The First Farewells (Aug 7)

Today I have experienced the bi-polar duality of life’s emotions, and I have mixed feelings on the results. It started early – well, earlier than it has started since my alarm broke several weeks ago – when my friend knocked on my door around eight. We made plans the night before to go surf together one last time. What he did not know at the time was that this would be my last time on my surfboard as well, as I had plans of giving it to him when he dropped me off back at the hotel later in the day. Already I was excited about the idea of surfing, but anxious about having to catch that one last wave. I had watched with the same mixed emotions as my sister caught her last wave just a week before. The joy in riding the wave and the smile in her face was almost equally the opposite of that when she walked out of the water knowing that was it. I had not helped her at all on her last wave. I told her that she was on her own: from picking the wave to paddling for it, standing up, and riding it. I could not interfere. Surfing is spiritual to me.

My friend and I finally made it to Changgu, a mellow break that we had been talking about going to for weeks, but had never made it. He was not confident in his ability to surf over the rough black rocks that shaped the waves at Changgu. But, to his credit, he knew this was my last chance to surf. We were headed to his village the next morning to spend my last three days there with his family participating in the half-moon ceremony of their village. So we made the forty minute drive north along the coast and found the beach, sandy in itself, but containing large chunks of black rock sticking out at various points.

I could sense his nervousness, even before we began to paddle out, and with a crowd of about twenty five or thirty surfers at each peak, it was not going to be easy catching waves. Still with boldness he paddled, me keeping one eye on approaching waves and the other on him a few feet behind me. At one point he told me that he did not like the idea of going any deeper. We had only surfed the beach breaks of Kuta Beach and Legian, in less than six feet of water and no more than one hundred feet offshore. Now he was in around fifteen or twenty feet of water above the sharp black rocky bottom and nearly a quarter mile offshore. But I convinced him he could do it and, again, to his credit he continued out with me.

When the outside waves continued toppling to the inside, my friend decided he would stay there and play in the breakwater. I asked if it was OK for me to paddle out deeper, and he told me to go. “I will keep an eye on you,” I told him, feeling responsible for any harm that he might face. “Signal to me if you want to go in and we will leave.” As much as I wanted this day to be about me and my last session in Bali, I knew that it was about much more than that. Over the course of the last seven weeks, this man had become my best friend in Bali- a man I refer to as my Balinese brother. We have surfed many times together as I have helped him learn along the way, and this day was not just my last day to catch my waves. It was my last day to surf with my Balinese brother.

But I paddled outside and before the side-shore wind started blowing I had caught a dozen or so waves and had a great time. But I could not see my brother, so I caught a wave all the way to the inside and found him there waiting with a smile on his face. “Nice ride,” he said with a thumbs up. I asked him what he wanted to do, and he said he wanted to stay for another hour or so. Despite the mushy waves on the inside, he had managed to catch a good wave and I could tell that he was excited. To be honest, I was not the greatest surfer in Bali, but these waves were mellow enough and there were enough people learning to surf at Changgu this morning that I was one of the better surfers on the water. I remembered back to when I caught my first wave that did not close out, in Jacksonville nearly a year earlier, and what it felt like to ride the shoulder of the wave as it peeled toward the shore. I was proud and happy for my brother and this time stayed with him to catch waves on the inside.

After a half an hour or so we decided that the time had come to head back to Kuta. He had to work in a few hours, and I had a series of “lasts” to confront when we returned. There was a last massage, a last poolside sunbathing and reading, a last sunset on the beach, a last dinner with the hotel staff, and all of the “Farewells” that would accompany each “last.” So my brother paddled in, riding a wave to shore, and I sat and waited for my last wave in Bali. I caught what I thought would be the last wave, but it mushed out on me and left me feeling unsatisfied. So I paddled out further, knowing that my brother was on the beach watching, and hoping that a set would move through and that I would not lose my balance and fall, as I had a tendency to do when I got overly excited. Within a few minutes a set moved through, though choppy from the side-shore wind, and I hopped on. A left, as to be expected in Bali, that cleaned up as it moved toward the shore. There was nothing spectacular about it, except that it was my wave. Not only was it my last, but also nobody else had gone for it, leaving me to enjoy the ride without competition. So I dropped down the face and cut back up, then repeated, slowly with my 7’8” “fun gun.” It was not made for ripping. Rather, it was made for waves like these.

