Eyes Wide Open

Satisfying things that stave off uninvited waking nightmares:

The fake camera click on my cell phone each time I take a picture
Long conversations unpacking the nuances of writing craft and literature
Hats that cover the bandage that cover the scar of freshly removed stitches

It could have been worse. It could have been a lot worse.

Cracked open in Ubud. Healing in Amed.

I cling to the back of Wayan as he speeds over steep, mountain switchbacks and narrow, rocky, unpaved roads. No one would dare drive on these roads unless you grew up here--which I decide, is precisely why they've been left in this condition. The deeper I explore this island the more I realize it's not near as ruined as people like to think it is. The natives of Bali know exactly what they are doing. They know how to protect what is important to them, what is sacred.

We stop at the peak above the clouds to watch the sun dip below Mount Agung to the west. Family compounds and terraced rice fields cut into the mountain sides and nestle into the crevices. The silence is deafening. The air crisp. The colors sharp. I've never felt more alive.

When I first came to Amed back in 2016, a local told me that the last time Mount Agung erupted was 1963. The entire Amed coast was wiped out. Since my first visit, Mount Agung has erupted roughly 15 times, the last being June of this year. Like the natives to this land, the island knows how to protect itself.

We make our way down into one of the valleys, to Wayan's home. His three little girls study me like a strange new toy, and I show them the pictures that I had taken 3 years prior when I first met them--their eyes big with surprise. The twins were just babies then. His wife brings me a small glass of the strongest and sweetest coffee I've ever tasted. It takes me nearly an hour to drink.

I loop the compound snapping photos, inadvertently scaring the chickens and pigs. Night falls and it's time to head back to the coast.

The full moon rises, and I fall asleep listening to the waves lap the shore.

Only a week prior I was exploring the dusty roads of Labuhan Bajo on Flores, hiking the arid ridges of Padar Island, sinking my toes into the pastel sand of Pink Beach, and standing feet away from komodo dragons and manta rays in Komodo National Park. A surreal and magical experience. The kind I disappear into far too easily.  Little did I know what would happen the next day.

As I prepare to leave Bali, I tell myself won't return, but I always do. And each time, it reveals new layers of itself. Eyes wide open, it says to me this time. Not in a whisper, but a shout.

I drive south down the winding coast road--a steep cliff on one side, a scattering of small, coastal villages on the other. I rarely pass another driver. I stop and take in the raw landscape. Images forever imprinted in my mind, in my writing, in the pictures I take. My life a series of patchwork stories, stitched together with nothing but photographs and old journals.

Our past is always in flux, never fixed. Do you ever look back on old photos or writings or revisit a place and see new layers? Do they tell you new and different stories each time?

It's been a month since the accident. The waking nightmares have subsided. I'm overwhelmed with relieve and happiness and gratitude to be back in Thailand, to be back in my little hut on the island. But before I move forward with island life posts, I'll step back two weeks and tell you stories from Greece! 

The Seasons of Yin and Yang

To say Amed is a sleepy fishing village might be an understatement. A stillness and calm permeates this short stretch of land along the east coast of Bali--encapsulating it and folding into every aspect of it. Cut off from the rest of Bali by Mount Agung, the largest volcano on the island, Amed sits between fire and water, living in a state of perpetual equilibrium.

My first six months of travel were very active, very yang, very external. I saw a lot, I did a lot, I met a lot of people. At the six month mark, it all came to an abrupt halt when I landed in Otres Beach, Cambodia. Life suddenly became very still, very yin, very introspective. Not to mention I became very productive on my manuscript which I have savored and loved.

Things will be changing again very soon. If all goes smoothly, I will be planting myself in Chiang Mai, Thailand for the next six months teaching, living, and writing--where I will hopefully find my tribe of writers and yogis and miracles workers.

