On Karma, and Mysticism

Intrigued by the Balinese way of life, I have often wondered what goes through their minds as I pass them on the street. I have tucked myself away into the corner of a Kuta neighborhood, and walk the same steps each day on my way to the beach, for lunch, a massage, and the corner store. I see many of the same faces and wonder, am I to them what they are to me: perfectly placed to keep my mind in wondering?

Karma, a Hindu concept, is the belief that our thoughts and actions are accounted for in everything we do, on a ledger visible only to the Creator. And we, trapped on this earth indefinitely, are bound to repeat our lives one lifetime to the next, as we search the profound to find ourselves and log more good than bad in our Karmic ledger.

Perhaps this is why the people here are so peaceful, despite the poverty that is their life? They must be rich in their Karma? As they go about their life, from mixing sand and concrete together to fix a temple statue by hand to cutting the grass with a pair of oversized scissors, there is a gentle humbleness in their existence that can only be attributed to Karma, and to Mysticism.

To believe, in anything, is not natural. To live and breathe and walk in one world, and yet to value the existence of another world, invisible to the eye, is insanity. And yet, in sanity, I find myself seeking the approval of my Creator in every step I take. The notion of Karma has infiltrated my heart, and spread into my mind. Not because I necessarily believe that the scorecard of my life will ultimately determine the eternal future of my being. Rather, when skin and bones turn to dust, and dust back to stone, I hope that in being aware of my thoughts and actions, and the record they will have on my ledger, helps me to make decisions that are based more on the happiness of others than of myself.

Not a martyr in the sense that I am willing to die for my beliefs, instead I see myself a martyr to my beliefs, willing to live for them instead. And so I walk the streets of Bali, and I see those who, like myself, are on this journey. As a wise man once related to me, we are all on this path together. Some realize it sooner than others, but we will all realize at some point that we have been inexplicably tied to each other in thought and action from the day that we were born. My actions, and the thoughts that drive such actions, tie me to each and every person in which I come in contact. From the pushy salesman haggling me to buy things I do not want or need, to the tourist sitting at the bar as I walk past, to lonely kids on the street selling bracelets and other charms, and the women who walk the beach offering their massage services. We are all connected in this, a mystic world, and we should hope for awareness much sooner than later – not to change our life, but rather to change the lives of others.

In relating a brief story, I will perhaps have a mark against me in my Karmic ledger. But the act in itself is in the hopes that you might see the true nature of who we are, one and the same, and all in this life together. If it costs me one more lifetime of wandering, I will gladly accept my fate and resign, in what time I have left of this life, to urge many more people to awaken to this journey.

In teaching a local friend to surf, I have been told by others that I am improving my karma by leaps and bounds – at least in Bali. But I do not see it this way. I see it as a way for me to help someone once afraid of the ocean to find the peace I find in floating on her waters. And so we surfed again yesterday, on the crowded waters of Kuta Beach, and I lost him in the crowd. So, contemplating whether I would compete for the one break on this part of the beach, I simply sat on my board, closed my eyes, and breathed. I have learned to value my time here. Trust me, even in the moments I waste in sleeping and in drinking too much from time to time, I realize the extent of the beauty this island has and the love I feel inside as a result of it. Still from time to time I attempt to capture more of this feeling inside of me, making it such a part of me that I will be drawn back one day to release the feeling once again into the world. And as I sat, I was at peace with the world and, more importantly, with myself. Without my rash guard protecting me, the sun was warm on my flesh as its energy seemed to pulse beneath my skin. And suddenly it was time to open my eyes, an indefinite moment later, because it was time for me to do something.

When I opened my eyes I was no longer facing the beach or the crowd of surfers in which I was searching for my friend. Instead I was facing the open ocean, and rolling upward with the passing swell. I had drifted somewhat, due to a rip current that I had drifted into in my silence. And there, two hundred yards beyond me, alone out on the ocean, was the shape of a boy on a surfboard clearly panicking as he tried to swim against the rip current.

In looking around, I saw that others had noticed him, and yet remained in the line up eager for their next chance to either fight a local for the peak, or to have their two second thrill as they dropped into a closed out wave. The value of these actions seemed to far outweigh an attempt to help the boy, and I passed judgment on them for it. Scanning the beach quickly to see if a lifeguard had spotted the boy, I realized that it was just me and him, and the decision I had to make.

Without further hesitation I paddled out to sea, leaving the crowds and the waves behind, focused only on this boy and his struggle. In a few minutes I reached him, somewhat relieved that it was not my friend, and I told him what I had learned to say in any state of panic: breathe. The boy was Javanese, from a small town outside of Jakarta, and had stepped into the water only a half an hour before for his first attempt to surf. With basic swimming skills, and no knowledge of a rip current, he happened to drift into the wrong place and was carried out away from shore.

I sat up on my board calmly, to show him that I had no fear for the situation, and told him to sit on his and rest for a minute. I kept my eyes locked to his the entire time, knowing that is what I would have wanted were I in the same situation. He listened, knowing just enough English to decipher meaning. And so we sat, and breathed.

Knowing the physics of a rip current, that sucks you out toward open water between two sandbars and then loses energy the further it gets from shore, I knew that in sitting we would in fact be carried by the rip current itself away from any danger. As Lao Tzu related many times in his teaching, the best action is sometimes inaction, especially on the ocean (I added that last part after my near-drowning experience in the jungle a week before). And so, in inaction, we drifted away from the rip current, though much further out to sea, and I maintained steady eye contact with the boy.

As we drifted to the north and the pace seemed to slow, I asked him if he was ready to paddle back to shore to meet his family who was, no doubt, anxious about where he had gone. Kuta Beach is known for its many drowning each year, a combination of powerful waves that generate such powerful rip currents and the fear that may inexperienced swimmers have when overcome by a situation they know nothing about. This boy would not be one of them.

So we paddled back toward shore, at an angle slightly less than parallel with the beach to ensure that our efforts were continued inland but not directly against any residual rip current. And within twenty minutes we were again on the sand. And the boy’s family approached and thanked him. And I walked away, knowing only how to pronounce his name and that he is the age of my students back home. And I thought nothing more of it, except to hope that, had I been in a similar situation, someone would have felt the connectedness to me that I felt to this boy, and would have acted regardless of the Karmic repercussions.

So, in reflecting on Karma and Mysticism, it is important to recognize those qualities in each human being which tie us together spiritually and emotionally. We all sense fear, love, anger, joy, excitement and so forth. We all have basic needs for safety and survival, shelter and food. And beneath it all, we share the same genetic code that has tied us all together, mystically, beneath the outer layers of our skin color, eyes, body structure and so forth. Perhaps this genetic code, which varies ever so slightly between one person to the next, is the Creator himself, alive in each of us and in everything. It would not surprise me, should any of the major religions be correct in the shared belief they have that the Creator of the Universe exists in everything and in every moment that has ever existed, that in assisting my fellow brother on this journey, and in preserving the Creator’s mythical presence within him, I have in fact earned some kind regard in my ledger. But if, when it all comes down in the end, I never received a mark for my actions that day, I know that in my heart I have become more aware of the presence of Love in this life.

If you seek, you will find. Find Love because you seek it, and let that Love be enough to change the path of your existence, in this life or the next. And do not question things of Karma or of Mysticism. But instead, learn to believe in something far greater than yourself – even if it is only one stranger you see in passing, on this day or the next. We are inexplicably tied to each other, and bound by Love to our Creator. And when you realize this, in all things, you will find yourself where I am now…

In Letters that Need No Response (To Jack Johnson, if you know him, please send him this =))

This is my life, at sunset, on Kuta beach. Surrounded by a thousand other people, there is only one that matters to me, sitting in a plastic lawn chair, ear phones connecting me to my music, and my music to another world. Beneath a nameless tree, with soft, tan sand between my toes, I find myself behind flags draped across one tree like a banner. A cold Bintang is sweating in a coozie, my left leg kicked up on a red plastic Bintang crate. Who’s to say what’s impossible? Well they forget, this world keeps spinning. And with each new day, I can feel a change in everything… The sun remains hidden behind clouds, visible only at the last minute, and again I find myself disappointed in that last sliver of clouds above the horizon. But, I tell myself, if this is the greatest of my worries, then I must be doing all right. Colors are still splattered across the sky, more like Monet than Van Gogh, but somewhere in between. Three foot waves are closing out into the sand twenty feet from the shore, silhouettes of little heads bobbing after them from time to time. There is a crowd - always a crowd - mostly Australian vacationers, and occasionally laughter can be heard over the music. Pale-skinned men pass by with soft top and patched up boards on their heads, weary from a day of success and failure. The wind carries the occasional smell of cigarettes and sate skewers and exhaust from a passing moped. A boy changes swim trunks behind the cover of his mother, who is holding a sarong around him to protect his world. The look upon his face is still of fright and fear. I got up once to release a baby turtle back into the ocean. With odds of one in one thousand of survival to adulthood, it has slightly better chances for survival than I have in your response to my letter. And as my mind begins to spread its wings, there’s no stopping curiosity. I want to turn the whole thing upside down. I’ll find the things they say just can’t be found. I’ll share this love I find with everyone. We’ll sing and dance to Mother Nature’s song… A picturesque view of the Bukit to the south, with gentle cumulus clouds caressing the tops of rough hills, pastel colors Crayola cannot define, let alone reproduce. A cool offshore breeze has women cover their tops with shirts and sarongs, and more people gather to see the last light spray above the ocean and through the clouds, each looking for their own picture of perfection. Kuta reef is breaking in the foreground, and a tiny shape can be seen gliding in front of a broken wave as if hovering on the surface of the water. A half dozen kites are suspended in the air overhead, like hawks guarding their young, and with no intention of letting down their guard. A dog wanders past, randomly, and in no particular hurry to either harass anyone for scraps, or to stop and sniff the local smells. One last wave brings a dozen people from the water, the perfect wave, at least perfect in that moment. And so am I, sitting in a plastic lawn chair, ear phones connecting me to my music, and my music to another world… this feeling I have is Love, and I sense as though something big is about to happen, with each breath so overwhelming, the realization that I am here, right now, breathing, thinking, alive. This letter is just the beginning, I have no doubt, and should you never read it, it is probably better that way. I don’t want this feeling to go away…

Thoughts in Leaving the Jungle

This, I call mental decompression.