When I reached the shore I looked back and smiled. The waves of Bali had been good to me, and even better for me. For all of the stress that surfing relieved back home, my sessions on the water here were all the more cleansing, even if they were less than spectacular for most people who travel half the world to surf. I realized in my time here that surfing was simply the thread that held my entire journey together. It was never the garment itself. There was so much more to my time in Bali than surfing. But whenever I needed an escape, or felt like I needed to clear my head, the water was always waiting for me.

We ate lunch at a roadside vendor and made it back to the hotel after sitting in traffic for about an hour in the midday sun. When we pulled up to the hotel parking lot my brother unstrapped the bungee that held our boards in the surf rack on the side of his motorbike and began to pull my board out. “Here, I need to show you something about your board,” I said as I took a fin key from my board shorts and moved toward the fins. He looked at me strangely as I handed him the key and told him that I was giving him my board. “It is yours to do what you need with. Keep it an learn on it, or if times get tough, sell it and take care of your family.” My brother had been learning on a much shorter, much thinner board and was bouncing all over the place as he attempted to ride waves. My board gave him more stability and he had grown tremendously in our time together when he rode it. I contacted Jim, my shaper, and asked him his thoughts on me giving the board to my friend. “It will earn you big time karma,” he said in email. “I think it is a great idea. You will need a new board anyway to reflect on what you have learned this summer.” He was right about everything but the karma. I could care less. I just wanted my brother to have something that would make his life better, even if only on the water. I knew that he was close to having surfing be for him what it was for me: a way to connect to something way beyond myself, to cleanse me of any thoughts or attitudes that needed to be removed, and to find myself in a small place where I belong despite the madness of such a large world. Perhaps this would get him there.

I headed to the pool to read for a few hours before heading out to the beach for one last beach sunset. Though I still had three days in Bali, I would be in the jungle for each of them. I had to say goodbye to the beach, to the ocean, and more importantly to my friends at Jimmy’s. So I made my way down, stopping for a massage at a place I had found when my sister was visiting, saying farewell to those friends and preparing myself for what I knew would be a difficult departure.

The sunset was again no more spectacular than any other since I had been in Bali. The sun was full and bright about ten minutes before setting, but ducked behind thick clouds in the last moments. But this time it was a metaphor for my journey to Bali. My time was quickly approaching, but there was still something to be done before I had to go. I drank a beer and cheered to my friends working at Jimmy’s. I had countless beers in countless days there, and it was only fitting to share one last one with people who had been so kind to me despite the fact I never spent a tremendous amount of money on them. It was the loyalty I had for them, and they for me, that helped us become friends. I was there every evening I was in Kuta, nearly my entire stay in Bali, and they were always just as kind and welcoming to me as they were on my first day.

After the sun set, I paid my tab for the last time and shook hands with friends I hoped to see again one day. Unlike other friends in Bali, I had no contact information for them. I only knew to go to the beer stand in front of the big sea turtle as soon as I got back in to Bali, whenever that might be. And I hoped that my reunion would happen sooner than later. But in saying farewell to these friends, we had to just leave it as “I will see you when I see you.”

Knowing that it is better to walk away without looking back, I shuffled my feet slowly as I kicked the sand from my sandals as I had done every day before in leaving. And as tempted as I was to turn and go back, there was still one more thing I had to do this night. I had paid the hotel restaurant to prepare a meal for the eighteen staff members who worked so hard to keep the hotel looking amazing. Every staff member knew my name, though I had no idea what most of theirs were, and they always greeted me with a smile and a hello. When I had been gone for a week at a time, such as when I was in the jungle or with my sister, they noticed when I returned and greeted me even more warmly. I felt as though this was my home in Bali. And, although they were also getting paid for their hospitality, I knew that they treated me this way because that is who they were. Each of them worked so hard to make the hotel so incredibly charming, I felt that the least that I could do would be to treat them to a nice Balinese dinner and let them feel as special as they had made me feel.

So I arrived at the restaurant at seven and helped set up the tables and bring out the food. I was told time and again to sit down and to serve myself. But that is not who I am. Reluctantly, but with smiles the entire time, the staff let me help setup but did require me to fill my plate first.

