The Essence of Bali

The fragrance of frangipani and a light scent of incense don’t just float in the air in Bali; it is part of the chemical compound of the air. At once it is uplifting and calming with every breath. Water gardens, Hindu devis and devas, decorated altars even in the most unlikely places, delicate cianang overflowing with lovingly placed offerings and the kind warm smiles of the people make the essence of Bali inimitable. Many try to create the same completely sensual experience of warmth, calm and devotion of this island, but it’s jut not possible. This is the real thing. My meager attempts to bring that sense of calm to my home with warm colors, a pond complete with lotus, waterfall and Japanese koi are lovely but fall short. Although it is a soothing little corner, it’s contrived. I worked hard to construct and maintain a little piece of peace. In Bali a tangible tranquility is a cultural part of everyday life. It’s in the colorful aromatic flowers, ponds and waterfalls, the ornate architecture, the abundantly ubiquitous altars of every size, and the daily wave of cianang that spring up in entry ways, on altars and in the odd little corners all around. Delicately cradling their offerings with sticks of burning incense, the cianang are the tangible, scented expression of the intangible – the symbols of the communal commitment to the collective and individual spirit. They are the artifacts of the practice of the Balinese philosophy. 

The feeling I had in Bali of a sense of balance, faith and intention that permeated my being was not just something I conjured up. I found myself randomly questioning anyone and everyone there about this tangible and intangible essence. The answers were all the same when it came to the details of the daily practices and the icons. But unsatisfied (as usual), and wanting to know more (as usual) I Googled it. “It” has a name. “Tri Hita Karana” is the oneness of three worlds – the spiritual environment, social environment and the natural environment and is the philosophy the Balinese in general live by.  It’s from the Sanskrit Tri means three; Hita means well being and Karana means cause. The belief is that balance is necessary in three facets of life in order to bring about wellbeing. These are active relationships the people have with other people, with God and with nature. One doesn’t need to be a scholar in Tri Hita Karana, as interesting and engaging as it is, to understand. It’s something you feel on a cellular level in Bali. Even those who are only there for the beauty, the beaches and the nightlife must feel it too. It’s in the air, the architecture and the daily rituals. There’s no escaping it. But, I wonder who would want to.

I’ve realized that I chase the “Tri Hita Karana” in my own life. It’s such a conscious effort for us westerners. We are disconnected in so many ways. In Bali the reminders of this concept of active connection are unavoidable. Every which way one turns there are the black and white fabrics covering altars–black and white represent the “yin/yang” balance of life. They are a reminder that when emotions run hot the only way to ease it is balance with calm. Tripping over the daily placement of cianang, those small handmade vehicles for very personal offerings of thanks, requests for forgiveness and expressions of hope can’t help but force one to introspect about one’s own connection to each other, God and Nature. It’s a strange feeling to inspect the contents of a cianang. They are so personal. It feels voyeuristic but at the same time makes you feel connected to the stranger who lovingly placed them there. You feel like you know the heart of someone you don’t know. The abundance of them leads to a strange heady feeling if you’re like me and feel compelled to inspect each and every one you come across (and that’s a lot!). You’re surrounded by the hopes, dreams and sorrows of others laid out at your feet. It’s so anonymously personal. The task of articulating Tri Hita Karana is deserving of a more skilled ‘writer” than the likes of mois. But the collective and active practice of the people on this “Island of the Gods” had a profound effect on me and gave a new essence to my quest for connection and healing of my body and spirit, so I was compelled to at least try to share what it feels like–this ethereal thing I appreciatively refer to as Bali high.

And everywhere there’s incense. Incense on the altars. Incense in the offerings. The silky scent that takes on weighty meaning for the devotion and intention it represents. It lifts me up and causes me to take pause and have hope that I am more than my struggles with my health. Someone wrapped the checked cloth around the altars out of devotion. Someone made, filled and placed the cianang offering. And someone lit the incense sticks, one by one streaming into the Balinese night one by one filtering the moist air. An unseen reminder that we’re all in this together and that whatever our troubles, worries, hopes, dreams or struggles are we are not alone.

Suksamah (thank you) Bali!

http://www.balitrihitakarana.com/abouttrihitakarana.htm

http://www.balistarisland.com/Bali-Information/Balinese-Concept.htm

Snap Out of It!!

I’ve been very neglectful. This precious blog has been dormant for far too long. It’s not for lack of adventures and epiphanies to write about or ‘slice of life’ moments worthy of sharing. It’s a combination of being caught up in the living of those events, the ‘down time’ I physically and emotionally needed for having lived them, and–to be quite honest–the creative block I’ve been suffering from.  When word got to me that I had followers other than my friends and family I froze. Writing the blog became way to precious a prociess for me. One I felt inadequate to tackle. I began taking it way too seriously and trying to be a writer, when my initial intention was just to share my journey. After all, whatever media one works in, all anyone has is their unique voice. Some will be drawn to it and some won't. This blog was never about reaching the masses. It's just me and my little voice. Instead of being a release and a creative process, writing became a chore and stressful. But the thing is I really enjoyed it before I let my quest for 'perfection' (whatever that is) get in the way. I was no longer 'going with the flow'. As Cher’s character said as she slapped Nicholas Cage’s character in the movie “Moon Struck”, I have rebuked myself to snap out of it!!!

Although I am now back at home and have been for almost two months, the journey continues. It was about going to Malaysia and all the travel but I learned along the way that it was really more than that. The journey is about finding a balance in spite of whatever life throws at you. In my case it’s Multiple Sclerosis. Living with M.S. is like living a constant game of Russian Roullette. One never knows what to expect from one moment to the next. When it delivers hard blows it would be very easy to succumb to the pain, fatigue and other myriad of symptoms. But I chose to snap out of it and challenge myself. Now that I am back in my real world with all of its stressors, good and bad, the balancing act continues. In fact, in a way its even more challenging. I find myself looking back on so many defining moments of my months in Asia when I pushed myself out of my comfort zone to find my way to a balance, albeit a delicate one. Remembering how I ignored my fears and disappeared across the bay to snorkel by myself for an afternoon in Thailand helps me to work with the pain and fatigue on ‘slow’ days like today. Unlike those months away, here I have pressing responsibilities that I want and need to be physically and mentally present for. The balancing act becomes a more tenuous affair. Sometimes it involves summoning up the courage to allow my body and mind to rest as much as the courage to snap out of it and plow ahead.

As an artist I recognize that I have to create my art and not create with the opinions of others in mind–something I do far to often. Worrying about what other people think when you’re trying to create is the best way to make crap instead of art that is a reflection of your voice. This for me includes my newly-found creative outlet of writing.