Seven days in the jungle, isolated from the outside world, whatever that may be. Finding myself lost among the monkeys in the trees, the bamboo trees stretching seven stories in the air, the mud and sand and grit between my toes, I searched for solitude and found it quite easy. At the sun’s setting, just after six, the lights to the world went out and only pale lights scattered across dirt roads and footpaths provided insight as to where to go, and how carefully one should proceed. And how many stars were scattered across the black evening sky? Enough that counting them would quickly become to boring and cumbersome. Two hours later, what commotion stirred in the common area was quieted as we stumbled off to an early night, weary from a day of paddling, of walking, and of telling the stories of the waves we caught.

Morning always came early. By six the sunlight was already breaking through the canopy, waking the monkeys, whose stirring made eerie noises overhead. What sunlight made it past the monkeys found its way to windowsills, through the sarong acting as a window curtain, and between the tiny holes in the mosquito netting engulfing the bed. I always woke with the sun, and the monkeys, and the light filtering into by tiny bungalow. And in waking, the world was new again, and primitive.

A walk to the left two hundred yards revealed a break called “Kongs,” at the southeastern most point of East Java. It was supposedly mellower than the other breaks out front, “Money Trees” and “Speedies.” But it never looked that way. At least, not for the time that I was there. I crossed my fingers each morning that the swell had dropped and that the ways would look in some ways “manageable.” Manageable became a term one heard quite frequently in the jungle, though it always meant something different to someone else. To me, manageable would mean head high at best, and clean. Kongs wasn’t working well the first day. Nor the next. Or any day until the morning that I left. But at 6 Am the tide was low- too low for me- and I had already said my farewell to the Indian Ocean the afternoon before. Still, the fact that the swell was well too big for me did not bring down my hopes that, in walking to Kongs each morning, I might see my chance to ride the famous wave.

Three mornings I paddled out front in hopes that either Kongs, Money Tree, or Speedies would drop in size and give me my opportunity. But three mornings I found myself disappointed that I was unable to find that wave that fit my expectations and my skill level perfectly. That was the thing I struggled with most in the jungle, reconciling my expectations of riding big waves with the fact that I had never even come close to riding waves as perfectly formed as the waves in the jungle. But I have always had trouble reconciling my expectations with reality. One might thing I would have learned to stop having expectations by now. But the jungle did not care. In fact, it called me to wander north along the coast, away from the breaks out front and into the parts that people rarely went alone, or by foot.

But I wandered, several miles through dense jungle with the occasional crossing of deer or Komodo dragon so large they could eat a German shepherd with little indigestion. The walk was quiet, except for the sound of footsteps crunching in the sand, or sliding in the mud, and the occasional conversation with new friends made while there. It was long, but time meant nothing in the jungle. In fact, the only reason to care the time of day was in making sure to surf the proper tide. Some surfers had little care as to high, low, or mid-tides. They surfed as they felt – freely. I was more picky, and chose to start walking two hours before high tide, knowing that by the time I paddled out into the surf, the tide would be nearing its height, would remain for a brief moment, and then begin to back away. So time for me was just as useless as the idea of it once I started walking.

In the water, miles from anything that in any way resembled civilization in a third world country, I was free to sit and think and let the salty air and ocean water absorb any negativity that might have somehow surfaced in my trek out. Negativity was like knots during a deep massage. It was hidden beneath the surface, sometimes too far to even know that it was present at all. But as the walk began to loosen the muscles, it also loosened the mind, and sometimes negativity surfaced by the time I reached the water’s edge. But the ocean was quick to absorb these thoughts, to carry them like decomposing organisms into her depth, and consume them without much attention.

She would also consume me, if she could, and often tried. But after surviving my episodes out front, I found her almost tickling as she grabbed me, threw me underwater, and then rolled me over a few times. Though the sensation was nauseating at first, in recollection of the nightmare experiences of days before, I soon found it to be laughable that she would grab me and so playfully toss me around. Equally, she gave in to me as I rode her waves to shore time and time again. And in waiting for my turn, my wave, the beauty of the forested hills outlining the beach was almost entirely too much. A jungle so thick one could not see a person as they took two steps into or out of it, and filled with so many colors and shades of green.

This was my life, for one week, and I wonder where I would be right now had I spent more time lost in the jungle. I left on a Saturday morning, around eight, just after breakfast and just before high tide, making the departure bittersweet. The swell had dropped and everyone I had talked to was confident that today would be my day to catch my wave at Kongs. I imagine life would not be as laughable without a little bit of irony. I boarded the van, an eleven-seater carrying seven surfers, a driver, and as I found out later, someone to help push the van through the mud.

The ocean remained to our left at first as we drove cautiously through the mud path on our way out of the jungle. I remembered each step of the way, as I had walked these paths several times throughout the week, and found great sadness when passing the place where I had caught my best waves. It had rained for about an hour that morning, which was serious enough only to make the first few miles annoying, but not dangerous or devastating. We were caught several times in the mud, and a crew of a half dozen tiny Indonesians jumped from the van and the truck carrying our boards and began the process of pushing the truck and/or van through the mud.

After a while the stops became less frequent. And, as the road remained bumpy, my thoughts were clear, concise and reflected a sense of peace I have only felt in passing moments in the most beautiful of places. I did my best to catch these thoughts, my mental decompression, and I became convinced when the day had ended and I shared them in conversation with a beautiful stranger that they were perhaps the most beautiful thoughts that I have ever had. Judge them not on how they hold up to your thoughts, but rather on how they hold up to the vision you have of me the last time you saw me sometime over a month ago, or longer. I want desperately to cling to each one and, even as I have arrived back into a different jungle, the crowded streets of Kuta, I long to feel them again on my arrival home in several weeks when I really begin to challenge myself in acting upon all of the beautiful visions I have had while I was in the jungle. Judge me then by my sincerity in my commitment to change, not by the words I share with you right now.

My mental decompression, in leaving the jungle, goes as this:

I have had the grandest thoughts, of love, beauty, friendship and family;
Dreams, plans, places I have been or always wanted to go;
Of god and music, and visions of grandeur;
Defying expectations.
Following through with promises.
Forgetting sins against.
Believing in redemption, humanity, purpose, and storybook endings.
Forgetting childhood regrets,
Holding on to changes made and changes yet to be.
Casting out demons. Abandoning alcohol.
Pursuing peace across the world;
Living better, healthier, longer.
Wisdom.
Appreciating the value of conversations, farewells, and welcome-homes.
Passion. Perfection. Creativity. Expression.
Longing and re-connections.
Stillness. Whispers. Simple mistakes.
Laughter. Wind in trees. The colors of the clouds at sunset.
Confidence- in self and others.
Simplicity in thought, and action.
Strength. Endurance.
Tears. Holding Hands. Smiles.
Toes in sand.
Clarity. Focus.
Black and white photographs.

If you know of these things, my mind is empty again. Be kind and take me under your care…

Some East Java Profanity...

Wednesday July 14, 2010 9:10 PM East Java Time

A summary of first half reflections:

I have really been struggling lately as I look around the camp and try to figure out myself. I am surrounded by some very interesting people who have traveled from all parts of the world – the United States, Brazil, Australia, Scotland, to name a few – to surf what is considered to be one of the top 5 surf breaks in the world, and here I am. I paddled out today again, to a break called Money Trees, to try to prove to myself and to my new friend Jeff that I could surf with the best of them. I was supposed to surf this spot with him in the morning before the new swell arrived, and then take an hour’s rest before heading down to a mellower break called Tiger Tracks about an hour’s walk north of the camp.

Jeff got tied up in the observation tower with the camp photographer, so instead of waiting I geared up and paddled out from in front of a break called Kongs to Money Trees. Just paddling out was a challenge for me, seeing the reef only a foot or two beneath me for the quarter mile paddle to the inside sets. Then, knowing that white water now scares the living shit out of me, I braved the inside and managed to squeeze my way into the lineup in the outside break just before another set moved in.

I had walked the reef the night before, trying to get to “know my enemy,” and since it was now mid-tide with the tide coming in, I knew that my enemy was closer than ever. But I also knew that I had to give it another shot. Why I felt I had to do so, I still do not know or understand. But I had to prove to someone – to Jeff, the Photographer, Myself, You – that I could get on a world class wave and overcome my fears.

So I paddled outside and the bigger sets rolled through. Taking no chances, I stayed deeper than most to avoid the “cleanup sets” that came through every now and then and cleaned up anyone on the inside. But in sitting further outside, I knew that the only waves I could attempt to catch would be the bigger waves. I often joke with my surfing friends back home that when you sit farther outside it is like fishing with bigger bait. You often wait a long time, but when it hits, it’s a big one. After about ten minutes of sitting and watching some bigger sets move through, I decided that I was wasting my time by sitting there. So, knowing the risk that I was taking in paddling back inside, I decided that the only chance I had to catch a wave was to sit inside and grab one between the bigger sets. In a way, I gave myself an ultimatum: catch a wave and ride it the length of the break to safety, or eat shit again and wish you had. Several waves came and I paddled after them. But they were lazy where I was, and breaking slightly to the south. A trick, I knew, that the reef was playing to draw me further up the break. I fell for it anyway remembering my ultimatum: you will not be here long, or you will be sorry.