Over the next hour or so all of the staff and any family members they had brought shared a traditional Balinese meal that was like none that I had eaten yet. There was so much food that we all ate until we could eat no more, made doggy bags for those staff who had to eat in shifts because they were on the clock, and still had enough to share with a kind Italian couple who wanted to pay for their portions but were kindly denied by me and the staff. There was very little conversation I could have with the staff over the dinner, as my Indonesian was nonexistent and their English was limited to “hello” and “thank you very much.” However, as I have learned in all of my travels, two things that surpass any form of verbal communication are smiles and laughter. And so we communicated without words throughout the meal by sharing smiles and laughter and enjoying my last night with them.

I had the task of packing for home when dinner was over, so I put it off as long as I could. But when conversation with the Italian couple ended and I was tired of reading my book, I had to do the inevitable. Morning checkout would come early, and I wanted to be prepared to leave for Singaraja without dragging my brother behind on time. So I packed my bags, slowly, feeling more and more anxious with every item I packed. Without a board to go in my surfboard bag, I instead stuffed gifts and linens I had bought for friends and family. Everything about packing made me feel sad, and while I knew this was a natural feeling for the moment, it was not right.

So I finished quickly and made my way to my neighborhood restaurant. My brother was working, as were a handful of other people that had become my friends over the last seven weeks. I sat down and talked with them as a local played the same cover songs as he had the previous night, and the night before that, and so forth for the previous seven weeks I had been there. But all of the other faces in the restaurant were new. No one else would know what I knew about the repetition. But no one else would know what I knew of Anggi or Ketut or Mira or any of the other staff there that I had come to know well. No one else would know how hard they have worked for what little pay to make sure that everyone enjoyed their holiday escape from their own personal realities. At least not unless someone decided to do as I had, and to learn of these people and their lives, and to make their lives as much a part of the staff’s lives as anyone else. Some of the best people that the world will never know work in that restaurant. And as I walked out of the front door for the last time, I hoped that the world would take the time to get to know them, for the world’s sake. I had become a better person because of the people there, particularly my brother, and I only imagined what the world could be if more people knew of my friends there.

Now I sit in my hotel, looking down over the garden I had almost come to take for granted in my weeks here, and I am not so sad anymore. I realize the finality of this trip means that I can share with others what I have learned, can make the changes in my life that I know I must make, and can use these changes to help me live up to the promises I have made to my friends to come back one day to see them again. I hope that day is sooner than later and, though I am still on their island at the moment, I am happy to think that I am many things in life, but a liar is not one that I am known to be. And so as the new day officially begins and the sound of the bars in the neighborhood drifts above the talking among the night staff down below me, I take this time to fall asleep and renew myself, knowing that when I wake I again have the chance to live, and now…

Kuta, a Different Kind of Jungle (Aug 4)

Kuta is what happens when First World bangs Third World and an illegitimate child is born out of wedlock. It is where First World forces itself upon Third World, satisfying its own lusts and leaving Third World to either attempt to hold onto First World, or to face falling further behind in its absence.

You could find everything you needed or wanted in Kuta. From “Western” cuisine and “western” toilets to Coca Cola, Kit-Kats, Mentos, Cheetos, Pringles, and a wide variety of other products and services, all in English and all so much cheaper that you could find back home, wherever that may be.

Kuta is where the Balinese people moved from their tiny hillside villages just to find work, when prices on everything rose too high for family trades and farming to be sustainable. It is also where the Javanese migrated for work, where the cost of living was higher, but so were the wages.

Kuta is where the night clubs and discotheques catered to white tourists from Australia, Europe, and America and thrived night after night, seven days a week. There were no weeknights in Kuta, or weekends for that matter. Every day was just the same as the last. And there was always a reason to go out.

In Kuta the natural beauty of the ocean and its dark, sandy beaches met the discarded waste of First World living. The ocean was more filled filth floating between the toes of tourists than it was filled of marine life. The sand was just the burial ground for trash that was picked through and sorted by nomadic dogs and starving locals.

In Kuta, marijuana was illegal and “magic mushrooms” were the norm among tourists. It was the only place in the world that I have traveled where beer was cheaper at the beachside vendors hawking drinks from their red plastic coolers than it was at the convenience store.

Kuta was also where names were less important that personalities, and people could be whoever they wanted to be- rich or poor, famous or aloof, pimp or prostitute. It was a place of heroes, princes, and queens. Where events of the past could be retold time and time again and would turn into stories of great success, always believable because there was no one there to refute your claims. Friends came a dime a dozen, as long as there was a dime left to put into the machine.