I will continue with my blog documenting my thoughts and experiences with my true voice. I will share the amazing and at times miraculous experiences I had in Malaysia and other places through my journal entries, vignettes and ruminations. I came back stronger physically and in every way. Hopefully it will resonate with someone else who wants or even needs to hear it.

Saluting the Balinese Sun

The alarm clock on my iPod rang and I popped up wide-awake. It said the time was 9 a.m. Not so early, but the good news is that I woke up on my own. No medication necessary! I was refreshed and ready for my morning routine. That in itself was a miracle, one I dared not expect or even hope for a short few weeks ago. Perhaps it was a sign of the little personal miracles the rest of the day would bring. My morning regimen was prescribed by my yoga guru Suleiha: First the three lobular cleansing breaths, then breathing several minutes each while my hands are in 3 different mudras (chin mudra, chinmaya mudra and brahma mudra) which still the mind and have a grounding effect, leading to the final step of the sequence. Seated in a cross-legged position with my hands in my lap, palms up, right hand resting in my left palm, attention to my third eye, I am ready to release into a deep, relaxed, meditative state – easier said than done. It is challenging to allow the chatter of one’s mind to come in and let it go, but meditation is about the process of doing it. A couple of brief moments of a complete still mind are peaceful and exhilarating at the same time. When I finished and was finally calm and centered, I was ready to do my yoga asanas, the physical poses of the practice. I decided to venture out onto the beautiful grounds of the Griya Santrian. Trying carefully to not wake Elizabeth, who had not been feeling well the night before, I put on my yoga clothes, grabbed my mat and went in search of a shady, quiet place to do my practice.

In the clear light of the morning I came upon so many beautiful tucked away areas, and some not so tucked away, where I could roll out my mat. It was a difficult decision in that moment – my big decision of the day so far – where do I spread my mat? A good yoga practice can set the pace for the rest of the day.  Then I stumbled (literally) upon the perfect spot – a platform by the garden pool. There was a waterfall washing down the wall of the platform into the pool. An arbor with a thick fragrant vine of bright fuchsia-colored flowers creeping across and dripping down, reached towards a square pillar supporting a small altar atop of a which were newly offered cianang. An adjacent platform, a few steps higher than the one I chose for my practice had a gazebo with a peaked canvas roof and simple, cushioned hardwood seating arranged around a matching table. The atmosphere created by the juxtaposition of all these elements was one of open, cozy, peacefulness. The table and chairs, even though they were empty, were inviting and somehow gave a sense of having company. Most inspiring ­– or is it comforting – is the carved pillar with a goddess sculpture atop, whose name I don’t know, graced with several cianang from the night before.

The bright morning sun, the waterfall pouring in a steady flow, flowers perfuming the air of each breath, and the beautiful goddess watching over me filled me with a warm open-hearted sense of joy, and I was focused on my yoga practice in that special little spot. It was the perfect place for the perfect moment and I lost myself in it. I rolled out my mat facing the goddess who softly smiled at me. People were beginning to be out and about strolling by quietly as I stood at the top of my mat in Mountain Pose, but undeterred by their presence I went ahead finding my breath and scooping my arms out to the side and up, looking toward my finger tips, a gentle yogi smile on my lips – inhale. I would normally feel embarrassed and self-conscious practicing by myself in an open public area such as this. But this, after all, was Bali – ‘Island of the Gods’, home of the Bali Spirit Festival! The morning sun warmed my body and the scent of frangipani and incense that laced the salty air filled my lungs with a breath that lifted me effortlessly from posture to posture. Inhale, reach up, arms overhead all the way to a slight backbend. Exhale, float down forward folding, forehead to shins, inhale, breath carries to a heart opening low lunge, exhale and push back into downward dog – flowing fluidly to the trickling steady pouring sound of the waterfall, I felt as if I could have gone on forever – inhale into a prostration pose grounding the eight limbs of ashtanga; feet, knees, hands, heart and third eye. Exhale, release hips back into child’s pose. Then, a slow deep breath draws the chest forward through chaturanga and inhale the heart up, opening into upward facing dog. The effortlessness with which my body poured, step by step, through salutation after salutation carried me to a deeper place in my practice than I had been in a very, very long time.

Riding the tide of my breath, I observed the physical ease with which I was able to execute the asanas and was completely exhilarated. The connection to my breath and to my intention renewed my appreciation of the positive effect yoga could have over physical pain and weakness. This was the instant I was looking for – to feel that I had control within my own being to circumvent whatever difficulties MS had unleashed on my body, mind and spirit. I can put the brakes on the slippery slope of disease and disability. If it was possible to feel this again on the mat, I can find a way translate it into my life and movement off the mat.

When my body asked for some more centering and balance I focused my gaze on the goddess’ smiling face. I was unfazed by the now more active movement around me, which would normally make me waver and fall standing on both feet. But, standing on one foot, the other foot pressing into the upper inner thigh of my standing leg, knee turned out, I slowly lifted my hands, palms pressed together in anjali mudra at my heart straight up over my head. Finding my roots and reaching my trunk tall, arms stretching high toward the sun, I felt as grounded as I could be. And even when the slight kiss of the breeze blew my upper body into ever so gentle swaying, my balance never wavered. This was a place of balance I feared I’d never see or feel again, and here I was, with distractions everywhere, rooted and balanced effortlessly reaching higher than I ever thought I could. Now emboldened, I bent my right arm into my right side body. With my palm up and hand in jnana mudra (thumb touching the forefinger) resting my forearm onto my thigh, bent elbow into the fold of my right bent leg. I reached my raised left arm over my head, pushing my left hip out; my whole upper body arced to the right. Reaching, balanced, still.

This part of the pose was impossible for me a few weeks ago. I could not balance at all having been overcome with dizziness and falling out of the pose and ultimately going into full bodily tremors. Now, when the fleeting worry snuck in that I would get my “convulsive” tremors and embarrass myself in front of the passersby, I freed myself of such thoughts and eased into the pose. Without my mind distracting me with worries of ‘I can’t’, I not only ‘did’, but I felt all the benefits of the asana. I was stable and firm, delicate and graceful. How it looked, I don’t care. I knew this simple morning practice, small on it’s own, was a big affirmation to me that I was on the right path to reclaiming myself, mind, body and spirit. It wasn’t much to anyone but me. This would be only the beginning. I was sure of it. And if it took coming all the way to Bali via Malaysia to get here, than that moment alone was well worth the trip. It felt incredible – freeing, empowering, stabilizing, centering. 