So I paddled after one or two and actually had a chance to drop in on an 8 or 9 foot face, but backed out at the last minute. The reef was not exposed beneath me, but I knew that it was there, and waiting. Two more waves passed that I had no ability to catch and then my worst fear reared its head again. Beyond the next two waves I could see a stack of water piled up nearly two stories high and moving in for the kill. Instead of praying, as I should have, I said a slur of four-letter words and then paddled as hard as I could to the right in trying to make the edge of the shoulder and not the face. It was not going to happen.

Ten feet in front of me a wall of water twice my size came tumbling down with force that had been building for a thousand miles in the middle of the Indian Ocean and combined with gravity to create an avalanche of white water. With a 7’8” board, duck diving was rather difficult. But with a wave of this size, duck diving would not have saved even the best of surfers. The last words I said before I took my last breath were “Fuc*. Breathe.” I am not going to lie. What I was up against was profane. It was the least I could do to clear my lungs for one last breath before that most horrifying feeling of being carried away, tossed around like a rag doll, and pulled down despite my every attempt to stay on top.

There is an eerie sound that the water makes when you are swirling beneath the surface. It is indescribable, but has come to be my greatest fear. Just the sound makes my heart beat faster. And that sound surrounded me again for fifteen or twenty seconds. I was not counting; I just knew the spacing between waves was longer with a bigger swell moving in. I tried not to panic as much this time as I had two days before. Somehow I had survived before. I must find a way to survive again. So I clawed my way to the surface, my first breath being of foam that had the unique stench of death. That too became a trigger of fear for me. The marine animals in the reef, and the reef itself, were getting mauled beneath the waves just as I was, and with time you could smell their death in the frothy foam after a cleanup wave rolled through and pounded through its depths to the bottom.

My second breath was half a lung full of air, quickly exhaled with the words “Fuc*. Breathe.” again, as the next wave in the set toppled down on me. This time I clung to my board in a “turtle roll,” knowing that the rolling back over was not to occur, but perhaps – just perhaps – if I could hold onto my board through the tumultuous wave, then perhaps – just perhaps – my board might buoy me toward the surface. With luck, or great fortune, my grip never ceased and, with less difficulty than the wave before, I managed to pull myself up for air a second time. Again, the smell of death permeated my lungs. But I was forced closer toward land, toward the shallower part of the reef which, to some, would sound suicidal. But to me, the reef was the least of my concerns. Being closer to the reef meant that the cleanup waves had further to travel to reach me, which meant that more of their energy was spent in traveling the extra distance, which meant less of it was left to throw me around.

A third wave came and, having mounted my board and already begun the process of paddling toward the reef and the shoulder of the wave, I decided that rather than turtle roll or duck dive, I would see if I could just catch the white-water break and get pushed further in and away from the monster cleanup set. It worked, in my head. But on the reef, the third wave was the largest and it hit me from behind with such power that it knocked the air out of me. I stayed on my board for a brief moment as I went racing toward the reef with no control whatsoever over my fate. Very quickly the force of the wave pushed the nose of my board down and I pearled face first into the depths of the reef. Still less afraid of the reef than surviving the power of the broken wave, I reached down for the reef hoping to make contact. If I could hang on, despite the cuts I might incur, perhaps I could steady myself in the torrent of the passing wave and then position myself to kick upward when the swirling reduced. This again, in theory, occurred in my brain within milliseconds of what actually took place. With luck, or good fortune, the swirling mass of water pulled me to the surface upside down. I recognized the brief lack of wetness on my back to mean air and immediately rolled over to grab a quick breath before being sucked back into the whirlpool of madness that had become my life. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic.

The phrase repeated inside my head until again I managed to claw myself to the surface. Taking one small breath, I prepared for another impact and then, fearfully, I turned my neck to see what was coming next.

The set had ended and I had a few seconds to rest, paddle myself closer to the reef, and plan my next escape. This, so it seemed, would be the same plan as the last. I could not face another wave head on. That method had failed me miserably. I had to get away from the break and the quickest way I found was to remain on my board and to try and ride the white water toward the shore. Fortunately this wave was slightly less energetic and, while it tried to pearl me again, my body was responsive to the changing balance and adjusted itself to remain on my board. The wave took me nearly to shore as I breathed slower and deeper, making up for lost breaths.

So, in reading this, you are asking, “What in the hell were you thinking, in going out there again?” And, in writing this, I refer you to my first three paragraphs. I have been at this camp now for four days. The first day I paddled out into surf that was comparable to a decent day at Mavericks and floated in amusement and wonder. The second day I moved into position to try to ride a wave and was completely annihilated. The third day I gave up on the bigger surf and headed to Tiger Tracks for a mellow two hour session in which I caught three dozen waves and had a great time. But the culmination of these three days left me feeling unfulfilled.

You only get pictures if you ride the beasts that live outside at Money Trees. You only get in barrels if you battle your demons on top of the reef and drop in outside at Money Trees. You only get the wave of your life if you face your fears and confront the powerful waves outside at Money Trees. You only know if you can do it if you ride the outside waves at Money Tree.

Part of me felt emasculated by my prior lack of success at Money Trees. Part of me felt like fear had taken over my life and had consumed me in my first three days. Part of me felt I had more pride in myself than what I was able to accomplish those first three days. Part of me simply wanted to say that I had ridden the best waves with the best surfers and had survived. But are any of these reasons to paddle to the outside for a third time, knowing what dangers lay ahead?

I have learned quite a bit here, in studying myself and my reaction to near-drowning and in conversations with Jeff. He assures me that the effort I have put in has more than paid for my trip here, and that I am dealing with waves that only the best of the best will attempt to surf. And as much as I want to feel consoled by his words, I still feel a deep desire to catch a wave at Money Trees before I leave. Maybe I have something to prove to you. Maybe I have something to prove to Jeff, or the Photographer, or my neighbors here who have heard my stories of failure and have been kind enough to console me as well. Maybe I have something to prove to myself. But at what cost?

I realized several things tonight as I have thought deeply about my time here. First, some people here have been surfing big waves their entire life. This 15 foot swell is just another walk in the park for them. Second, some of these people spend the winter swell session surfing the North Shore or the northern California breaks, and the rest of the year surfing the Indonesian breaks. Practice makes perfect, so the saying goes. Third, and perhaps most convincing and profound, we were all made to do something incredibly well. For some it is surfing. For others it is teaching.

It is this third realization that has me on balance about the underlying motivation for surfing Money Trees one last time before I go. I know that I was made to teach and, perhaps, to write. I do not know that I was made to surf. Guys like Corey Lopez and Kelly Slater were born with a talent to surf that far exceeds their talent to teach. They would be wasting their lives if they were not on the water riding the big waves and inspiring young kids to get out and start early. Guys like me had the opportunity to start young, but instead chose to live a life full of a variety of experiences that ultimately shaped me into the person I am, that has formed me into the teacher that I have become and the storyteller I aspire to be. So on which side of the razor should I fall on Friday, my last day at camp, when I plan to paddle out to Money Trees one last time? Should I condemn my chances of riding a world class break and lock my fears inside of me to make them permanent within? Or should I face these fears and put destiny aside, if for just one moment, not to pursue the life of a champion surfer, but to pursue the mindset of a man who has overcome his fear?

So, what have I to prove on Friday? And to whom? We will see which way the hand that guides me leads. I hate fear. I hate knowing that something that may or may not ever come to be might so control my life that I am afraid to even try. But at what cost must I overcome this fear? Fuc*… breathe…

Visions from the Sea...

Tuesday July 13, 2010 10:06 PM East Java Time

More reflection on the passing of my self beneath the sea, and on her, who comes to me in quiet dreams, and reminds me through her beauty of all that I must be…

I saw her again last night. Between fits of sleeplessness, I pursued her in my dreams and found myself saddened by her absence when I awoke. She was slender, this time with the complexion of a local - dark brown hair and light brown eyes, and far too good for me. I proposed to her, because she wanted me to, and in doing so I realized how much I truly wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. She was seductive, but only because she had the innocence I feel so long has escaped me. I was afraid to touch her, afraid even to speak to her, because I felt her beauty overwhelming and I, undeserving of her attention.

And yet the feeling of knowing that she wanted me, in all of my faults and inadequacies, was far more satisfying than the sight of her. She was pursued by many, and yet somehow I found the great fortune to catch her eye, to be chosen by her to walk at her side.

Why the insecurity, I can only confess that my dreams are only dreams. But in them, great truth reveals itself through subtle details. She was wearing a yellow dress, just below her knees, and her hair was straight and long. Why yellow? And why straight hair? I hope to learn more in my pursuit of her tonight. She was perfect, and she was standing before me, asking me to hold her hand and walk with her. Again, ashamed of my insecurity, I should know that there is none more worthy than me for her attention and affection. Still my doubts arise because she leaves when I can hear myself breathe, when the wind rasps at the window, and the sunlight filters through the curtains of the windows.

I have found her several times in the course of the last few years and yet in the stillness of the night I have lost her before morning. Last night she came to me, not I to her. And I believe now in my heart that all my travels have taken their toll on me. Am I ready to live alone? I have learned to do so just fine. But what she teaches me in the middle of the night is that I long to be with her, despite the calluses I have built around my heart. I am not made to be alone. But my past impatience has brought me pain, and she knows how hard I have searched for her among the others, only to be left alone and helplessly awaiting her next return.