Dreams were realized in Kuta, where years of saving, planning, and looking at pictures became real. And dreams were often shattered by lofty expectations, a bad sunburn, or an argument with a lover. Dreams were fantastic in Kuta, the result of an excess of new experiences, faces, and language combined with the escaping of one’s worries and anxieties of home that came along beneath one’s mind, despite the effort to leave it behind.

In Kuta one could get by on their feet, a motorbike, car, or even horse-drawn carriage. The smell of gasoline and engine exhaust was as strong as the smell of the ocean in the sea breeze. It was where sidewalks were as useful to motorbikes as to walking pedestrians, where roads were congested with shuttle buses, taxis, and tour buses, and meters were all but useless as one could easily sit in traffic thirty minutes to go only eight blocks.

It was a city without skyscrapers to block the sunshine, where people walked around in board shorts and bathing suits instead of business suits and dresses. It was as laid back as you could want it to be, but never more intense than the occasional rain that cleansed the city streets and kept travelers inside their hotels for no longer than thirty minutes at a time. “Ambition” was just another four-letter word forgotten in never being spoken, and “time” was just another forgotten idea lost between the sunsets.

But for nearly two months Kuta was my home and I was mysteriously drawn to its oddities and amazements, and had great sadness in the thought of leaving. It was, as an Australian described it on our return from the jungle, “a different kind of jungle.” And in all of my time here, I have never once regretted not leaving it for a more subtle, quiet place. I was enticed by her awkwardness, and enchanted by all that she offered. The thought of leaving put me into a withdrawal similar to one attempting to escape the addiction of alcohol, nicotine, or heroine.
There was no substitute for Kuta, and no weaning off of her. One could not just have a little without returning shortly thereafter to experience everything.

I loved Kuta for its craziness, knowing that whatever chaos could possible occur within its streets was nothing compared to that back home. It put things in perspective for me: what it means to want and to have, to love and to desire, to breathe involuntarily and to live. Each opposite was only amplified in its contrast here. Good was great. Bad was unheard of. And somewhere in the middle one could live the rest of their life here.

That was me, fifty two days later, somewhere between fantastic expectations of everything great and beautiful in life and contentment in the thought of never leaving. Sickness had its time, as did loneliness. But both healed quickly in the warm sand and in the cool sea.

I saw myself here indefinitely – work or no work, money or no money – living twice the age I would be had I returned to the toxins of home. And those thoughts of never going home made the days more enjoyable, but also made them pass more quickly. Until there was only two weeks… one week… five days…

And so with great sadness I have resigned to return to my home, wondering if the enchantment of Kuta has permanently engraved itself into my existence and if I will be constantly reminded in my struggles back home of a beautiful island half the world away. Or will the unconscious dreams of my reality replace those vivid Bali dreams, and leave me wondering if this whole experience was just a dream in the first place… born from a desire to escape a life felt lived in cages and concrete, and desperate for all of the freedoms that Kuta had to offer.

Is this my drug, Kuta? And will you stay within my system long enough for my return to this dream of dark sandy beaches, colorful sunsets, powerful crashing waves, and busy streets – your reality?

Death at Uluwatu (or, The Rock at the End of the Island)

The beat still blared from Sky Garden, and the streets were still filled that night with drunken men and women looking for their escape. But for me it was silent, as the morning began with the loss of a comrade, though unknown to me before, and I could not help but ponder in silence the finality of his death. We had rented a driver and raced out to the eastern side of the island at six in the morning to try and catch a sunrise session near Nusa Dua before the wind picked up and closed out the waves. But even in our dawn arrival, the waves were too blown out to even attempt to paddle out. So I stood at the waters edge and measured the size of the waves against myself, sure that, had I the chance, I could handle them. They were breaking to the right after all. I turned as the sun crept above the clouds on the morning horizon and saw my sister squatting nearby in the sand, smoking a cigarette as though she were on the cover of an old black and white film. The morning started well, and quiet, as we each had our own space to stretch our minds and bodies on the beach, contemplating our next move.