Bali Part I: The Dream Comes True

View of the 'Devi Saraswati' koi pond from our room at the Griya Sandrian

The quick splashing of the small fountain in the koi pond just feet from our little patio had a welcome soothing effect on my slightly frazzled nerves after an emotional week and the mounting anticipation of this particular leg of my journey. Worries of my physical stamina lurked. Packing and air travel holds it’s own little stress bombs inherently wrapped up in the process. The organization involved challenges my deep pockets of cognitive impairment, which can and does result in cognitive fatigue – a full-blown physical M.S. meltdown. With a scheduled 25 km eco cycling tour I had to work hard not to obsess about whether I should even try to do any of it. (Now there’s an oxymoron for you!) I would not back down from any of the challenges ahead, but as far as the cycling tour went, I had already begun to mentally forgive myself for stopping and hopping into the van that would follow us on the route at whatever point it may be prudent and allow myself a pat on the back for doing whatever bit I could.

A more underlying worry was that the dream of going to Bali, with my high expectations of a land of an exotic, peaceful people and culture would only lead me to disappointment. My image was a childish one of a ‘perfect’ people. The seed of my ‘Balinese dream’ was planted by my cousin Marie who lived in Taiwan and spent a lot of time in Indonesia with her best friend Maureen, whose family were expats residing in Jakarta. Marie visited Bali as well as Jakarta often. Her stories of all her travels definitely contributed to my wanderlust and my joy of exploring different cultures. But they were her stories of Bali that captured my imagination the most and rooted deeply at an early age the fantasy of venturing to this part of the world to experience this enchanting place. If I had been given the choice of one place to see in Asia it would be Bali. One place in the world it would have been Bali. And now I found myself face to face with my dream–standing in the world of my fantasies. That’s a lot to put on any place and I knew it. As an adult, I am quite aware that no one and nowhere is ‘perfect’. What does that mean anyway? Yet, I held on to those fantasies hoping I wasn’t setting myself up for a major disappointment equal in size to the expectations I held. My ‘fantasy Bali’ was immediately put at odds right from the get go. The Bali airport is beautiful and tropical. It’s as exotic an airport as my former young mind could dream up, but it hasn’t been enlarged much (probably since I was a dreamer of a little gir) in relation to the rate that tourism has blossomed in Bali over recent years. That in and of itself is not such a terrible thing, but the long lines at immigration, and some of the island variety airport  chaos was perhaps not among it’s most charming attributes. Here’s where the first crack in my ‘fantasy Bali’s’ facade came. We had purchased wine at the duty free in KL before our departure. Now, as we proceeded through customs, the immigration officer gave us a hard time. We ended up keeping our wine, some of which he threatened to keep saying it was not permitted entry and took a 60 rm ($30 USD) bribe so that we could keep our wine. Not the warm Balinese welcome I was expecting. But, at this age I’m not naive enough to think that this kind of thing doesn’t go on everywhere. We were indignant, of course and couldn’t believe we were taken before even exiting the airport. But with our eyes on the prize, our wine, we forged on embarking on our ten days on the “Island of The Gods”.

A typical cianang.

Cianang on a sidewalk in front
of a shop entrance.

The ride from the airport – with our funny, young driver who doubled as tour guide – along with the initial survey Elizabeth and I made of the neighborhood directly around the hotel, proved that Bali would fill my long fantasized image of it...and then some. Everything about the place, even with the procession of tourists (like us) winding by on the sidewalks embodies the essence of spirituality. And I mean that literally. The Balinese live their spirituality daily. It’s part of the fabric of their culture. There’s no mistaking that from the first glimpse of the place and especially the first stroll taken in town. In the evening the Balinese, who are 98% Hindu (stats provided by Wayan, the taxi driver) put out offerings called cianang (chon ong).  They are small square trays, about five square inches fashioned from palm leaves. Inside the tray are offerings of flower, treats such as crackers or sweets and a stick of incense. The cianang are carefully placed at the entrance to shops and homes, on the small ubiquitous altars and in places that, to my uninformed eye looked rather random, like on the floor in the five and dime department store, Hardy’s. Walking on the sidewalk involves an obstacle course of stepping over and walking around these offerings. For me it became a sport to investigate, as I traversed the maze, to investigate the cianang to find the most unusual offering. I have to say some cigarettes in one was up there on the list. The Balinese make these offerings to ask forgiveness for any missteps made during the day, in appreciation for all the blessings reaped that day and to ask for blessings the next. The abundant cianang infuse the air with the heady scent of incense creating a bit of a dreamy atmosphere. Like the Imams in the neighborhood mosques in K.L. singing the call to prayer over loudspeakers five times a day, these symbols of faith cause me to stop and think about how fortunate I am, how grateful I am for all I have and to feel connected to God, the Creator, Mother Nature, or just the people who put out the cianang. In the end the final result is a comforting feeling of connectedness. Our common needs as humans transcend our geographic location, the color of our skin, our mother tongue and our practiced organized religion. For me the cianang are reminders of this.

The Hardy's Girls

My ambassadors into the world of cianang were the adorable young girl’s working in Hardy’s. They were more than eager to help me to understand what the curious little trays were, why they were put out and when. Mind you all of this done in some common language we found that was neither English nor Bahasa Indonesia for we didn’t speak each other’s language. No our mode of communication was a combination of the few words I had learned to date in Bahasa, the few they knew in English and a lot of hand gestures, physical demonstrations and vigorous nods of the heads – always followed with big smiles and shy giggles. Elizabeth and I wandered into the store in search of cheap sim cards for my cell so I could stay connected internationally. God forbid I wasn’t readily available at any given moment, even if there is always the hotel phone. I pride myself at how well I assimilate and have joined the ranks here in socializing through sms. (Hello, my name is Maria and I am a mobile/sms addict.) Tucked in odd places all over stores were these little banana leaf trays, which at that point I still didn’t know were called cianang. Nor did I know what exactly they represented, although it was obvious that they were offerings. Was there a religious celebration going on? Why were they at the entrances to the shops? Why were they at the entrances to alleys? It makes sense that they are on the little altars, which are in every sight the eye drinks in. But these odd places...what exactly is the ritual? I’m full of too many questions, much to the dismay of those around me, especially poor Elizabeth who is a teacher and really needed a break from that role. Lucky for her, she couldn’t answer my questions. Lucky for me, most people are happy to teach about their culture to strangers who are interested enough to ask. And boy how I ask. I ask anyone and everyone. My inquisitiveness is so relentless it may seem to some more like an inquisition. But on the whole, especially in Bali, I found everyone happy to help me with quest for learning as much as I could about Balinese culture as fast and furiously as I could. After all I only had ten days to know it all and I didn’t want the basic drivel of a guide book. No, I’ll ask anyone and that, I’ve discovered has been the life of my travels. In Bali, starting with Wayan, the taxi driver and then these sweet young girls whose shy hands over their bright smiles couldn’t conceal their keen glances from averted heads accompanied with tinkling giggles exposing their enthusiasm to interact and share whatever I wanted to know about their culture. This was how my Balinese education unfolded over the ten days spent there. Whatever I managed to discover about Bali had color, depth and texture because my teachers were the everyday people I encountered. And now as I write this from K.L. (embarrassingly a month after the actual trip) I see those faces of the girls and hear their giggles. Besides the impromptu lessons about cianang, the girls were also my introductory course to the sweet nature of the Balinese people.