Perhaps these past three months are the the calm before the storm. Or maybe I'm sitting in the eye of a hurricane about to hit the other wall. I don't mean a chaotic, destructive storm or hurricane--just a more active and involved-in-things-around-me kind of life. And as I move into this more active, yang state of being, I will hang on to some of this yin where I'm able to stand still and see clearly as life swirls around me--so to be able to maneuver my way around all the flying cows and trees if they happen to be heading right toward me. Maybe I'm thinking of tornadoes. But you get the idea. 

Today I will linger in this incredible hidden Balinese gem called Amed before I begin to slowly transition to an altogether different reality.

Does your life move through seasons of yin and yang, of stillness and motion? How do you handle the transition?

The Logical Song (or the Art of Divine Timing)

I attempted to go to a yoga class a few days ago. I had been here in Amed for almost a week--it was time. When I arrived at the studio, I found the class had been cancelled because a group on retreat was using the space. And since I was already there, the group invited me to join them for their class. Great!

Turns out this retreat group was from Spain, and on that particular night, it was a Vipassana inspired meditation class. I stayed because why not. During the introduction, which was entirely in Spanish, the group leader whipped out a selfie-stick and began to wave it about wildly as he spoke. I have no idea what he was saying, but the group looked a little terrified. He then briefed me in English that the meditation would be approximately 45 minutes, and he would clap 3 times to indicate the end. He did not wave the selfie-stick at me.

About 10 minutes into the meditation, I felt a solid bop on the head and my eyes flew open. The leader was walking around bopping folks on the head with his selfie-stick. He made his rounds every 10 minutes or so--in order to bring us back to the present moment, he later told us.

Later that evening back at my bungalow, something happened. I opened my manuscript file and a few aspects of the story I had been struggling with miraculously began to fall into place. Most surprising was a new character--someone who simply did not exist until that moment. From a blank space, he appeared tying a big sloppy bow on my story. This was not the first time this has happened. Let me rewind.

About 5 or 6 years ago, I was driving home from somewhere when a CD fell out of my car sun visor and hit me in the head. I'd never seen it before nor did I have a clue where it came from. I popped it into my CD player and proceeded to drive around my block several times listening to the first song on repeat: The Logical Song. Something was happening.

As soon as I parked, I flew into my house and began writing. Four characters introduced themselves to me and begged me to tell their story. Well, what is your story? I asked. They took their time telling me in bits and pieces over the next few years. Then one day I stopped writing. For about 2 years or so, each time I would open this manuscript, I would stare at it and cry. It was a mess. It made no sense to me at all. In retrospect, a complete reflection of what my life had become.

About a month after I left California, I was able to start wrapping my mind around the story in a new way, but it wasn't until I was in Cambodia that I really began to focus and restructure it. But there were problems. Yes, life is messy and sometimes does not make sense, but I am not Murakami--I cannot get away with leading you down surreal paths of strange and leave you dangling there.

And then the selfie-stick bop on the head. And then the new character. And the realization that my four original characters never left me. More often times than not I hear stories of people who put a manuscript to the side for various reasons, and when they go back to revisit it, the inspiration is gone. 

This did not happen to me. My characters stuck with me through it all. They chose me to tell their story and didn't abandon me. I am incredibly grateful and honored. I have no idea if this story will even make sense to anyone else. But I love this story. I love these characters. They are not always the most likable, but they are mine.

Divine timing has always played a huge part of my life. For reasons I can only speculate, I don't think this story was meant to be told until now. I don't think I was mentally ready to tell this story until now.

We wake up each day and can see the world as logical or illogical as we please. We have the power to change our perception. We have the power to invent our universe. We are made of star stuff! It doesn't get much more miraculous or magical or beautiful than that. Why in the world would we let anyone convince us otherwise?

The Logical Song still fits (and in my mind, will always be entwined with this story and these characters). The Vipassana class congealed it. Here in this small stretch of Balinese fishing villages called Amed, I found a stillness that allowed this story to continue unfolding.

Do you feel divine timing has played a role in your life? Have you ever felt like something was withheld from you until the perfect moment? I want to hear your stories!

And what about creative projects? Do you feel divine timing has played a roll when it comes to them as well?