To Uluwatu. On a smaller swell like this there was sure to be a crowd. But the waves would be a few feet bigger and, in sets, perhaps overhead and clean. Driving down the road, paved at times, but severely damaged by the rains of summers past, I was anxious to meet the infamous Uluwatu. Since the discovery of the break by surfers in the seventies, Uluwatu has been claiming lives on a regular basis. And surfers continue to make the pilgrimage there, as if called by some mysterious force, to brave the chance that they are the next offering to the ocean. I was among them this day, considering my fate as compared to the rest, and calculating my odds for survival. It was a small swell, and already there were thirty bodies bobbing up and down on their surfboards in the swell. Surely if one must be taken, I might be spared.

Then word got out as I was stretching, before making the journey through the terraced steps of the rugged cliffs, that one man’s life had already been claimed that morning. It was only seven thirty and the news hit me with mixed emotion. I felt relief as though I had been spared, perhaps until a later moment, and yet there was a mystery in this speculation. No body had been seen by anyone cliff side yet, though the locals were crowded around all ledges looking for the corpse that was undoubtedly mangled in the rocks from the surf. A morbid air hung over the cliff, stale and peculiar, and I doubted whether today was the day to surf Uluwatu.

But my friend was there next to me anxious to hit the water, and my sister had come all this way to watch me surf. I could not back out, regardless of the dire consequences. So we stepped down the steep steps toward the cave at the bottom of the cliff. We were the only ones headed down for now. It seems the morose news had either turned others away, or at least suspended them in their quickness to paddle out. We made it to the bottom of the cliff, still alone, and entered the cave one at a time. As I stared at the entrance to the cave, about twenty feet across and full of a rising tide that kept waves smacking angrily into its sides, several men in red and yellow lifeguard suits turned the corner dragging something cumbersome and stepping carefully as they walked. Another man carried two surfboards, and another man helped carry what appeared to be the body of the fallen.

I assumed that the man carrying the two surfboards was a friend of the dead, and I could see vomit still trailing from his beard from where the seriousness of the event must have rattled him at his core. The other bearded man carrying the corpse kept his composure until they reached the coral sand beach, only ten feet from where we stood, and then he ran his hands through his hair and murmured inaudible words over and over again that I interpreted to be words of disbelief or pleading for this just to be a bad dream.

Frightened at the prospect of paddling out, and paying homage to a fallen brother, we each stood still as the scene unfolded. Behind us were the voices of spectators now climbing down the cliff eager to see the sight of the dead body, no doubt so they could be the first to spread the news. In front of us the cave entrance cast an ominous visage. But there was only one thing to do - that which I had come here to accomplish. So I took a deep breath, bent down to strap my leash to my right ankle, and stood up to exhale. I followed my friend to the water’s edge and as a wave crashed down over a shallow rocky ledge, I leapt into the air and landed on my board with enough momentum to get me going toward the mouth of the cave.

It was a quick paddle to the cave’s entrance, but more difficult once I made open water. The ocean seemed greedy, in already having taken one life, but still seeming to want more. I followed my friend through the entrance of the cave and paddled to the right, away from the crests of waves that were breaking at several peaks to the left. I never stopped paddling until I had joined the crowd of surfers sitting in the line up deep into the outer break, and even then I could not stop thinking about the body I had seen.

Speculation said that the man was either pushed or that he tripped over the edge of the cliff and feel to his death. Others say that he jumped willfully to his death. Still further reports claim that he was taken by the ocean as he was trapped on the inside and worn out against the reef and the rocky shoreline. Regardless of how it happened, the finality of the event stuck with me with each stroke I took and each moment in which I sat up on my board and scanned the horizon. Some surfers seemed either unaware of the incident, or unaffected, but to me and my friend, the reality was as clear as the water beneath us.

As I sat patiently waiting for my first wave, I admired the beauty of the cliffs and the small restaurants and shops dug into its side. We were at Uluwatu, the rock on the end of the island, and if one had such imagination they could picture the continent of Antarctica with no obstructions between here and there. The waves were scattered that morning, making it extremely difficult to predict where the next wave would peak, or where it would turn to mush and lure you inside. I still had cringes of fear inside of me as I thought about being tricked inside in the jungle, and the consequences I faced when the sets rolled through. Still I knew that the only way to overcome the sinister atmosphere of the morning was to find my wave and to catch it.