The staff at the Griya Santrian were nice enough. However, I found nicest were the grounds workers and the wait staff. As they passed as we sat on our patio with a peaceful view, they were happy to indulge me with an opportunity to practice my mission to learn at least a few pleasantries in Balinese. “Omswastiastu!”, I’d say with an embarrassed smile. They’re reciprocated greeting came with a nod of the small nod of the head, a broad smile and a glint of approval. I knew I was extra successful in my pronunciation when they simply smiled and returned the salutation as if it were the most natural thing in the world. At least I knew they understood what I said. That’s a beginning. My interactions were numerous and frequently, were a result of me asking a lot of questions of everyone and anyone who was kind enough to chat. I wanted to know of which God a particular statue was a representation. How do I say ‘this’ and how do I say ‘that’. Not only was everyone, and I mean everyone, obliging but they were happy to give extremely comprehensive answers. It was like a living-education course on the Balinese culture, customs and language. What I found regarding the culture most interesting was that people across all walks of life were so educated and articulate in speaking of Bali’s customs. The simplest of questions reaped loads of information and background making it not just a holiday, but a really enriching quest. We also noted that the same question posed to various people was answered with the same insight. The many answers were consistent. Our conclusion was that the Balinese not only follow their customs ritually, but they are active conscious participants. They live their spirituality fully and don’t just go through the motions by force of habit. Most important to me is that they have no high horse. As I learned from the man who ended up being our driver the whole time, they are fully aware of their humanly weaknesses. But they look to their spirituality through their guru and the daily rituals like putting out the cianang, to strive to be better people. It’s a very humble and very humbling.

Dean found us on the beach one day. Both Elizabeth and I were each reclined in our chaise lounges each engrossed in a book when a man somewhere in his 30’s squatted by us and asked if we were in need of a driver. It was so random that I was caught off guard. He had a nice smile, but being the Jersey girl that I am, I was skeptical about talking to this guy. Looks can be deceiving. But I wasn’t schooled in the ways of this world and it turned out that cold-calling on the beach, when work is slow, is completely kosher. Elizabeth secured a price for this guy, Dean, to bring us up to Ubud for the day and to go to the Bali Spirit Festival. I had already purchased tickets for the nighttime concerts for the weekend. I can’t remember why we didn’t go any of the other nights, but we planned on spending a day in Ubud, and then going to the concert at night on that Sunday. For Eat, Pray, Love fans Ubud is where Ketut, the seer/medicine man lives. For yoga fans, it’s where all the really, really spiritual stuff goes on in that particular part of Bali. I was not only well aware of Ubud before ever embarking on this journey, but I was already pretty well versed in what to expect to find there. So, going to Ubud was a big deal for me, especially with the Bali Spirit Festival going on. Crunchy yogi brothers and sisters from all around the world descended on this relatively small town. Dean was charged with getting us where we wanted to go throughout a long day. The price was right and on Sunday morning, bright and early, we met Dean outside our hotel. We set out on our day and our ‘relationship’ with Dean (who would be a regular presence during our stay in Bali) began.

Elizabeth in one of the art galleries.

With a slight yet fit build and a brilliant smile, he eagerly met Elizabeth and me at the main entrance to our hotel. Ubud was a big part of our trip and we were simmering with excitement. Elizabeth had already been there, but I believe she was excited to show me Ubud knowing that the town in the hills not only was hosting the Bali Spirit Festival but is a Mecca for people looking for Balinese ‘spirit’. I would find like-minded sorts walking the narrow streets of 

Batik Factory

Art Gallery near Ubud

Ubud. Chock full of yoga studios and meditation retreats, there’s something about Ubud that draws those of us who are on our individual spirituality quests. There are also the very hip shops and restaurants peppered in with the local markets and eateries. All together it’s a ‘must-see’ on anyone’s visit to the island. Dean had a very professional demeanor. On the winding way up to our destination he stopped periodically to show us a batik factory, a gigantic art gallery and local craft gallery. I’m sure he would get some sort of commission had we purchased anything, and I did purchase a beautiful silk batik sarong. He further educated us on the cianang. Although many people had told us the same thing about the ritual of the offering in their limited English and our non-existent, Dean had a much better command of our language and articulately took us deeper into the psyche of the average person and their beliefs system. For the most part though, that day he was our absolutely professional driver. He was always waiting wherever we arranged to meet him to move from point to point around Ubud, which was rather congested because of all the visitors who came especially for the festival. He was more than accommodating, which sealed the deal for him to be our go to guy for transportation.

We moved around Bali effortlessly. In Sanur, where our hotel was, we could walk to any number of shops ranging from tourist traps to local establishments. Tourists and locals mingled on the sidewalks easily, all sidestepping the ubiquitous cianang (or in my case tripping over them). When we wanted to go anywhere beyond walking distance Dean was there. For me driving with him was like a guided tour of not just Bali the place but even more interestingly, Bali the people. Our discussions were a blend topics touching on religion, politics, family, similarities and differences in our cultures, etc. He was always accommodating, taking care of finding out about places we were interested in. He made suggestions of things for us to see and do based on our conversations and interests. Elizabeth is a diver and was looking for a company to dive with. Dean took her around to a few different dive schools until she found one she liked and ultimately did a day of diving with. I wanted to get some riding time in and he knew where to go for that. I know it is his job to know these things. But he was so accommodating that it made the whole process simpler and much richer for us. Although I’ve been in my share of limos and then some, having a driver like this was different. I have not been able to get in a cab in KL without exchanging at least pleasantries with the driver. Sometimes I learn about his family, his work history and other random personal information. I found my ‘driver’ in KL, Rosdi that way. He drives a cab but I always call him first if I have any special transportation needs. I guess it’s this familiarity, and as I’ve been told, naivete, that contributed to things with Dean getting a little more personal than I was comfortable with.