I did not see her yesterday beneath twenty feet of raging ocean, but she found me in my sleep when I survived. And now I know that I am meant to live, partially in pursuit of her and partially in pursuit of a better me. She shows me, in holding my hand, that I have things that I must change about myself: my thoughts are unfiltered and words often insincere. Deliberate action based on deliberate thought, a slowing down of self and a focus on the small details in life that are just as beautiful as she. The fact that I am alive – that I can see and hear and feel and taste and smell the world around me – is the awareness that she seeks in me.

To have her means to have myself mended, and perhaps she leaves each time because this process has not yet begun. Like the whirling ocean that dragged me to my death, she leads me to confront the things that I most fear: Self-reflection and a change in self. But, in the torrent of my drowning, she also provides me the opportunity to begin again, and the beauty of that first breathe of air - the purity of its taste upon my lungs – is all that matters. She wants me to sense the fullness in every moment, to take each breath as unique and essential, and to forget my fears of what could come and regrets of what has been, and remember to hold her hand in this present moment.

I could have died yesterday. In a way I did. And this dream of her has reminded me of the beauty of life. I lost everything in my quiet moment alone. I lost my hope and I lost my fear. I lost my need for things, and the things I thought I needed. I lost my ambition and my laziness, my joys and my sorrows. And I have gained the present moment, as I was thrown about in helplessness, and I realized that now is all I have.

Words will never describe the clarity of thought I had when I finally gave up my fear and desperation, my arrogance and pride, and accepted that my body might belong beneath the sea. I felt alive, truly alive, and sensed the salty water upon my flesh and in my lungs, as though for the first time. And, had I better sense, I would have known this all along. But as she comes to me when I least expect, when I am most resigned to forget her beauty and seek comfort in the company of myself, these moments attach themselves like wind to the wings of butterflies, and escort me back to my reality.

Will she return to me tonight? I can only hope. I have thought about her much today, in reflecting on my death, in hopes that she might come again tonight. But if I sleep so sound as to escape her visit, I know one day soon I will see her again. And my hope is that I will feel secure in holding her hand, knowing that I have learned to live the beauty of life in the present moment, and that I will no longer feel as though her innocence is too pure for me. For I know that my past is behind me, and my future too far for now. Only this moment exists. Only now can I be the man that I have longed to be- the one who will propose to her to spend the rest of her life with me, as long as that will be, one present moment to the next. Because in this moment I am perfect, and suitable for one as perfect as she…

The Ocean, and the Wave...

Monday July 12, 2010 1:15 PM East Java Time

Two day recap of my trip to G-land, starting with the most recent and going backward…

I almost died today, between twenty feet of water and the reef, and I found it such an excruciatingly painful experience that I attempted it twice more just to make sure that I appreciated my life. Of course, this is all in good jest, in looking back. But at the time, I felt so hopeless and alone, and I knew that I did not want to die.

It started yesterday, around 9 AM after a 7 hour drive from Kuta to G-land on East Java. It was a bumpy ride, and though my chair all reclined to about 30 degrees, I slept only as much as the curves in the road would allow. I arrived around 8 and settled into my bungalow. As an upgrade, it has air conditioning that does not work and mosquito nets covering two twin beds. I was told to keep the doors and windows shut as the monkeys like to break into rooms and ransack them for any goodies they can find. I just have Kit- Kats, but I imagine chocolate suites their palate very well.

Shortly after unpacking, I threw down some banana pancakes and scrambled eggs and shared more conversation with Jeff, a teacher from Los Angeles who I met one morning out on Middle reef in Kuta over a week before. Talk about a small world. We made our way to the observation tower after breakfast, a three story wooden complex aimed at three of the major breaks here. In the distance, like pepper grains scattered in a bathtub, little heads bobbed up and down on surf boards waiting on the sets. I took the size of the wave for granted at first, as the distance between the tower and the break made everything out there seem smaller. But when one of those little heads grabbed the shoulder of a wave and dropped in on it, I could see just how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things.

I felt confident, however, that with just the right angle on just the right shoulder of just the right wave, I could surf with the best of them. This was the reason I was here, to become the best. But this confidence would hold only 5 minutes after jumping out of a boat that ran us from the shore to the outer break. When I paddled into the lineup and a swell rolled through, it was mesmerizing to feel my body lift up to the crest of the wave where I could look down some twenty to thirty feet at nearly 50 other surfers all scrambling to get out of the inside break, and then feel the gentle awkwardness of weightlessness as the wave set me back down. I was in pure awe, and terrified as the gentle swell pushed through.

In well over twenty feet of water, I was confident that I was not so much afraid of the reef. The waves, however, were another thing. They spilled over in the distance and, like an avalanche, advanced forward with the misperceived notion that the white wash was calm and gentle, when in fact it was furious. I paddled deeper than everyone else and further down the line so that I had a clear view of the break as well as the smattering of bodies across the reef. If I paddled hard enough to drop in on a wave from there, I could ride it for five hundred feet before having to bail out on the shallow reef. But instead I just watched, and paddled back into position when the current pulled me north.

I spent four hours on the ocean that day, simply watching and paddling back into position. Though afraid at first, I grew restless and anxious to catch my wave. It is not uncommon for even the best surfers to spend three hours on the water and only catch three or four waves here. I just wanted one. But as the tide dropped, the side-shore current became stronger and I was forced to paddle more just to stay in the same place. Eventually I fell behind the current and gave up on trying to gain position on a wave. Though I felt confident that I could make the twenty foot drop, the ocean would not allow me the opportunity.

So over the afternoon and evening I stewed about my initial cowardice. Jeff called it “caution.” But in my mind, it was cowardice. I once told a friend to just “pull the trigger” and drop into waves that clearly intimidated him. All I could think of out there was to “pull the trigger.” I just couldn’t do it.

So this morning I was alert and vengeful for my first day. It was the only day in my brief history of surfing where I did not catch one wave, let alone a last wave toward the shore. I always caught one last wave. It was something my father taught me, and one of the few things I kept sacred when on the ocean. I hated myself for paddling in without a wave, and vowed that I would, within the first set of the new day, pull the trigger and drop into my first wave. The waves were just as big as the day before, some reaching nearly 25 feet at their face just before breaking, as measured by the number of body lengths one could fit into the face of a wave when someone else dropped in. But today there was a slight offshore wind and the tubes were opened and hollow inside. It was the most spectacular wave I have ever seen, bending over itself to form a horseshoe as it broke. And the tube was big enough you could nearly fit a truck inside, and so full of air that when it finally collapsed there was a monstrous hiss and pop as the air pressure increased so great and then pushed its way through the top of the crashing wave. I had no plans to be inside a tube when it collapsed. I just wanted to drop in and ride the magnificent wave until it would not let me anymore.

So, true to my word, within 5 minutes of sitting in the lineup, a little closer inside than some, I had my first opportunity to drop in. I paddled hard, knowing that the monstrous wave will suck you from below and place you at its crest just before it bends over and breaks. I had to paddle like I had never paddled before just to give myself a shot. And it worked, except as I felt myself being tugged backward and up, and as the sight of the string of surfers on the inside lineup grew smaller, I realized I could not make the drop and I backed myself out. Twice this happened.
I vowed that there would not be a third time, and the ocean was sure to see of that. Certain that I did not want to drop in on a twenty foot face, I paddled inside a little and to the left. I had been trapped many times on the inside at Middle Reef because I was too far left in front of the break. Here I felt positioned to move on any wave that the outside surfers could not, or would not, catch. And then it came, before I was even ready, and I should have known better because everyone to my right began to paddle furiously out toward the approaching set and to the right. I was farther left than anyone else, and so I had to paddle twice as fast if I were going to make it.
As waves approach, they suck the water in front of them into their face and build vertically before they break. Within a short time, nearly to the edge of the break and to safety, I felt a horrible feeling in my gut as I felt myself being pulled into a wave that was on the edge of breaking. Like a weightless elevator, I lifted to the crest of the wave and tried my hardest to duck dive at the last minute to push through the wave and punch out of the other side. But instead an even worse feeling emerged as I felt myself weightless for an indefinite time, staring upward at a clear blue sky, knowing that the reef waited patiently beneath me for its mid-morning snack, and the white-powder break was all around me like a white-out blizzard.

And then it happened. I landed on my back in the ocean, with no idea which way was up or down, or where my surfboard was. I felt a stretching at my ankle, letting me know that it was there somewhere, but as to where I was uncertain. The fall was, I imagine, just as hard as it would be to jump out of a two story building, and my initial fear was the reef. Within a second I would wish that the reef were my greatest fear. Instead, I felt what little air I could grab as I fell squashed out of me as the weight of the wave fell on top of me. Then, darkness and chaos.

Immediately I reached for my ankle, hoping that my board was within reach and near enough to the surface that I could pull myself up. This was always my emergency plan. If submerged, trust the buoyancy of my board to climb my leash to safety. But I was awash beneath the wave, tumbling more times than I could count, and growing more anxious by the second. I started to try and claw my way to the surface, literally, wherever the surface might have been. I guessed a direction and stretched my arms as high as I could and pulled myself in what I hope to be the up direction. Like a child who has no competency at swimming, I clawed and scraped and kicked furiously as I continued to spin beneath the wave. In my head this whole time I told myself, “do not panic.” But the reality was, I was panicking. If I had been pulling in the wrong direction, I would eventually have reached the reef, in which case it would be welcomed relief to know which way was down and then use the reef to push in the opposite direction up toward air. But I never reached the reef, and I worried that perhaps I was clawing horizontally to the surface and the reef, but ten feet beneath the surface. Running out of air, I clawed even more furiously and thoughts of death began to consume me.

There was a light at one point, just enough to reach for, and when I did I felt the miraculous emptiness of air upon my outstretched hand. Surface! I was close! I just had to claw once more and perhaps I would be free. And so I did. And so I was, at least temporarily, free.