So I did, a moment later, and with the adrenaline of dropping into it went my fears and worries for my life. The ocean was kind to me then, and I was kind in taking it easy on this wave, riding it as long as she would let me, but knowing that at some point the reef was waiting hungrily for me. Before the wave closed out I bailed out through the back of the wave and landed on my chest on the board with enough momentum already to carry me toward the line up again. I had done it. I had defeated my ominous premonitions and faced my fear.

To most out there that morning, and most surfers on Bali that day or any other, Uluwatu is not the most intimidating break. However, only two surfers began their session with the sight of a dead body that day. And for me and my friend, survival was always a priority. But I had survived, and as rain began to fall and calm the restless sea, I found greater peace in sitting undisturbed out on the reef. I could not fathom the pain that the death created for so many people I would never know. But for me it created a sense of survival within myself. I was reminded of my own frailty, my own defeat of self in the surf at the jungle, and I smiled to know that I had been given another chance.

As the morning ended, I caught only a handful of waves, and found myself trapped several times on the inside. But instead of panicking, I thought about what I had already experienced, what I had seen earlier in the morning, and what I knew I had left to do with my life. This day was not my day to go. I still had so many great thoughts about so many great things, so many people to meet and lives to change, and so many more opportunities to learn to live in the moment. If anything, the sight of the dead body reminded me of the sanctity of life, the purity we each have within us, and the perfection to which we should all strive to be in every moment. The ocean cleansed me that morning. Though I had failed at many things in life on many occasions, I was perfect on the water in that moment. The only thing that could destroy me would be myself, and I was confident that I was neither willing nor able to do anything more than to sit and enjoy the view of the rock at the end of the island waiting for my next wave…

Explaining the silence...

The last two weeks have been quite busy, with my sister having arrived on the twenty third and leaving only late last night. I have had more time to talk than I usually do, and far exceeded my one hundred spoken word limit that I had grown rather accustomed to on my own. I also had plenty of time to think, as much of the time together was spent seeing Bali on the back of a motorbike. My greatest thoughts have always been in transit. I wonder, as I reflect on this phenomenon, if it is these thoughts that keep me desiring perpetual motion?

I will reflect more on some of the thoughts I had these last two weeks. But now I want to summarize why I have been so quiet lately, as I spent the time with my sister wandering Bali.

Friday: After keeping myself awake until a half an hour past midnight, I made my way to the main road near my hotel and picked up motorbike transportation to the airport. Not feeling too social, and anticipating my sister’s arrival, I plugged myself into my iPod and cruised to the terminal, then waited an hour or so for my sister to clear customs. “Ca-caw,” I cried when I saw her approaching through the glass doors, and I held up my handmade sign that said the same. In all of our travels together, this simple expression has allowed us to find each other.

We arrived at the hotel around two and, having walked through the crowded streets containing the Kuta clubs, we were both too restless to sleep. So we wandered the streets for a few hours, catching up quickly on recent events and exploring the emptiness in the night that is usually so crowded and chaotic during the day. We ended our wandering around four and managed four hours of sleep before the alarm went off to begin her first day in Bali.

Saturday: My friend Komang joined us at our hotel, bringing his wife, Ayu, and son, Krisna, and we rented a motorbike. Afraid of driving, among several other reasons, I gave the keys to Ayu and she took my sister on the back of her motorbike, while I joined Krisna on the back of Komang’s bike. We cruised out of Kuta and eventually made it to Sanur, to the ocean’s edge, where an island-wide kite competition was taking place. The strong offshore wind kept large and magnificently crafted kites suspended in the air indefinitely as the judges critiqued them according to their standards.

After the morning in Sanur, we traveled to the Bali Zoo just outside of Ubud. It began raining, making the motorbike transit interesting. But we did not care about the rain. It was the experience of spending time with friends, doing things that the average visitor to Bali would not think to do. The five of us wandered the Zoo for a few hours, taking a handful of fruit and vegetables to feed various animals along the way. I paid $3 and was given a metal pole with a piece of raw chicken on the end and reached the chicken through a metal cage to feed a grown male lion. My sister fed the lions a different way, by placing a pig heart on a rope that was pulled out over the lion’s den. We also fed deer, goats, camels, monkeys, various birds, and my favorite, an orangutan named “Jacky.” Part of the experience of feeding Jacky was learning that the Indonesian meaning for “Orangutan” is roughly translated to “Jungle Human.” If you’ve never paid close attention to monkeys, I challenge you to see how eerily similar we are in structure and behavior to these furry little friends.