After taking me alone, on a trip to an art gallery up the coast in Seminyak, that was on a side street and a bit off the beaten track, Dean began expressing that he wanted to spend some more time with me. I can’t even say how he expressed it at first, because I’m sure, as always, I was oblivious, thinking that he was just being nice in a ‘platonic’ way. At this late stage in the game of life, I am realizing (and have had it pointed out to me) that although I go about being friendly to people – men – thinking nothing of it, they are thinking lots of it, more times than not. The situation with Dean proved my advisors correct. I suppose I stepped outside of the driver/client relationship by being friendly in a familiar way with him. I don’t know if I would know how to be any different, but it’s interesting trying to find that fine line. More interesting, is to finally be aware of a personality trait that I’ve always had. It has gotten me into some trouble before, but with Dean I didn’t feel threatened or creeped out. I felt bad that I had mislead him by just being myself and not being conscious of the protocol that he must follow as the service provider, but that I also must follow as the client. First he asked me to go for a cup of coffee. I couldn’t because of whatever plans I had to prepare for, and I was happy for the way out of it. Then when he asked to go for a walk on the beach my dense lifeless alarms finally sprang to life and started going off and ringing loud and clear and the red flags were waving. I joked that as much as I enjoy walks on the beach, I know what a ‘walk on the beach’ means and that I would not be partaking. I asked him how would that figure into his Buddhist beliefs? He’s a married man and a father, and I honestly wanted to know, after all our discussions about spirituality, how that works in his part of the Buddhist world. Born and raised a Catholic, there’s no question what the rules are in my world, and yet people are not deterred. He thought carefully and said that he would go talk to his guru. What he would say to the guru, or what the guru would advise was barely even touched on. Or maybe I was distracted by the idea that there is something like Catholic confession in Buddhism. Is part of the common human experience that we are all seeking to do what we want first, and then seeking absolution later? I was a little intrigued by this idea because my experience with Buddhism is more in a philosophical capacity, not in a daily religious practice. So as much as I know about the beliefs in a broad sense, I don’t know it as a religion with it’s rules, and daily rituals. I asked about his wife and children and then Dean told me an incredible story about his life. I won’t share it, but let’s just say that if this guy was for real, he would deserve to go out and live his life however he pleased, especially since he was, in spite of the amazing things he told me, still taking care of the wife, of course the children and all those who live under his roof. But just as I don’t believe that any other human being has the right to give another spiritual absolution, nor do I believe that I am the judge of who should go have extramarital wanderings and who shouldn’t. But I sure as hell was not going to be offering myself up for the job! Still, I maintain that he was a nice guy. He kept at it for a while, swearing ‘just a cup of coffee’ or ‘just a walk on the beach’. I may have been a bit slow on the uptake, but once I was clued in I was not biting.

                                                 

He was persistent, I must say, but he never wavered from his ‘professional duties’. One of our last nights in Bali, Elizabeth and I met up with the dive pros with whom she had been diving that day. They were a couple of young, hip, handsome and super nice guys. We met at a little back alley bar in what turned out to be sketchy part of town. At first Dean waited in the car. His concern was obvious though. Eventually, he came and sat with us. He accepted the offer of a drink, a Coke, but barely drank it. He quietly just sat nearby, contributing a little to the conversation – really sizing up the situation. I didn’t know at that point that he had mentioned to Elizabeth that the little back road where the bar was situated was a sketchy area known for it’s prostitution. Dean was looking out for us. Being the oblivious trusting soul that I am sometimes, it never occurred to me that we could be in a dangerous area so close to the posh tourist area where we were staying. But then again like yin and yang, for every posh area, there’s an underbelly area. That said, the looks of the place didn’t spell out danger or look sinister in the least. It just looked ‘local’. Our driver, now also our bodyguard, was there to watch over us, at least while we were in his care. And even though he had taken on the role of prospective suitor for a bit there, it blew over, and I was glad that we had Dean for our driver. I did learn a lot from him about Bali. And I even learned something about myself through this whole weird sort of quasi-courting thing. It’s something like what I think I’m putting out there is not necessarily what is being perceived. So be nice, but pay attention to the fact that most men – possibly all men, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Balinese and Martian alike – fancy any attention from a woman as that kind of attention. Took me a long time to get it, let’s hope I don’t forget it.

Bali was no longer the stuff of dreams. For ten days I was fortunate enough to live out my dream and then some, but also had to reconcile the reality of the place and it's people with the idealized version I fantasized about. That's a problem with fantasies and expectations. They can never be faithfully realized. Bali is a place, albeit exotic and tangibly spiritual, that is inhabited by people who are as human and imperfect as the rest of us. Their dedication and daily practice of their beliefs does not mean that they are more perfect than anyone else. My grown up, more realistic view of my mythic Balinese vision is not admiration for a perfect society, but admiration for their general desire to strive for their betterment on a regular basis. The cianang are the mementos of that aspiration. Perhaps the ‘perfect’ I created in my fairytale Bali (one Walt Disney would be proud of) is not in achieving flawlessness, but their daily acknowledgement that we are all perfectly ‘imperfect’ and how they try each day anew to do it better. The customs guy bribing us in the airport and Dean, a nice guy who overstepped some social boundaries, didn’t dash my expectations. To the contrary those experiences were necessary for me to see that I could learn from my time in Bali, perhaps a bit like Dorothy going to Oz, that what I was looking for isn’t in some magical faraway place. This Bali gave me more than the sweet saccharin one from my ten-year-old imagination ever could. It would deliver in ways I would have never dared to dream possible.

Stay Tuned...

The sounds of the jungle and the sigh of the waves of the Southern Gulf of Thailand kissing the shore have brought me to a consciousness that I've never experienced. My experience here in The Sanctuary, a remote yoga and detox retreat in Had Thien beach on the south east shore of Koh Phangan, has been rich and enlightening. Fortunately, since my last post, I've many such experiences filled with interesting people, beautiful imagery and loads of enlightenment. Unfortunately, I've been so busy living the moments that I haven't had the opportunity to write coherent posts to share with my family and friends.

I still have my trip to Bali with Elizabeth, a second trip to Malacca with my friend Aida, and much more to write about. I am journaling about all of these adventures and am anxious to share them. I leave Thailand in two days on Wednesday, April 20th. I will be 'home' in KL Thursday and leave to go to the east coast of Malaysia for a long weekend with a group of friends. So I will be going from rustic jungle peace and inner exploration to luxury and partying. I'm trying to get it all in before I depart for home on May 10th. I'm nervous about my 'reentry' into my 'real' life and hope that I can bring all I've gained back with me and share it with my loved ones.

So, for anyone following this blog, stay tuned. There is so much more to come. I can only hope that I can do justice to all the wonderful things I've been so blessed to have experienced on this soul searching, body and spirit strengthening journey I've been on.

Blessings,

Maria

Welcome to Melaka!