The reason I did not die in that first, massive wave was not because of anything that I did. I just did what anyone facing drowning would do: I kicked and pulled and paddled in every direction I could until I reached the surface. There was no art to it, no beauty in overcoming insurmountable odds. It was survival, pure and simple. Rather, what saved me was the fact that the swell that was producing these monstrous waves had a period of about 17 seconds, as timed by Jeff and I before we paddled out. Which means that, on average, one wave should pass by every 17 seconds. Which means if I came up for air at 16 seconds, I would have only one second before I was pounded by another wave. Fortunately for me, while I was passed by no fewer than two waves while underwater, I reached the surface between waves. This gave me just five or so seconds to spit the salt water from my mouth and fill my lungs with as much air as I possibly could before the next inevitable tumble beneath the ocean.

Ironically, it was the size of the waves that saved my life… the first time. It was the reef that saved me the second time. This wave, equally as large as the one from which I had toppled, had the added inconvenience that a surfer was gliding down its face right at me, he in control and me utterly helpless. The last thing I saw before I was pulled down again were the red fins of the surfboard and a look mixed between excitement and fear on the surfer’s passing face.

With what little air I had inside my lung, I told myself “do not panic.” But again I felt helpless as the water moved over me, causing me to spin uncontrollably beneath the surface at mercy of the ocean. As I tumbled, I again told myself to start clawing in the direction you think is up. So I clawed away and was, incidentally, assisted by the circular tumbling motion of the wave to the surface, just briefly enough to exhale and grab a short breath before being pulled back down. I reached for my leash, hoping it would lead me to safety, and again felt no sign of assistance from it. For all I knew, it was broken and sinking beneath the wash with me. And then, in my clawing, I punched a piece of coral and was relieved. Down! I knew now where I was, but not how far down. And so I positioned myself quickly to push up with all my might, hoping that the combination of my push and my clawing would free me from this underwater prison. Within seconds it did. Temporarily.

I was thrown back down again by a third wave, the sixth or seventh in the set, and had even less air than the last. This, I thought, was the end. This was hell. It was being so close to the freedom and the safety of the surface, and yet so far away. I hated the ocean as I breathed it into my nose involuntarily. I hated myself for coming to Indonesia. I did not want to die this way, not even having ridden the damn wave that would cause my demise. I did not want to die.

Panic was the least of my emotions beneath this third wave. Fear had toppled panic. And beyond fear was an emotion indescribable. This was my moment, the moment of all moments in my life, and the feeling was truly unique. They say when you are about to die you often see a light, or a tunnel, or Jesus standing with his arms outstretched in peaceful invitation. I saw none of that.

They say that your life will flash beneath your eyes and the most memorable of moments will be your last. I saw none of that either. I saw darkness and felt wet. I felt my legs being pulled in one direction, my arms in another, and my torso being squashed in between. I felt ready to give up, if surviving this wave meant that another one was on its way, and involuntarily inhaled some more seawater. I knew that when the body started to “breathe” water, the situation was hopeless. The only thing I could think about, in terms of survival, was that somebody in one of the boats nearby taking pictures saw me go down and never saw me come up. My hope was that they would brave the inside break, if they could, and pull me to the safety of boat to try to bring me back to life. I did not give up on clawing and kicking. But with each outstretched arm and each kick of my leg, I felt less and less energy and motivation, and more and more fatigue and acceptance that this was the way I would die.

And then the thought came to my head, not of my life nor of the afterlife, but that nobody would ever know the thoughts inside my head when my body washed ashore. All of the greatness I believed was inside of me, waiting to be shared with the world, would be lost beneath twenty feet of angry, hissing ocean. Everything I could have been, my future, was now so utterly and uncomfortably crammed into my present that I could think of nothing else but survival. Not yet ocean. I have not lived my life yet. There are things I have not even finished, and so many more I have not even begun.

Light did save me this time. With eyes in pain from being open and searching for signs of up and down, I finally sensed daylight just three feet above my outstretched arms. If only I could reach just a few more times. If only I could reach… If only… Air!

My board was close by, and I pulled it with the last remaining strength in my body. Still without breath, I pulled my chest to the board, clinging with all of my life, and noticed that the outside was flat for the time being. Then, just as involuntarily as I had breathed it in, I vomited a liter or so of salt water in a burning, painful purge. Coughing followed, which I knew was a natural response by my body to bring air back into my lungs and get oxygen to my brain, and exhaustion. But, for the present moment, I was alive. With cramps in both of my legs, I kicked myself onto my board and used the last strength I had to paddle horizontally along the shore, trying to escape the inside break. I could see the boats ahead of me, but they hadn’t seemed to notice me. Other surfers went about their routine of scouting waves and paddling into position.

Nobody else was there with me in my moment but me. But at least I could see clearly now why life was so valuable.

I do now know the total amount of time I was underwater, whether it be significant or not. I was not trying to break records for holding my breath, nor was I hoping for survival so I could tell this story a thousand times to people who may or may not care. But I know that in that last moment, when I was ready to concede defeat to the ocean, one thing was perfectly clear: it is not my time.

In the moments that followed, I paddled to safety and eventually had the strength to sit upright on my board. I thought about what had just happened, why it had happened, and how I could prevent it from happening again. Every surfer has their horror story, similar and often worse than mine. But this was my moment. And I realized that I was made to teach. I was made to help others realize what they were made to do, while I tinkered and explored with other possible purposes for my life. I was not like the other surfers in the lineup on that day. I had no idea for what purpose they lived, or what their final thoughts would be had they been drug down beside me. I just knew what I was supposed to do with my life, and with such clarify and focus that it would permanently be ingrained into my heart and my mind.

The ocean holds great wisdom from nearly four billion years of existence in her grasp, and she transferred some of that to me in my quiet moment alone with her. While others were here and there with her, riding her waves or floating in the lineup, she held me down until the point was clear: I am here to help you, in some way, to become what you have been created to become. You might be made to be a surfer, as I hoped I held the potential inside of me to become. Or perhaps you were made to be a great musician. Maybe your fate is as simple as mine, to put your life aside for others. Whatever your purpose in life, I am here to be a part of it with you. Call me a facilitator, if you will, or a middleman between your potential and your reality. Perhaps my words can be the weight of the ocean bearing down on you, and you will be spared the desperate finality of impending death beneath the ocean. Or perhaps they can be the wave that you ride to greatness in your endeavor to be the best. Whatever they are, they are words of truth revealed to me through the sober wisdom of the ocean, and I hope that they in some way inspire you to become better today than you were yesterday…

The proverbial monkey, and my shoulder...

Sunday July 4, 2010 12:05 PM

I woke up late, telling myself last night that I was not going to wake up early and rush out to try and surf. Low tide was early and, regardless of what the guidebooks say about low tide, there was no way that I was going to drag myself out of surf the reefs at low tide. But I woke up feeling restless, and sad for some reason. In not running or surfing this morning, I felt as though I had not accomplished as much as I should have, even though there is really nothing here for me to have to accomplish. I am, as much as I do not like to admit, putting stress on myself to achieve something big while I am here. I feel as though I should be surfing every day, and moving from one break to the next so that I can tell stories off all of the amazing surf session I have had. And yet I have become comfortably attached to Kuta, my familiar walk down Jalan Poppies II to Kuta Beach, and enjoy either getting pounded by some beach break or paying a few bucks to head out to a crowded reef break.

I have also put pressure on myself to accomplish things in my writing that I have only dreamed to accomplish. Those of you who know me well know that the most difficult thing for me to do is to finish something. Currently I have edited twenty out of twenty four chapters in my story of my journey through Europe. Those of you who were around for my journey’s completion know how much the thoughts and events I experienced there have shaped who I have become. I feel a deep urge to share it with you, but it is like pulling teeth to get me to open my notebook of edits and change them on the computer.

I also feel as though every minute I spend editing my European story is one minute taken away from a recent story I have felt moved to write about a girl and her struggle to achieve some greatness of her own, not for herself, but for others. Feeling as though I am trapped in the same room as her, wanting to scream out about the things that I know to be beautiful and true but feeling as though no one will hear, and knowing that our time to make a big change in the world is only a moment away, I also sense pressure to complete the story while I am here.
Greatness, I have read, comes not from wishing for it or simply projecting it. It comes from rolling up one’s sleeves and doing the work that it takes to make a good thing great. I will admit, being here on this island, work is far from my mind. But the weight of this story on my heart, and my belief that its completion will forever change the way that you and others look upon your fellow human beings, I carry the burden with me through the streets, in the sand, and on the ocean.

And now, waiting for the tide to push in and hoping that the wind stays off the water well enough to make the session worthwhile, I feel a third story brewing in the back of my mind: my story of Bali. Facebook has been a great way to throw tidbits of my experience your way. But it has been horrible for pictures. And, as a picture tells a thousand words, it would be great if Facebook would cooperate and let me post the pictures I have to share. But, in not having pictures to accompany my story, I will now reveal a little of my experience in getting away from Kuta Beach yesterday on a motorbike trip with a friend into the mountains of Ubud.

I am teaching my friend Komang to surf, though it is difficult because the waves are not very cooperative for him. He is like a flea on some of the waves, and every time he goes beneath the water I worry that I have just killed one of the kindest, hardest working young men the world has yet to know. Komang, like most of my other Balinese friends, serves food at Crusoe’s, my local hangout. We began talking about surfing one day (he speaks very good English) and I told him that I would teach him to surf. So we have met up several times, including yesterday.
His one year old son would not permit him to leave his house twenty minutes away in Denpasar. So he packed his son and his wife onto his motorbike and met me at the beach around eleven or so. He was a few hours late and, since I have no phone here, there was no way for me to reach him. So I surfed the beach break for a little, and made plans to head out to the reef after catching one more wave. As I dropped into that last wave, a three foot close out with a nice barrel to it, I looked up and saw Komang struggling to swim out to me, despite the whistles from the life guards because the undertow was as strong as I have ever seen it anywhere.