After leaving the zoo, Komang took us to his apartment, a small room just big enough for a mattress, mini-fridge, and television. With great enthusiasm, the four of us sat on the ground and shared a meal of rice and satay, marinated pork on bamboo skewers, while Krisna danced around the room picking up various toys to keep himself entertained. We talked about the day, and the Indonesian way of life. This was a big deal for me, spending time with my friend in his home, and I was grateful for the opportunity to again see Bali from a different perspective than most.

We returned just in time to catch a sunset at Jimmy’s, my afternoon hangout on Kuta Beach which consisted of a couple coolers of Bintang, the local brew, and two dozen lawn chairs.
Sunday: I dropped my sister off to get pampered at my other friend’s salon, where she had her first Balinese massage, manicure, and pedicure while I wandered off to the beach with a couple other friends. When the pampering was done, my sister joined us at the beach and we rented an umbrella and lived like tourists for a few hours, except for the company of four local girls who were friends of my friend. It was a lazy day that ended rather uneventfully.

Monday: Another lazy day at the beach, though full of rain. Since my sister was going to be surfing off and on all day, and because we were both at the beach on Bali, we did not mind the intervals of rain. So we spent the day surfing, drinking beer at Jimmy’s, wandering the beach for lunch and other snacks, and enjoying life. My sister did very well on her first day learning to surf.

Tuesday: We hired a driver to take us through the Bukit, the southernmost end of the island known for its surf breaks up and down the coast. We first headed to the east side of the island to try and catch a few waves before the wind kicked in. But by the time we got there, just as the sun was rising, it was already too late. Taking our time to eat breakfast, we enjoyed our time there and then headed to Uluwatu, perhaps the most famous break in Bali. I have written another piece to describe the incident that occurred there. See a future blog.

From Uluwatu we headed up to Padang Padang, Bali’s other famous world-class break, which was currently hosting a surf contest. The surf was pretty much flat this day, so the contest had been postponed until another swell moved through. My sister got her first encounter with Balinese monkeys, which were taking it easy on the beach, poking their fingers and laughing at the tourist monkeys also lying on the beach.

From Padang Padang we headed to Dreamland to spend the rest of the afternoon surfing, sunbathing, and relaxing. My hopes were that my sister would be able to surf the sandy break. But again, there were no waves here. So we sat in the sun and relaxed until I could not take it anymore and I decided to paddle out anyway. After two hours of sitting in the sun I caught two small waves that were barely large enough to hold me up, and I called it a day. Exhausted from the day, we made it an early night, bought some drinks and movies and stayed in the hotel.

The next couple days were a blur, and seemed to be on repeat of Monday, with the exception that on the afternoon of one of the days my sister had an encounter with my surfboard that resulted in her having a severe bloody nose. We managed to make it out of the water and to the lifeguard station before she became too dizzy to walk. I threw my board to the ground as soon as we left the water, not caring if someone would take it or not, just worried for my sister. The lifeguards were surprised at how much she was bleeding, and instead of treating us there, walked us to a small hospital a few blocks away. Over the course of the next hour or so, a kind Balinese doctor helped slow the bleeding, cleaned up the mess that had become my sister, and provided us reassurance that she would be OK. Covered in blood myself, I surprisingly had not panicked as I would have had it been my blood. I just knew that I had to take care of my sister, and that nothing else mattered.

In walking back to the beach to grab our things from Jimmy’s I found that my surfboard was untouched where I left it, an amazing thing about Bali that would not exist in most other places in the world. When I returned to the hospital to check on my sister and to pay our bill, the doctor kept telling me that the money did not matter. “We first take care of her health, then we talk money.” Another profound revelation about the way of life on this beautiful island with its beautiful people. While the country is poor and most people live in poverty, they have more character in them than most of the people I have met back home. And he was right, with time my sister was feeling well enough to leave, and after running to an ATM for cash, money was never an issue.

We took it easy the rest of that day and into the next, when we had another trip planned with Komang and his family. We were going to his village, about a half an hour away from a town called Singaraja on the northern coast. This would require another motorbike rental, a four hour trek across the mountainous center of the island, and a bumpy ride through countryside back roads. We ran later than we wanted, but eventually made it to Komang’s childhood home, which his parents had abandoned in search for more stable work. Farming a small plot of land in the hillside was not enough to keep them alive in their village.