The first impression I had of Malaka (Malacca) was an explosion of bright colors and textures. I was overwhelmed and didn’t know where to look first. The ornate, bright, yellow rickshaws all lined up in a small square awaiting their next passengers were a visual feast alone. The dazzling rickshaws of lemon yellow with accents of red, lime-green and bright blue were adorned with artificial flowers of every color of the rainbow. Just beyond was a small open market with rows of vendors’ banks whose organized chaotic displays of their wares drew us over with an allure that’s a combination of mesmerizing curiosity and hope that there will be some special treasure waiting just for us to find.

Of course Elizabeth, Zaidah and I made a beeline for the little market. I was peripherally aware of the architecture around me, one that was different from what I’d seen so far in Malaysia, but I didn’t even give a good look around because my focus was all about the market. I tried not to let my excitement show too much, but I was absolutely giddy. Sarongs, bags, handmade toys hanging and laid out beckoning to us to come find that incredible purchase. Like a child on Christmas morning I didn’t know what to look at first.

We perused the regular touristy stuff (which I’m not interested in) and made our way to the real goods – the sarongs, woven hats, pretty cotton dresses. We all found hats we liked, which for me is amazing to even find one that fits my large head! Elizabeth labeled the black one I chose the Audrey Hepburn hat. After a couple of more great purchases, especially a cute black cotton dress I found hidden behind piles of dresses and robes, we moved on across the street to the canal.

Here’s where my love affair with Malaka began. The blend of Dutch influence with the Malaysian was a new architectural vision for me. Of course I recognized the Dutch influence with the homes side by side, right on the canal. They reminded me of the beautifully shot scenes in the movie ‘The Girl With The Pearl Earring’ but with an Asian twist. I didn’t know where to look first. Every turn I saw a vignette, or a detail that I had to photograph. My head had already fast forwarded to a fantasy of me setting up at one of the cafe’s with an easel and some oils, just playing with colors and forms, painting as many studies as my heart desires until I could hopefully capture the essence of this peaceful stretch of history, whose story is told through the structure and forms of it’s buildings.

We browsed the streets peeking into shops in search of hidden treasures: sarongs, local crafts, sandals. We even went into a shop that still makes the tiny shoes that used to be made for centuries for the bound feet of Chinese women. Since foot binding is no longer practiced, the shop still makes these beautiful delicate slippers as collectible pieces of art. It was a delightful yet arduous day, since Malaka is even hotter than Kuala Lumpur. With the help of my two girls, Zaidah and Elizabeth, I still managed to buy a beautiful pair of sandals, pray in a Chinese Buddhist temple, admire the tile work of a ‘Masjid’ (mosque, have a delicious authentic Chinese lunch, enjoy coffee in a hip cafe owned by a Dutch guy and get sized for a gorgeous cheongsam (a traditional Chinese dress) of delicate red silk with a dragon design twisting and winding it’s way upwards from the hem. At that time, I thought I was leaving a few days after this Bali trip so the seamstress was going to send it to Elizabeth’s home and I would have the final fitting in KL. Now that I have extended my trip until May tenth so that I can see the work which I am doing with Suleiman (who I lovingly call my ‘guruji’) through, I can take full advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity to see more of Malaysia, Thailand and whatever else I can squeeze into the time I have and what I can squeeze out of my abilities (not disabilities). In that visit while getting the final fitting for my cheongsam, I can continue to indulge my infatuation with Malaka. After a couple of days of recuperation from Bali, I will go down to Malaka for a couple of days to bask in its unique cultural and creative ambiance. Maybe I’ll even have some time to sketch.

That’s a fire that was reignited the first trip there. The itch to draw and paint took me back in its hold. The desire now burns brighter than the creative block I’ve had for way too long, and stronger than the fear of finding a way to work with impaired dexterity, less stamina (no more all-nighters feverishly and gloriously lost in a painting), and relatively significant visual memory impairment. I’m excited to see what I will do – what my style will be and how do I see things now. I do it not for a university course, not for a client with millions of dollars riding on my design, not to impress anyone. I do it for me! It feeds my soul. As Rumi said, “When you do things from your soul, you feel a current moving in you, a joy”.

The Chinese restaurant we ate lunch at was unassuming from the open storefront dining area. A trip to the restroom turned out to hold wondrous surprises. Each room I had to pass through was  filled more and more with warm light saturating the colors of elegant, ornate Chinese architectural elements: antique wagons, a water feature with trickling fountains and lush plants. Each room was richer than the one before. By the time I got to the ladies’ room, I felt as if I’d entered the Imperial Palace in the Forbidden City. I turned round and round, my mouth agape, struck by the deeply saturated reds and golds. With every turn around some other little detail caught my eye. A lacquer painted screen here, an intricately scroll cut panel there. An obviously centuries old Buddha statue sat quietly yet majestically in the stillness of meditation. I could have stayed there for hours just enjoying the fulfilling sounds, smells, shapes and colors.

I hope that one of the things I keep with me from this excursion is the thought that maybe my creative drive is like that Chinese restaurant – simple and to the point on the surface, but by exploring deeper, without expectations, I will find my expression of how I see the world and it will be rich and fulfilling. It will be so, even if only to me.

Fast forward to after the Bali trip. I am going back to Malaka tomorrow morning with my new friend Aida, who is an absolutely lovely woman. We are going for three days. Although I am nervous about the heat, I will get my dress fitting and whatever else will be a welcome extra. The Malaka love affair continues....

Winds of Change

The gentle breeze is so light that I stop to see if it is truly the wind, gentle as a sigh, or is it my imagination wishing for any relief from the oppressive heat, playing tricks on me. Laying here on the wooden slatted lounge by the pool I am content that I chose to brave the hill on the way to the pool, even though I’m not feeling very well. I’m in search of a respite from the stuffiness I feel in the flat today. I rested in the air conditioning in my room, but fear that I will just become as much a prisoner to the refuge of this bedroom as my room at home. No. Not wanting to lose the day, I head to the pool where after braving the hill I must walk on the way, I’ll find relief in the cool still water.

Like a sapling in the early spring, I am swaying under the winds of all the changes – outward and inward – happening to me here. Today as I pause to just feel the breeze, it’s subtle relief is almost intoxicating. I allow my mind to wander freely, to ruminate and relish all that’s been blowing my way. I did come here with an idea of what I would want to see and do in order to have no regrets, come time to leave, of an opportunity squandered. Yet so much more has been given to me. Like a gossamer gust, barely sensed, yet with the impact of a monsoon, this place and the people I’ve met have changed me deeply forever.

People come and go in our lives. How does it go, some for a moment and some to stay? I have been fortunate to have a somewhat interesting life. I’ve had the privilege of knowing all types of people from diverse cultures and walks of life.  Still with all my experiences, I was underneath it all, the super shy little girl who was believed to be handicapped, because I didn’t talk much, until I read a book to my mother at 3. It was the day I was moving into my dorm as a freshman at Washington University in St Louis that I consciously decided I could change and and not be quite so shy and introverted. A really handsome boy asked if he could help me and instead of saying no, thank you very much, I accepted his help. Tom became one of my good friends in the dorm. In spite of my outward chatty persona, underneath I was always self-conscious and second guessing myself.