I met Komang and he introduced me to his lovely family. At 24, he is already married and a father. And, as people go, he is one of the most kind-hearted I have met in any of my journeys at home or abroad. So we laughed as he caught a few waves and began discussing what to do with the rest of the day. Saturday is his one day off, and I imagined that he would want to spend it with his family. But with a smile, he asked me if I wanted to go to Ubud, a mountain village in the rainforest center of the island. Knowing that I would have to leave Kuta eventually, and wanting to see Bali from his standpoint, I agreed. As we got out of the water, we decided to meet at one and head off to Ubud on his motorbike.

So we left and, being six feet four inches, I barely managed to fit on the back. We had to pass Crusoe’s on our way and everyone who was working laughed when they saw my body sprawled out in my attempts to get my feet off the road and onto the bike. Traffic was something horrific, and the only reason I have yet to rent a motorbike and go exploring on my own. I posted brief video to show some of it, but will post more later. I learned in the course of the afternoon that there are very few rules to driving in Bali. Here they are, to the best of my understanding:

1) Cars, trucks, SUV’s, and motorbikes share the road. While motorbikes are most prevalent (at about a 10:1 ration), they certainly have the least preference when it comes to right of way.
2) In driving a motorbike, anything and everything you can fit on it is acceptable. This includes, but is not limited to: multiple adults, children, babies under the age of 1, bags of rice, wooden boxes, mini refrigerators, plywood, bricks, or anything else imaginable.
3) Drivers should remain on the left lane of the road unless, of course, it is more convenient to drive on the right lane. In this case, one must be particularly careful not to cause an accident since they are now heading into oncoming traffic.
4) There is one, solid painted line in the center of most main roads (but certainly not back roads, side streets, country roads, and unpaved dirt) but, in reference to Rule #3, these lines are more suggestions than authoritative. One may pass to the right, to the left, or in some cases, right down the middle.
5) If your vehicle can fit on the sidewalk, sidewalks are fair game, regardless of whether there are people on the sidewalks or not. This is most convenient when there is a stoppage of traffic due to someone going the wrong way, a car not pulling over completely off the road to load or unload cargo, or a red light inconveniences the masses (there are exactly 3 red lights in Bali- we ran all three of them).
6) Red lights are mere suggestions to be careful when crossing perpendicular traffic. It is acceptable to wait, as the lights always turn green eventually. However, it is also equally acceptable, in the expedience of time, to pull your vehicle forward into passing traffic and merge your way in front of people until you are going the way that you would like to go. Red lights are also subject to the amount of traffic ahead and behind of you that commits to running through the intersection. A good rule of thumb, if those people behind you are moving forward through the light, it is a good idea to keep moving, lest you cause an accident when they run into you.
7) Helmets are the only required element of driving a motorbike. Licenses are only for those silly enough to fork over extra money (I say this laughing, as there is no “extra” money for the average Balinese worker). Blinkers, lights, hand signals, and so forth are mere trivialities. If you do not have a helmet, it is also acceptable to wear a hat or, in many cases, nothing at all (in essence removing Rule #7 as a rule altogether).
8) The speed limit is not determined by government, nor is it published at any point on any road in Bali. Instead, it is determined (and more logically so, I may point out) as a function of the weight of your vehicle, the amount of torque your vehicle produces, and the thickness of traffic ahead of you. For instance, small Indonesian on motorbike alone might go 60 or 70 miles per hour down an empty side street. However, an Indonesian with a 215 pound American tourist is going to struggle at times to gain enough energy to break 30 or 40 miles per hour in a congested highway.
9) Any rule not already expressed above is no longer applicable. Be safe. Have fun.
It took me most of the afternoon of clinging to the handles on the back of the motorbike to understand these rules. But, being one who plays by (most) rules, once I figured them out I felt much more comfortable and relaxed. In fact, on the way back (1.5 hours) I was comfortable enough to listen to my iPod (a mixture of Simon and Garfunkle – afternoon sun, Van Morrison- early evening, and the Postal Service- once the sun set) and use two free hands to operate my camera and video camera to attempt to document the trip.

We arrived in Ubud at the place Komang described as a “history of your family.” Excited to see what part my clearly European ancestry had in Indonesia, I walked excitedly toward the “Monkey Forest.” My first excitement came when I saw that bananas were on sale, a bundle of 12 or so for a mere $2. I had not eaten in a while. My second excitement came when, standing in line to enter the forest, I felt a tug on my leg and what I perceived to be a nibble on my leg hairs. I looked down and there was a monkey tugging on my shorts! I lifted the bananas over my head and the little guy decided that he would jump from the ground up to my shirt, grip my chest with his fingers and toes, and then proceed to climb my face to reach the bananas. Interesting experience to say the least.

We spent about an hour wandering through the Monkey Forest, observing what the park claims to be the most prolific and productive animal in the world aside from human beings. And, at several points, I found myself entirely amazed at the likeness between a baby monkey clinging to its mother, and my little sisters when they were born. Then, at points, I also saw my parents as one monkey sat, butt hanging over a stone wall, as the other monkey quietly picked through the other’s hair, clearly finding something to satisfy its hunger. So I imagine that Komang was right about the history of my family. And, eerily, I felt as though this whole evolution thing has more merit than people want to give it. Don’t believe me, find yourself face to face with a monkey and ask yourself if it doesn’t in some way resemble the same face you see in the mirror every morning!

We left the Monkey Forest in search of the famous terraced rice paddies, but came to a stop in the middle of the town. We arrived on the town’s birthday, and a huge celebration was being held in its honor. While this would have made for a pleasant afternoon, we had other things on our mind, so we found some back roads and side streets only mildly occupied, and raced through them and out into the countryside. Within a few minutes we parked on the side of the road and gazed out at endless fields of terraced rice paddies. I had seen glimpses of rice in passing like a whirlwind through small village streets. But in stopping, I was overwhelmed by a peace of the approaching sunset and an otherwise empty local attraction. We hit the road after a few minutes of wandering around and taking pictures and that is where the profound struck me again.

With Van Morrison blasting into my ear holes, the late afternoon passed like a dream, or a drug-induced stupor. I was comfortable on the road now, and I smiled as we passed people and people passed us. The Indonesian motorbike drivers must have thought I was crazy. I just felt good about being in a new place with a new friend, on an adventure to discover things I had no idea I would see. Then we made a pit stop at Komang’s parents-in-laws house, literally a mass of plywood and bamboo leaded together to resemble some form of primitive shelter. But everyone there was happy. The ground was their floor, and there were no doors to anything. These were simple people, living modestly on farming and eating their own produce, and with my headphones dangling from my ears and my cameras tucked inside my bag, I knew I had more money worth of electronics on me that this family would make in several years. But Komang’s mother in law offered us coffee and peanuts with a smile. I smiled back, hoping some of the anxious energy I had for this family would be spent in the muscle contractions. I wanted, in that moment, to pull out the 100,000 Rupiah (~$12) I had for the afternoon and give it to them. I wanted to give them a hundred 100,000 Rupiahs. But I couldn’t, and I felt the familiar pain in my heart that those who know me best will describe as my personal pain.

In leaving, the words of Van Morrison no longer seemed to make me smile. Only the thought that these people were happy with their existence made me smile. The sun set rather uneventfully, the first time I was not at the beach to watch it happen, and night fell. I transitioned to the Postal Service to let the catchy electronic beats thump against the backdrop of headlights and street lights coming and going in the night. We turned down road after road until I had no clue which direction was which, and finally stopped in a back alleyway behind what seemed to be a restaurant or bar. I thought perhaps we were behind Crusoe’s. But dismounting, Komang had a smile on his face as he told me proudly that this was his home. Walking the alleyway back to his home, I was pleased to see his wife and son sitting on the floor of a small, door-less room, smiling.

We shared some oranges Komang’s in-laws had given us, and in a few minutes we left. But while there, I saw the simple existence Komang had created for his family. His proud existence. There is not a single person I know living in America who would have been happy to live in this small, ten by twelve foot room with their spouse and child. But Komang was proud of it, and I was proud of him. I was wrong about how much the average Indonesian makes, when I said they work for less than $20 a day. It is actually less that $3. Komang makes $5, if tips are good. For less than $120 each month Komang has carved out a home for himself and his family, and I love him for heart. I have experienced different levels of “culture shock” since arriving here. I have seen poverty before. I have seen homeless, starving, embarrassed people in the streets of Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, and Honduras. But this was different. This was my friend and his family. And the wheels started turning.

I returned to Crusoe’s when Komang dropped me off and, thinking I should give up beer and give the money to my friends instead, I resorted to a shot of tequila to help me curl up and away from the reality into which I had been drown in this day. I had feelings of greatness, thinking that I could somehow change the lives of these people by becoming wealthy and giving everything I make away, or by helping to fundraise or encourage other people to give to them as well. But I knew that no matter what I do, were I the wealthiest man in the world, I could not change all of this. And then I realized, why should I? There were many people who would probably like a better life for themselves. But by “better,” I am just thinking monetarily. If these people I met today were miserable, then perhaps money might solve some of their problems. But it was a simple existence that seemed to make happiness simple.

I do not know whom of you will understand the pain in my heart, and whom among you will call me out when I return to America and fall back into my way of life. But I hope that there are some of you who will do a little of both for me, so that I will not forget my friends here, and I will learn to find happiness in places other than in money.

