Patience and an Open Heart...

Thursday June 24, 2010 3:18 PM

I have reached a breaking point here, and quickly. I am not broken for home. Rather, I am broken for purpose and love. When I first arrived I found entertainment in the way that I was approached by nearly everyone in the street. “Hey Boss,” they would say. Or “Hey Mate.” And then they would try to sell me something, or someone, or some service- whatever they had to offer. I’ve been offered clothing, massages, women, drugs, scooters, tattoos and countless other things I have either no desire for or the money to spend on them.

As I have moved away from Legian this afternoon and found new refuge in Kuta, I find little peace inside of me about anything. This is an early reflection that is clearly subject to change. But in just over three days of wandering the streets, hitting the beach, and resting in nice hotels I feel that I have satisfied my need to satisfy myself. I look at this trip as not nearly being long enough for me to accomplish what it is that is waiting for me to accomplish. But it is far too long to call a “vacation.” My vacation is over. And as I alluded to friends about how I would find a mission in Bali, some purpose with which to give of myself to others, let it be know that it is tugging at me now.

I was forced away from Legian, as all of the hotels in the area were either full or much too expensive for me, and have found myself off a side road off the main street in Kuta. Kuta is most famous for the Islamic terrorist attacks against Australian tourists several years back in an attempt to show retribution toward Australia’s support of the war on terror. It is also famous for its crowded beaches and street after street of shops, ranging from family run hole-in-the-wall flea market booths to Quiksilver and Volcom stores. The streets are crowded with tourists, mostly with Australian accents, and the beaches even more so. And, where the tourists go, the merchants follow.

I found great sadness in my heart when walking the roads of Kuta this afternoon. I went for an hour walk, to find a late lunch, and to orient myself. But as I walked, I did not find pleasure in the new sights and the passing people. I felt sadness.

I felt sad because these people are desperate to sell anything to anyone. They will not take from
you, and very rarely do they touch. But they offer again and again, person after person, until it is almost necessary to buy from them. These are not your typical pushy used car salesmen. These are people in poverty living a life of desperation. For them, these summer (winter) tourists are as good as it gets. If the people ever leave, their hope of survival leaves.

I felt sad because money drives them out of their way of life and into the streets. I fear I am feeling like young Che Guevarra, before he went off the deep end. In Motorcycle Diaries, when Che was first exposed to desperation and extreme poverty as he toured South America, his heart was torn in much the same way. He wanted to help the people in whatever way he could. And while his intentions were good early in his life, his ends caused more pain than they were worth.

I want to help these people, but I do not know how. I feel sad for myself and for my heart. I ate lunch and was served by a man who spoke two languages fluently, and yet was bound economically to serve food to tourists. He could never afford a plane ticket away from Bali to discover the world beyond this island. My meal cost me 67,000 Rupiah, the equivalent of about $5.50, and I tipped him an extra 10,000 Rupiah because I felt in my heart that it was the right thing to do. For little over $1, this man was so grateful to me that he followed me out of the restaurant thanking me the entire way. I saw him show the tip to a co-worker who also came and thanked me. For one dollar I brought a moment of satisfaction to this man… and I think about how many one dollars I have wasted in far less rewarding ways.

I have realized so soon on this trip that I have neither the time nor the money to do the things that I would like to do. But it does not mean that this cannot be part of my motorcycle diary. In all of the journeys I have been on, through Europe, South America, Honduras, and Japan, I have found people who have shared their hearts with me and helped me to see how I can help them. This is what I will keep my mind open toward. There is a purpose here for me. It might only be to change one small part of me. But whatever this purpose is, I am open to it, and waiting.
Could I start a school and help kids become educated? Could I help build a hospital or a temple? Could I hand out bread to the homeless, or listen to stories told by the old? As I look around I realize that there are so many things that I can do to help others that I am less and less interested in doing that which I came here to do. I do not care about surfing anymore. The thought makes me happy, and I will spend my fair share of time in the ocean. But I have to find ways to serve people while I am here. There are far too many other people here to serve themselves. There are far too many other people taking advantage of the desperation of the Balinese people. I am not perfect, or righteous in any way. But I do recognize now that the reason I have been feeling so out of place on this island is because I have been here on the pretense that I am here for myself, when really I am here for others.

My students, with rare exception, cannot understand the lives of these people. I will learn as much as I can so I can share as much as possible with them. But they will not understand that for the price of a bag of skittles or M&Ms, they can put food on the table for a poor family. They will not understand that for what they spend on a meal at McDonalds, they could feed a family for a week, or buy new clothes for several children. And I do not blame them. Before I arrived I had no idea either. I was just coming here to get away. And I hyped up the trip so that everyone knew that it was all about me and my time surfing and sitting on a beach drinking beer. Well, now I have broken.

