, and simply magnificent. I want that for others – for everyone. That’s what is called for as the Age of Aquarius dawns.
writing for self-discovery 
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