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.