I have written a lot here today, in only an hour and a half, but the ends now tie back to the beginnings. I feel a desperation for a chance at greatness. Changing lives one student at a time no longer feels a worthy goal. I am thinking bigger now, and do not know if the thoughts I have are rational, or if I should somehow just swallow the blue pill when I return and forget about them. Do you have the ability to love so great, and then turn away from it? Do you ever feel hopeless about serving a purpose so much greater than yourself, but so infinitely beyond anything you can control? Is life more about our efforts to change the world, than the results of our efforts? Or will we one day be judged by how many lives we changed, how many souls we saved, or how many lasting smiles and friendships we have formed?

I am lost now, and confused. And as you read this, I hope that your heart stirs as well for some advice for me. Komang is one of my Facebook friends and, if you are reading this Komang, know that your friendship has inspired me to be something great. What, my friends, can you suggest I do to find new peace in this moment? My heart is sore, and my eyes dry, and neither good intentions nor tears can change the world. What can I do with my life to justify the lives of so many kind people here in Indonesia? And this is just a start to the world beyond your front door. I am left right now to the only place I can run where I feel safe, and where peace will pass upon me gently like the wind upon my skin. I am headed to the ocean, to the reef, to let the sunshine evaporate my thoughts and salt water absorb my emotions. I hope when I return I have a solution on where to go next. I hope it is full of love…

Themes of this, my Bali journey...

This journey has, at various points, had several themes by which I hoped to complete it. Born from selfishness, I envisioned this trip as a way to reward myself for a very stressful, yet extremely successful year of teaching. It was to be my escape- my chance to spend time and money on myself. I had only one purpose when I first began planning: to surf. I researched surfing and found that, for fifty dollars per day, I could surf some of the most unimaginable breaks in the world. I would, when I returned, be qualified to consider myself a true surfer, having completed my pilgrimage to a surfing paradise. I knew nothing of the people, or of other sights and things to do on the small island at the elbow of the Indonesian islands. I had considered possibly moving on through some of the other islands. But that passed quite easily when I pictured myself sitting on a beach, curling my toes in the sand, while drinking a cold beverage and watching the Sun set over the Indian Ocean. And so, from selfishness, I found myself landing in Bali after nearly 30 hours of time travel across the vast Pacific Ocean, by way of the northern route that pierced the Arctic Circle, with no idea where or what to do from there.

From selfishness, my journey evolved into compassion. What at first seemed like pleasant
welcomings from various Balinese men and women as I walked through the streets quickly reveled itself to be the reality of their existence. The Balinese people were selling any and everything they had to offer: from massages to t-shirts, sarongs and sandals to motorbikes and transport to places like Uluwalu and Padang Padang. I began to realize that these people were so desperate for a sale that they would sit for hours in the sun calling out to each and every passing tourist. Instantly my selfishness gave way to compassion for these people, and I tried to think of creative ways to help them. I did not have the money to offer them, and I did not have room nor did I need the things that they had to sell. I had time. But it seemed that they most wanted money. They had been conditioned by years and years of tourism to desire not the friendship or companionship of kindhearted visitors, but rather the cash that would bring them closer and closer to their dreams or, in most cases, would allow them one more day of living a pauper’s life on an island full of other people’s dreams.

Compassion led my journey toward discovery and learning, as I found myself engaged in conversations with strangers I now call friends. I stopped worrying about trying to see and do everything Bali had to offer, found a quiet place to live in a busy part of town, and made myself a neighbor to the people that lived and worked nearby. I learned that many people in Kuta, the tourist capital of Bali, are not from the city, nor are many of them even from the island itself. Many of the now Balinese workers are from the islands of Java and Sumatra, and have migrated here to face this desperation only because it offered the possibility of being only slightly less punishing than the desperation they left behind on their island. I learned that the average worker will spend between eight to twelve hours at work six days a week, making less than the equivalent of fiveUS dollars for their efforts. That is, if they are fortunate enough to have a salaried position. I made friends with the servers in a restaurant around the corner from my hotel, making it a habit to eat two out of my three daily meals there, and learned all sorts of information ranging from how many children in Bali are named “One,” “Two,” Three,” “Four,” or “Five” depending on which order they came into the world, to the fact that one month in an fairly well-equipped apartment would cost me three hundred thousand Indonesian Rupiah, roughly the equivalence of thirty five US dollars.

As I learned more about the people and the culture, my journey led me toward the theme of Perfection which, in itself, encompasses each of the previous three themes and stands alone as its own. Everything I have been a part of here, from walking through crowded streets to standing in line at the bank to exchange traveler’s checks, has been born of the Profound. I have, in moving from my selfish state toward compassion and then toward discovery and learning, spent every moment on this tiny island in pursuit of Perfection, while being constantly reminded of the Profound which keeps me actively involved in living a simple life here. And in seeking this Perfection I have, for the first time, come to understand the basic premise of the Hindu religion to which so many of the Balinese make daily offerings. As I sit here on the porch of my hotel room, looking at a tropical plant that has both birds of paradise and orchids growing naturally from the side of its trunk, listening to Jack Johnson as the wind races through the courtyard and convinces the trees to dance with it through this hot and humid July afternoon, I realize that Perfection is in everything in this moment, including myself. Perfection, as the Hindu’s would explain, is the natural world and everything it now includes. God, called by different names depending on the time and place, exists in everything at every moment. Our life then should be the constant praise of this Perfection, the constant unraveling of the Profound from every moment, and the constant improvement of self in the process.

There are things here to remind me of home, thus waking me from a rather dreamlike trance I tend to fall into at times. I can, for instance, order a coca-cola at the restaurants, pick up a pack of Oreos at the local convenience store, and step inside of a metered taxi cab. But it is the subtle differences that remind me that my time here, in every moment, is in pursuit of the Profound. I know so little of the local language that I rarely try to speak it, and yet listening to conversation between the workers at my hotel seems as natural as if I had been listening to them speak English. Kuta beach has sand that is just as white and tan and full of broken shells as any beach I have visited back home, and yet there is something in the way it feels between my toes and sticks to my ankles as I walk through it that reminds me that my walk in life is through the design of Perfection. I have become more aware here in Bali of my surroundings- the people, places, and things that make up my every day- and this awareness has brought me peace in knowing that I have purpose on this Earth, and now.

As I have meandered through selfishness and compassion, discovery and learning, I have drifted closer to the understanding of what a small, and yet unimaginably integral, role I play in the unfolding of life. Life, it seems, has become my story. And as a writer carefully chooses the order and placement of words, and a printer carefully marks a white page with black ink in the precise order that the writer designed, I am left to live my life as one character of many intertwined throughout this story. Faces of people I pass on the street have purpose and meaning, and are just as much a part of the Profound and the pursuit of Perfection as I am. Decisions I make, and the pace at which I wander, all give indication of the extent to which I am dancing in the moment. I have realized in Bali, in flashes of clarity, that life is now and I must be aware of this in everything that I do.

I wish sometimes that I could resort back to any one of the three themes I have experienced on this journey, and be perfectly at peace knowing that I had one purpose and would, like a good story, have a resolution at the end of my time here. I wish, for instance, that I could sit on a chair at the beach, drink in hand, and allow my time here to serve me in between surf sessions that begin at dawn and end at sunset. Or I wish that I could walk through the streets dolling out an unending supply of Rupiah to all of the decent and hardworking people that I meet. Or could I possibly find a library full of books on the people and places and culture of Bali, and never once have to walk its busy streets. But, as the Profound exists in every moment, I am becoming more aware through the interweaving themes that Perfection is close to me, but will always be just beyond that which I am capable of obtaining. Like the wind, invisible and yet clearly full of existence as it brushes against my skin, this Perfection surrounds me. And so now I feel I am resolved to create that which so many of the Balinese create each day: a vessel made of palm fronds woven together, full of small tokens of sacrifice to the Profound, and placed diligently at the foot of some small temple or shrine to represent that which has no true face or form. I will call this vessel my heart and my mind, and I will fill them with love and humility, to place it daily at the foot of the temple I will call Time. I will dedicate myself to revealing more truth and love and beauty and Perfection in every moment- even the selfish ones, and the ones in which I am tired, lonely, or scared- and I feel that I will be rewarded in each moment for living in each moment completely and utterly open to the revelation of Perfection.

And if you cannot understand these words, I hope one day you will…

3 Reflections...

June 30, 2010

In coming to Bali, as with all of my previous journeys across the world, I planned on diving into the culture. What fascinated me the most about the Balinese culture was that Bali is a small island in the middle of a chain of over a thousand Muslim islands that make up Indonesia, and yet Bali has retained its Hindu origins. I figured, if there is something so mystical about the island that it could retain its original religion despite the outside pressures of Islam and the western religions that surround it, then I would be attracted to that same mysticism. And, as of yet, I have found that I am utterly surprised by the fact that I have had little to no attraction to the Hindu influence that overwhelms this tiny island.