Some magic is happening to me with this introspective time I’m spending in this land far from home. I’m starting to be okay with who I am flaws and all. I’m comfortable sitting at the pool in a bikini I have no business wearing, but I’m a child of the sun worshipping generation and need the least amount of ‘tan lines’ as possible. (I didn’t say that I’m not vain!) I feel comfortable with the people. I’ve noticed that I can have casual ‘pool conversation’ and not worry for the next two hours how stupid I must have sounded!

In another social situation at a dinner in a Kampung (village) the other night (the name of which I’m ashamed to say I’ve already forgotten) I paused to survey the group sitting, and others milling about. The smiles, the laughter, the food, and yes the booze, the karaoke...all ingredients to an extraordinary evening. The main ingredient was the company. We had no common language except for some broken English and my Malaysian friend who acted as interpreter, trying to keep up with all the conversations coming my way. Although some of the guests spoke a few words in English, being the only westerner in the whole kampung, I needed to get on with it using the very few words I know in Bahasa Malayu. I was completely immersed and I loved it! I dove in with my Italian hands flying, in gestures that interpreted sufficiently enough, to be a part of the festivities. When all else fails, let the Italian hands fly! Remarkably, I not only got on, but I felt more comfortable in this crowd than I do in some of people I know, and who speak my language. Maybe language isn’t always just verbal. Maybe it’s that spirit thing again. Maybe you want to call it a vibe. Whatever it is, it seems that it’s a superior form of communication that’s less prone to misinterpretation. And the Italian hand’s help too.

There’s been no situation here that’s shaken me (except when I first started calling for a cab. I had no idea what the dispatchers were saying). I even chat comfortably with the cabbies and have collected some cell numbers so I can call directly and not deal with the dispatcher. Some people I’ve met entered my life like a gale force and some like a breeze touching me gently enough to stir my soul. Corny, I know, but oh so true.

M.S.: A Blessing or a Curse?

Would I have set out, first mentally, then physically on this exploration that is more of an inward journey than one of miles and sightseeing, if I didn’t suffer from M.S.? If this dastardly disease, Multiple Sclerosis, has forced me out of the daily rat race and lead me to my own personal quest to seek–instead of money, status and material advancement–my own balance, then it is a blessing not a curse. I was angry for so long about all that I was missing and something finally clicked. My focus and my energy has been switched away from thinking about illness, treatments, a gloomy future and all that I am missing, to the assets and blessings I have and the bright limitless future that lies ahead of me. I’m not being a Pollyanna, thinking that every moment will be ecstatic from here on out, but at least I have my eye on the road rolling out before me with twists and turns that hold surprises. If suffering from M.S. taught me to a find place where I can live a full and productive life in body, mind and spirit–like a strict teacher determined to teach an important lesson–then am I really suffering?

Yet, I am not in my real life here. I’m still doing the online banking, proofreading essays, and assuaging the small daily hurts of a little nine year old. I’m still a mom, even from here, nonetheless, I am not faced with the daily stressors of running a household and a family. I am well aware that I am on a retreat here. I don’t want to set myself up for a “post-retreat-crash”, which is what I call the blues one gets after attending a yoga/meditation/self-discovery retreat where there’s some attainment of enlightenment and inner peace. Re-entry into the real world abruptly challenges the newly earned insight until finally there’s a type of culture shock and then a crash leaving the poor enlightened one right where she started: same life, same problems. But I feel in my current situation, the geographical distance, the cultural differences and the space for me to breathe and think is leading me to the best place in the universe, myself! One is only as balanced in this world as one is balanced with herself.

I’ve been fortunate enough to explore religions and lifestyles here. With such a culturally diverse population, what better place is there to explore faiths than Malaysia. I’m not looking for a religion, even though I’m disillusioned with the Catholic church. But I am nurturing my Spirit. We Americans take our Spirit and spirituality lightly for the most part. These days the eastern religions and philosophies are fads in the west. Put a Buddha in your living room and you’re good. Go to a yoga class and you’re uber hip. I’m not talking about ‘Religion’. In my opinion, religions at their core are a cultural interpretation of the same quest or the same things in life–Peace, Love and Compassion. Spirituality, on the other hand, is a part of us. Fortunately, my neurologist, Dr. Sadiq believes in treating the whole patient, body, mind and spirit and not only sanctioned this trip, but heartily encouraged it. We’re all searching outside of ourselves for a panacea to our life’s ills. Where we should be looking is inside. I’m learning this more than ever. I’ve had some switches flip in my heart and mind and I feel my spirit healing. My body and it’s deficiencies are now a nuisance more than anything. I know there will be exacerbations that will challenge my spiritual awakening that is in it’s infancy, but I’ll face that challenge, hopefully with as much grace as possible. Now I see that Multiple Sclerosis, a tongue twister of a name, is not me. It’s not even a part of me. It’s just a bothersome challenge that teaches me not to get caught up in the banalities of life and reminds me to be grateful for who I am.

Running Away (From Feb. 17, 2011)

You can run away from many things: people, places situations. But, one thing you can’t run away from is yourself. I admit, in a way, I’ve run away from home. I love my family and my children are my life. I have four good men going out into the world, anything else life gives me is icing on the cake and the cherry on top. I was not so naive to think that I would go to the other side of the world and life would instantly sort itself out, that I’d be cured and there’d be the fairytale ending. I just knew that I was suffocating under the stress of functioning in my daily life. Just being on ‘vacation’ my cognition and memory and body are not quite so challenged. I have no one else’s schedule I have to keep up with. No appointments to remember, no school forms to fill out or bills to pay. Okay, that’s not true. I do have to do the FAFSA form and the College Board financial aid forms for Alessio’s financial aid. Given what my specific deficits are, I’d rather pull my eyeball’s out of my head. That’s not far from what it feels like when I’m struggling to do the numbers. But that aside I have left the day-to-day pressure behind and during the week I’m here in the flat alone, free to do what I want. Here’s the kicker, I still had a bad morning. I’m paying today for playing last night. Elizabeth and I just went out to dinner with a couple of friends, but in spite of Provigil (or as I like to call it, “crack”) and two strong cups of coffee, I can’t pull it together. I can’t even get my brain to decide to do yoga, write, go do laps in the pool or go back to bed.