We woke early the next morning, after sharing another meal and a liter of arak on the floor of the main room, had a breakfast of fried bananas and rice cakes, and headed forty five minutes to Lovina, where we caught a traditional boat ride out to sea to chase after dolphins in the bay. To my surprise, there was probably around fifty boats full of tourists doing the same thing. Since we left Kuta earlier the previous day, I had not seen white people. Where we were, deep into a jungle village, there was no telling when the last white people had visited. But in Lovina, the people vastly outnumbered the dolphins and, after a beautiful sunrise and salty air in our lungs, we headed back to Komang’s village.

We walked the narrow streets a few hundred yards to Ayu’s parents’ house, abandoned in similar fashion when her parents moved to Ubud in search of work. There, looking over the sloping hills full of tropical vegetation and farmlands, one of the neighbors climbed a coconut tree and cut three coconuts down for us to share. As a trade, he cut three branches from the tree to take back to his home to make rope from the leaves. Money had very little use this far deep into Bali.

We drank the coconut milk and scraped its flesh from the inside before getting on the motorbike again to head back toward Kuta. We made several stops at waterfalls along the way, trekking a half an hour through the jungle and rice fields to find them, and one stop at a lake in the middle of the mountainous center of the island. Taking lunch there, a bowl of noodles, lumps of meat, vegetables, and soy sauce, we gained enough energy to survive the cold of the higher elevation and made our way back toward Ubud to visit the Monkey Forest. I had been there before, on my first trip with Komang, but I wanted my sister to have the opportunity to meet the monkeys that had changed my opinion on how much I liked them. I think after a half an hour or so of being chased, climbed, and screamed at by the monkeys, my sister also lost her interest in monkeys. Still, it was a nice place to spend some time in conversation and to take a break from all of the riding.

With one last stop at the famous terraced rice fields of Ubud, we caught another sunset on the back of a motorbike cruising through the rice fields and coconut palm countryside. In darkness we crept through Denpasar and eventually back to Kuta. Exhausted, we made an early night of it, knowing that the next morning would be the last for my sister.

We shopped the next morning, buying the things that could not be captured in memory, and making gifts for our friends. In the short time that my sister had been in Bali, she had been immersed in its culture more than most will in several months of living there. My friends had become her friends, and all of us together had become family. It was difficult for both of us to cope with her leaving, but as “they” say, all good things must come to an end.

Not wanting to leave the island with a bad taste in her mouth about surfing, the last thing we did with the remaining daylight was to get back in the water. My sister wanted to catch her last wave and overcome the fear that had most naturally resulted from the accident a few days earlier. I was proud of her for her desire to get back in the water, and though I cringed as she paddled after every wave, she finally caught the wave that would make her trip worth every minute. The sun was just barely hanging above the ocean, its reflection on the ocean bleeding into the colors of the sky, and she had done it. She had caught her last wave, and a tingle raced through my body as I was so proud of her for doing so, and I was starting to think about the fact that my last wave would only be nine days later.

I dropped my sister off at the airport around midnight, after a few last drinks with friends at the restaurant I frequented, and watched through the glass as she passed security and received her boarding pass. She came back to me to give me the thumbs up that everything was all right, and we communicated stupidly through the glass, making sure that the last picture each of us had of each other was a smile. Then the moment passed, we both turned and walked away, and I did not look back. I have learned in traveling to never look back in parting. All it does is to prolong the inevitable separation and make it that much more difficult. So I found transportation back to Kuta, again on the back of a motorbike, and a day that had begun with such great company ended alone as I walked the dark alleyways back to my hotel. All that was once crowded and full in my room felt empty. I spread my things back over the second twin bed, preferring to look at them than at thoughts of my sister no longer with me.

The next morning I woke up alone and struggled to get used to the fact that I was again on my own. I found breakfast at a local restaurant and tried to plan my day. Unsure of what to do, and forgetting the routine that I had before my sister arrived, I did the only thing I knew to do. I walked to the beach and put my toes in the sand and let the water rush up over my ankles. A few hours later I found myself paddling out over the reef just minutes before sunset. Again the colors of the sky blended with those of the ocean and I did not care how long it had been since I caught my last wave. I was where I needed to be – where I was supposed to be. And again, I breathed, and I realized where I was and that I was alive…

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…