And as I fall asleep this afternoon to try and recover some lost piece of self, it is noted that this world is not about me. I am a stranger, like all others, just passing through. The world owes me nothing. But I owe it my life. I intend to find a way to start making payments. With patience and an open heart I will learn how. It always begins with patience and an open heart…

Bali Dreaming...

a dream i had, in waking up too quickly, i remembered every detail. it was hot, and i was sweating in my sleep, as i dreamed about the island of my dreams. it was, as any island would be, full of people unconscious of time. it was, as islands go, small enough to feel as though my presence on it affected it in some profound way. it was consumed by the tradewinds, bringing my passion and love and desire with it to me, and taking with it my cares, concerns, anxieties, and plans. and so, sitting up in bed, i forgot my name. i forgot my place in the world. i stepped outside, into the quiet night, and opened my lungs to the sweet, salty air that so seduced me in the first place. i opened my mouth to cry out, but all that remained of me was a whisper. "this is where you belong." and when sweat started dripping from my forehead, it was raining the sweltering downpour of the tropics upon my head. and my heart beat quickly to the sound of each and every drop of rain on every leaf of every wild plant in the garden into which i had wandered. and there, amid colors so brilliant only god could have touched it, and recently, i saw my soul like steam evaporating from a boiling kettle. i reached up to grab it, and realized that no sooner had it risen, it had turned into the very rain which poured down upon me. and, knowing that this cycle would continue endlessly, i decided to forego staying away for the approaching dawn. i stepped back inside, leaving the door open so i could hear the rain, climbed into my bed, sheets kicked to the floor, and lie naked as the rhythmic sound of water droplets fell. i discerned them, one from each other, and counted them like sheep until i reached a number too high to imagine. and then, fully aware of my enviornment, i fell asleep again and sought that dream from which i came...

The Session...

I woke up at 5:15, well before my alarm, and was confused at first by where I was. The ceiling was concave, with crown molding four feet from each wall, making a pearly white square indentation above me. I thought about rolling over and trying to sleep the extra half hour before I intended to get up, and then convinced myself that today would be a new day. And, knowing that the one thing that has given me such peace in my life during this last most stressful year, I unpacked my surfboard, screwed my fins into their mount, strapped on my leash, and opened the door.

It was dark, and the humidity was overwhelming. I had to catch my breath and take a moment to adjust. I walked down the stairs and toward the main road I had recognized in front of my hotel. Because the streets were empty I could see in one direction there appeared to be only shops and restaurants and hotels. But in the other direction, there was empty sky.
As I walked in the darkness down this narrow street I began to sense the ocean more and more. There was salt in the humid air. I could taste it and recognize it after 27 years of living with it. I could hear crashing waves and my heart began to get excited. I could be anywhere now, in any part of the world, at any time, and I knew that I would be happy.

When I reached the dark sandy beach I kicked off my flops and walked to the edge of the ocean. A few locals were stretching and running and doing tai chi on either side of me. I crouched to the ground and took the sand into my hands. I curled my toes and let it cover my feet. A wave came and washed over my legs and I felt the beginning of a much needed spiritual cleanse. The sun had still not risen, but it was light enough to be able to see the white crests of approaching waves. This is what I had come to Bali for.

I strapped my leash to my right leg and walked slowly toward an approaching wave. The current rushing about me was refreshing, reminding me that the water where I stood was not where it will ever be again. It flows and moves. My yen and my yang. I saw a large wave approaching and I charged toward it. When I was close enough to clear it, I leapt onto my board and began my paddle to the outside break. Wave after wave crashed on me and I felt energized with each one. In between sets I looked in each direction and found that I was the only one in the water. Knowing that it is usually best to follow others in a foreign land, but being keen on living in the moment, I brushed the thought that something bad would happen to me and continued to paddle to the outside.

It was difficult. The waves were much larger than any I had encountered. But when I finally reached the outside break and sat up on my board, the entire journey thus far had been redeemed. The long flight and stressful day before did not exist out on the ocean. My worries about adjusting and fitting in to a new society and culture did not worry me. I was home, on the ocean. And while the waters here were thousands of miles from my home, and made up a different ocean, I felt like the ocean recognized me all the same. I turned to face the land from which I came and watched an eager sun peek its head above the morning clouds. The sky was turning different shades of red and orange and yellow. As I sat on my board, giant lazy swells moved past me, pushing me up sometimes four or five feet before moving on toward their destiny in the sands ahead. The flow of life. The ocean. A sunrise. They were all tied together.

I caught my first wave in Bali just moments later and the feeling was unlike any I had experienced before. It carried me quickly toward shore, and I realized rather hurriedly that I was in no way prepared for the size and strength of these waves. But I was here, in this moment, doing what I had set out to do. I was riding my dream, and there was no stress in the world, no fear or doubt or anxiety, that could take the peace out of this moment.

Several more surfers paddled out before I caught my next wave, and quickly I was surrounded by people who knew better than me how to ride these waves. But I put aside my lack of confidence and convinced myself that they knew very little of how to be me. And while, after twenty eight years, I am still learning, in time I will master these waves and myself, if only slightly more than before I ventured out…