At home I feel like the rest of the world is on a merry-go-round that is going around and around at top speed, and I’m running alongside trying to hop on. Sometimes I make it and am able to grab on. With a grip for dear life, I find a balance that keeps me on the ride with everyone else for a turn or two only to just get flung off. Then I pick myself up, tend my wounds and I’m at it once again. I’m just trying to keep up. That’s not even keeping in mind the cognition issue. At school functions, or at the soccer field I can’t remember parents who I’ve met many times, I can’t pull up words when I speaking which causes a vicious cycle of the listener getting impatient, me getting flustered, my mind going completely blank and then it’s downhill from there. I go into what’s called ‘cognitive fatigue’. That’s when people with M.S. cognitive impairment get cognitively overloaded, fatigue and meltdown, not only with mental tasks but physically as well. My vision gets worse, my balance goes and those damn tremors kick up into high gear. It’s usually at that point that I go down.

Here, I can avoid that without a lot of fanfare by just avoiding situations that exacerbate my symptoms. I was at Elizabeth’s school yesterday for a Chinese New Year Celebration (yes it’s still going on). The people, the noise, the heat–I was going down and it was going to be a hard one. But the beauty is that Elizabeth, with the little time she’s spent with me in the years since I’ve been diagnosed, sensed that I was struggling. The smile never left either of our faces but said some goodbyes and slipped out. Well I peg-legged it out. We went to Zaidah’s which is right across the street. Her flat is so soothing. Some A.C., a cozy couch, legs up, water and one of Zaidah’s famous coffees and my body thanked me for it by relaxing to where I was out of that unpredictable scary red zone. I was able to go to dinner later and have a nice time. Sure at times my legs were a little dodgy, threatening to give, but it’s a small price to pay.

If I fall I fall. There’s nothing I can do. I’ve already fallen in some of the most spectacularly embarrassing situations. My husband, Frank, had a big job doing all the electrical work in a huge indoor sports center in town. It was a great job, with great people. When it was complete we were invited to a Halloween party there. Frank went in and right away of course there were lots of people for him to talk to. However, people were talking to me who I had no recollection of ever meeting. The costumes didn’t help to jog my memory either. There were lots of people, lots of noise, kids running around bumping into me. It was a recipe for disaster. At some point when I finally was able to catch up with Frank, he touched my back in a way that is always the final straw. My nerves go into overload from my head to my toes. My spinal cord feels like someone plugged it into a high voltage outlet. The floor flipped up over my head and the next thing I knew I was down. Let me tell you, I’ve dealt with walking with a cane for years, being in and out of a wheelchair, but the humiliation of falling is a unique one. My body then went into such violent, convulsive tremors that my whole body went into spasms. Even my diaphram was not cooperating with giving me the breath that I needed. I was surrounded by strangers buzzing about hovering over me in a chaotic circle no one knowing what to do. There’s a place you go when you, quite literally, crash. It’s like an out of body experience. You almost become an observer of the absurd scene, thinking this would be really funny if I could at least breathe, or if it wasn’t me on the floor.

I tried to not let the tears erupt, but I was not the boss of my body in that moment. I felt like there was literally a thread holding me from falling even further into myself, when someone embraced me. It was a warm, comforting, gentle bear hug. I had no idea who it was, but in a soothing voice he just told me, it’s okay, just breath slowly, it’s okay. He helped me into a chair. I still don’t know how because my body was stiff as a board. But he never loosened his embrace. I buried my face in his neck now crying as much as my spastic diaghram would allow, repeating over and over again, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry... His comforting words, and his protective comforting embrace enveloped me and I just wanted to stay there–hide there–forever. As I willed my body to relax enough so I could breathe, I stayed there. I didn’t know who this guy was, and I didn’t care. I was staying there and I knew by his nurturing, knowing hold that he would stay there too as long as I needed him to. I became more aware of the chatter around me and I heard someone refer to my rescuer as Mark. Mark is the owner of the arena. I hadn’t met him yet and Frank wanted me to meet him. In fact the only reason I went was because it was a client’s affair. So now it’s occurring to me that this is that Mark. When things are shitty, how much worse can it get? Besides, whoever he was, we bonded with that hug. With all this going on, and with tears still pouring out of my eyes and into his neck, I sobbed, are you...(sniff sniff)... are you...(sniff)...Mark? His body perked up, and although I couldn’t see his face with my face buried in his neck and all, I felt the big smile as he replied, why yes I am. In between sobs I said, nice to meet...(sniff) ...you. We had a whole conversation that way, about how I did ads for his wine import business when I was art director for a magazine that he advertised in.

No one else even paid attention to this scene and I was glad for once to be invisible and just have this comforting, albeit drama packed, hilarious moment with Mark. When I finally allowed him to let go of me, I saw him deep in conversation with Frank. Periodically they glanced over at me sitting in the same chair, still wracked with tremors, and trying to carry on conversations with people I don’t know. But I had a smile on my face, albeit a crooked one, for the right side of my face was drooping. When I was put out of my misery and we left, Frank told me that Mark told him that he had been married before and his first wife died of cancer. It all made sense: the knowing, gentle hug–the understanding.

I’m not going to lie. I was pissed at Frank. This is not the first time that he left me in a situation that was laden with mines that trigger a physical collapse. And in spite of my constant tutelage, he still hasn’t mastered that there are certain angles that are in my blind spot and an unexpected touch shocks my body into an intense, neurologic confusion. I know that no one can know what to do all the time. I’ve been both the patient and the caregiver. It’s not easy on either side. My anger at him is really anger at myself that I will be, at best, high maintenance for the rest of my life. I’ve been told it’s all about me. Well it’s not. But if I were blind wouldn’t there be certain precautions that people would take, like not leaving things in my path so I trip? Leading and leaving me in places that I’m unfamiliar with and full of stimuli is like not very unlike strewing objects in a blind persons path. It's a recipe for disaster. An M.S. patient needs to manage stimuli. Even some predictable order in the home is important, because even something as simple as trying to find scissors that aren’t where they should be can rev up confusion and go into cognitive fatigue. I need to be able to rest before I collapse. I need to have quiet sometimes. Most of all I just need to not feel guilty for having M.S. I didn’t ask for this. I’ve even told Frank if he wants out because it’s too much, I would understand. He didn’t ask for this and he has a choice. It wouldn’t be fair to him.

So yes, I ran away. I ran (and it was doctor’s orders) from the stress. I ran away from the constant guilt, and the constant demand of my memory. I ran away from mustering up the energy to put out the biggest 'fire' burning in the household only to collapse until the next 'fire' rages. I was caught in a vicious cycle that was becoming a downward spiral. I admit it. I ran. But I also ran to something. I ran to nurturing myself, to seeing who I really am, because I’ve forgotten. I ran to the time and distance I need to sort out how I can manage the merry-go-round. without losing myself in the process. I didn’t run away to Malaysia, I ran to me.