But I have found several things that I have found to be exceptional about the Balinese people in regards to their religion and their beliefs in the beyond…

First, their dedication to their god(s) is remarkable to say the least. From my conversations with locals, they are monotheistic (believing in one god) but that that god takes the form of everything and can be represented by various images. To an outsider, it seems that each representation is a different god, and thus the Hindus are polytheistic (believing in multiple gods). However, as a new friend shard with me, god is invisible and is everything and can be seen in various forms at various times. Thus Hinduism is closely related to the religion by which I was raised, Christianity, and the concept of a Holy Trinity. Understandably, faithful servants of god should make sacrifices on a regular basis to show their commitment, love, and trust in that god. What is most remarkable about these people is their commitment to making their sacrifice visible on a regular basis. There are temples and shrines set up literally scattered about across the cities and towns, to represent different characters of this one, omnipresent god. And you always know that you are near one by the smell of incense. Locals weave palm fronds together to make a square vessel in which they place food, flowers, and incense as an offering to god. Every day, and three times each day, these people stop what they are doing and make their sacrifice to the shrines, wherever they are. Some are located inside restaurants and hotels. Others are more conspicuously hidden behind buildings or inside homes. But to any regard, I find great admiration in the fact that they are so committed to their faith that they make public display of such like clockwork each and every day of their lives. Like other religions, the commitment varies across different people. But one thing is clear: there is a clear commitment to the idea of sacrifice and remembrance, and I find that thought completely honorable, admirable, and teachable to those of us who find spiritual journeys so wonderful and absolutely rewarding in its quest…

Second, the Balinese attention to detail is spectacular and would put any American’s work ethic to shame, including my own. Working, in some cases, for less than peanuts, the Balinese people put great care into the work that they commit themselves to. For instance, the reason I have sought the opportunity to work while I am here instead of spending my time lazily, is because I have observed a man work in the garden of my hotel day after day completing meticulous tasks. He has cut the grass, a twelve foot by twelve foot section times about fifteen different sections, by hand using garden sheers slightly bigger than my classroom set of scissors. He crouches low to the ground, at eye level with the grass, and cuts each blade as though he were cutting a person’s hair. He has also swept the walkway each morning and afternoon to remove each single leave that has fallen from the hundred or so trees and plants in the garden. He uses a brush made of straw and a dustpan and covers each step of the walkway through the garden with care. Women in the hotel cut palm fronds and weave them by the dozen into carefully crafted vessels into which they place their daily offerings. Store keepers sweep the street in front of their store, including feces, dead animals, and trash thrown by careless passerby’s regardless of whether they created the trash or not. The wash the street in front of their store each day by hand, ensuring that their pride in their space is well maintained when people pass by. Workers laying stone in the street or walkways make sure that each stone is laid level and in line with the previous one in order to create a perfect product. Woodworkers use hand tools instead of machines to make cuts in wood and to shave each piece into perfection through diligence. I have been completely astounded by the quality of work that I have seen in this, a poor people, and how a third-world mentality might completely change the way first world work is done. I know that I, for one, have been forced to examine the effort and attention to detail by which I go about performing my job. The result: as well as I think I have taught, I have so much more improvement if I am to keep up with the standards of the Balinese.

Lastly, the Balinese use of the word “maybe” keeps me so fascinated and intrigued. When you speak to a local in English, they use the word to describe what may or may not be done. It is a way of recommending, but not demanding that a certain thing be done a certain way. For instance, a man yesterday told me that “maybe I should become a teacher of English in Bali” and that “maybe I could find a young lady to marry.” I shared with him my commitment to my perpetual state of being single, and to the love I have for my students at home, and he said, “and maybe that is fine as well.” Other times the Balinese will tell you that “maybe you should try this restaurant, or that.” They are very accommodating in their use of the word “maybe” and require no commitment from you, nor are they offended if you say “no.” Coming from a “yes or no” society, these people seem to find contentment in the possibility that yes or no might take a while to determine. Their apparent lack of fear of the unknown is admirable and keeps me on my toes as I consider the path that I am taking in life. While it may not be admirable in the professional world to “maybe” commit to doing something, the spirit of the island makes me wonder if maybe I should not be more content in taking life as it comes instead of committing my life wholeheartedly toward “yes” or “no.”

These, my friends, are just a few comments I have on the Balinese. As I have previously mentioned, my commitment to learning to be more like the Balinese has made me different here, and I expect to learn so much more in the course of the next six weeks. I do not know how I will relate what I have learned, or how I will adjust, when I return. But, as I found in conversation last night with a stranger now friend, my worry for the future is unnecessary. The only thing we have is today, this moment, and I am learning in Bali to live in each moment. I have become more aware of the subtle beauties in life, of my deficiencies, and of my pursuit of love and passion and beauty because I am living more in the now than in my worries for the future. I encourage you, wherever you are in life, to consider the present as the most important moment of your life. Live it well, and it will become your past. But do not dwell on the past. If we focus on the present, we will continually be assured of a rather storied and spectacular past that demonstrates to others, not ourselves, how well we have lived.

I have a great desire to live well. And my life, it seems, has only just started in these last nine days in Bali…

Important decisions...

i have made several kind of important decisions today. first, i am glad that USA soccer is done. i had to go to bed early yesterday and wake up at 2 am this morning to watch the game... and it didnt end until 5 am, at which point i went to bed for an hour then woke up and went surfing. big soccer decision = i no longer have to be on a crazy schedule. who the heck cares about world cup anymore?!

second, i have made rent arrangements at the hotel i am staying at in kuta. while concerned that kuta is loud, and not quite the bali that i had pictured, the hotel is secluded and i told myself that as long as i make myself write and/or edit for at least 2 hours a day, it will justify staying in the city. i have forfeited my air conditioning for a fan and a smaller room, but i can afford a moped every day to take me to different breaks around bali and i can still be involved in the neighborhood that i have come to call "home" while here. i am in favorably with the hotel attendent, and he has made me feel very welcomed. instead of running around trying to see everything and being a tourist everywhere i go, i have decided to be a part of bali, and to live in bali day to day, and do everything (including work a little here and there for the hotel) that a "normal" balinese person might do. i am still adamently against the aussies. however, i have separated myself from them by making friends with the locals, being respectful of the neighborhood, and not getting piss drunk and making a fool of myself every waking hour of the day. in the end, i will regret something. that is just the way that i am. but i decided today that rather than regret not taking the time to understand the balinese people, i will sacrifice running around and trying to see everything. i will not see the entire island, or any of the surrounding islands for that matter. but i will be happy knowing that i have lived in bali- not just visited.

i am also wooing a very tiny, cute server at the restaurant that i have made my local place. she has big ears (just like me) and a nice smile. i plan on running around the island with her over the next few weeks. i dont plan on marrying her. i dont think she expects that anyway. she is just fun, and i like that.

i have also decided that my life here should be a life of ratios. for instance, i am permitted one massage for every 2 hours i work in the garden and 2 hours i spend writing/editing. i am permitted 3 hours of surfing for every night i do not drink a beer (only 1.5 hours if i drink a beer the night before). i must run 5 miles for every one day i wake up with a hangover. and always, always, i must drink 5 liters of water (the humidity is draining just by being alive...let alone being active)...

i have also realized that my surf camera is a metaphor for my stay in bali. it broke because i was so actively trying to document my stay for every one at home (that is you!) that i did not fully enjoy the time i was spending here. proof, my best surf sessions were my first and my last, when i left my camera in the hotel. i will attempt to document the beautiful waves when my sister arrives in late july and can photograph me on the waves. but for now, please know that i have never surfed waves such as these. they are beautiful, and they roll through consistently. and they pop up at the last minute and have a beautiful face on them... and, well, you will have to make your own trip to bali if your imagination is not good enough to understand...

i was worried about how i could make my trip here different from all of the other tourists (mostly aussie and japanese). i realized that i could do this by being a part of bali, instead of just jumping in and out of everything without paying much attention to the details. i want to understand the people. and to do so, i am going to become one of the people as much as i can. if that doesnt make sense to you now, hopefully when i return it will. my only goal for this trip now is that when it ends, i will be a better person than when it began. i believe it already is. i started the trip selfishly- hoping to surf my brains out and spend my entire day focused on me. now, i still surf my brains out... but for the other 20 hours a day, i am looking for ways to be a part of this island. so that as i grow, part of me remains here...

thanks for your time... if youve read this far you probably think im crazy. let me save you the wonder. i am. but... this is how i roll... this island is amazing. a lifetime would not be enough to explore it all, let alone explain it. but i am in deep here, and feel comfortable with my decision to be a part of it, instead of taking advantage of it. only time will tell if it was the right decision... but i am not looking back...

When dreams come true...

Will you believe them? Or will you sit still on wonder why good things never happen to you? Will you believe in fate or chance? Or will you find a way to make a path for yourself in this world... I have found today that, selfishly, my life is what I make it. I haver seen, in the course of 8 hours, the way a mind can go from rigid and structured to free and content. My day started horrible today, without money or an idea of where or what to do. And, in failing to find a way to obtain cash, my day was made worse. But, in realizing that I can make my life what I chose it to be, and my perception determines my success, I decided to press re-start and find myself in the ocean...

Where do you go when you are most lost? Today I woke up alone, and sad. I realized that for the next 7 weeks I have isolated myself from any and all things familiar. I thought about changing my flight, and spending only a few weeks here. I thought about flying a friend to meet me. I thought about locking myself in my hotel room and waiting for my time to end... then i took a breath and closed my eyes. Lesson #1: do not panic. All things will come to be in good time. Even if you do not know who or what or where or why. With patience, perserverence, and faith, you will find peace. Today I left my cares behind and headed to the ocean. She has been faithful to me, accepting me here as well as in Jacksonville. And she reminded me that, while the scenery is different here, her love for me is not. Where do you go to find peace? What do you do when you start to feel uncomfortable and panic? I have no friends here. But I make no enemies. I fall asleep alone, and wake up just the same. But, in waking up alone, I am free to choose my destiny. It will be one without fear and inhibition. My destiny might be, for the time being, half the world away. But it is, now, freedom... Are you free inside your heart and mind? Do your worries ever escape you? Do you realize that the box you throw yourself inside is only the beginning of restraint, and that your dreams can set you free? What do you do when you feel desperate? Do you go inside yourself and hide behiund your fears? Or, knowing that panic will pass, do you have a special place in heart and mind to set you free? I have found a new peace today- in lonliness- and I wander through it alone. But you, my friends, are with me and so I shall not walk alone...