The Play of Maya and Lila (Or Dancing with God)

"I see the game and the game it sees me, and we will dance until they bury me." ~the Devil Makes Three

I narrow my eyes to a point on the map and make it my destination. I drive north for what feels like hours. When I finally arrive, my body fills with awe at the scene all around me--the wide, expansive beach deserted except for the few fisherman scattered over the jagged rocks and the small group of Balinese holding ceremony. They walk slowly to the edge of the water where waves crash hard on the shore and make an offering.

I find my way to a small, cliff side warung overlooking the beach. I didn't know places like this still existed here, I say to the ladies minding the place. They look at each other and smile as though they'd been waiting on me to show up and unlock a secret only I could see.

Back in Canggu, I walk from Pererenan Beach as far north as I can and back again. Wading in and out of the water, I let the waves crash around my legs. One of the streams running to the ocean had risen so high since I'd first crossed now looks nearly impossible to cross back. I lift my bag over my head and put one foot in front of another.

Midway and up to my waist in water, a man in a mild panic runs out of a temple shouting at me in his own language. I smile and wave once I'm across letting him know I'm okay. He stands and stares at me for a long moment before turning around and walking back into the temple. Perhaps it was a foolish decision, a dangerous move. I'd probably not given it a second thought had no one else been there to witness it.

One day folds into the next. Same same, but different. I capture the environment around me and play with light. Snapshots of a world in motion. Turning waves into particles. I drive down the peninsula and stretch out on Bingin Beach and read about the quantum world, about qualia, about consciousness giving rise to the material world. As long as we are players in this divine play of life, there is only the subjective universe seen and felt through each of us.

In an instant, a month has passed, and I'm already in Ubud. Kundalini yoga, kirtan, singing bowl meditations, and classes on yogic philosophy and mysticism fill my days. Our teacher paces the shala and talks about Maya and Lila, the illusions of this world and the divine play. To become too enmeshed in the game, in the world, the matrix (call it what you will), the mind will conquer. Suffering will prevail in one form or another. Fine tuning discernment in order to navigate the game, the play of Lila, is key.

One day folds into the next. Same same, but different. Most days I hum at a place of peace, and it takes a lot to knock me out of this realm. Sometimes it takes a bike whizzing at me at top speed to knock me out of it. One minute I'm crossing a nearly deserted road. The next, I'm in a panic and being whisked away by an angel to the hospital with blood pouring from somewhere.

Lying back on the stretcher as the nurse carefully stitches my wound together, two thoughts go through my head. The first, why? The second, why can sometimes be the most pointless question to ever ask. Sometimes there are no answers to why? There is only the unfolding and our dance with it. I breathe deep. I allow my mind to rest, to not get involved. I allow the miracle of healing to take flight. And all I feel is grateful and at peace.

Some better why questions to ask: Why not dance with the divine? Why not become all? Why not live from a place of peace, of creation in motion? This is where we find miracles. This is where magic happens. But of course, I can only speak for myself.

What is your relationship with your reality? Do you see it as a dance with God? Or something else entirely? There are so many perspectives and stories. None are wrong, none are right. They just are. And I'd love to hear yours. 

South of the Equator, East of the Past

I am driving down a dark, desolate street in the village of Penestanan just west of Ubud when I abruptly stop and look up at the sky. It is not the sky of my Ohio childhood full of fireflies and telescopes, nor the sky of my post-collage Wyoming summers nor of my Big Sur and Clearlake midnight escapades chasing meteor showers and miracles, but it is the sky here on an island 8 degrees south of the equator, somewhere east of everything that came before.

I first came to Bali two years ago and planted myself in the heart of Ubud whose intense energy un-grounded me and un-nerved me and forced me to surrender to it before I short circuited. And in surrendering, I found a stillness and peace that lead me to getting lost in the energy and finding the unexpected mystery and magic of not only Ubud, but in the raw and wild energy spread across the island.

Two years later I've eased my way back. I started on the west coast in Canggu then headed east toward Ubud, but not quite Ubud, just west of Ubud in the quite village of Penestanan where I can look up into a dark sky and see stars and forget where I am, where I can get lost wandering through rice fields or driving through the jungle, where I can lose track of time, lose track of place, lose track of everything that came before.

I have been on Bali for two weeks now, and I cannot stop thinking about Rebecca Solnit's book A Field Guide to Getting Lost. The book begins with Meno's question: How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you? And like a meandering and haunting guided meditation, Solnit lures you into her ever shifting world of personal stories and historical landscapes, leading you to those unexpected things you find while lost in the unknown, terra incognita.

I first read the book in March 2012 during a thunderstorm on the northern coast of the Dominican Republic. Then I re-read it on the flight back to San Francisco after having been stuck at JFK for over 24 hours. Somewhere in the sky over middle America moving at hundreds of miles per hour west, I intuitively knew that coming back to California was walking into certain unknown doom. I had left California living one life; I would return to live out a completely different one. Losing everything that came before is where I began to find those things whose nature was at one time totally unknown to me--those things of strength and forgiveness and grace and ultimately freedom and serenity.

Perhaps getting lost is the only place where we find those things we never knew could be found--those indescribable moments and scenes and feelings that cannot be captured by words or a picture. That point of transformation you never knew could be possible until you surrender to losing everything that came before.

What does getting lost mean to you? Like Solnit, do you see it as a point of transformation, finding those things totally unknown to you? Or something else entirely? 

On the Island of Fire and Rain

When I first arrived on Bali, it rained every afternoon. I'm not talking a drizzle or steady shower. I'm talking torrential rains that might break your umbrella. A solid deluge for a consistent hour or so.

The air would be sticky warm, the sky blue, the clouds big and billowy, and then without much warning, thunder would rumble, darkness would descend, and the sky would open and proceed to purge. And then as suddenly as it started, it would stop--and back to business as usual being blue and billowy and sunny.

Never mind these sudden purges of water--let's not forget that the entire Indonesian archipelago not only contains the largest chain of active volcanoes in the entire world (Bali alone has 3), but the most devastating eruptions in recorded history.

Water from the top, fire bubbling below--you never know what might happen on any given day. This is living life on the edge. I think I overheard someone say this in a cafe.

With all this purging, it's no wonder I was challenged so much here in Ubud these past 2 months--the water floating the buried junk to the surface, the fire exploding outward. Needless to say, I faced a few things head on that I thought were behind me, that I hadn't thought about since I left Santa Cruz-- allergies surfaced, anger surfaced, resistance surfaced, triggers surfaced.

This was not my Indian paradise, this was not my surreal Nepal. This was life on an island of fire and rain--a surreal paradise with ulterior motives. I wanted to leave within the first week I was here. I wanted to run to Bingin Beach or Amed or maybe another island altogether and stay as far away from this crowded, landlocked town full of intense energy as possible.

Instead, I chose to stay. Amidst all the challenges, I sought out those things about Ubud that I loved and I embraced them. I found solace in yoga classes and dance classes at an amazing little studio. I took long walks through the rice fields to the outer edges of town. I suffered through the allergies, I studied the anger, I pushed through the resistances, I sat with the triggers. I escaped to the beach a few times, but I always came back.

I have not doubted a moment that this is where I was suppose to be, to flush the residual junk buried in me. Is it gone? Who knows. But for now, I feel nothing but incredibly blessed and full of gratitude for having experienced everything I have in this town and on this island as I pack up and move forward.

Do you have a tendency to sit with what is uncomfortable or do you avoid it? How do you deal with those things that surface you thought you dealt with long ago?

I have absolutely loved my time here and got to do and see some amazing things--this island  just offered up its magic in a different kind of way. As Lawrence Blair (of Ring of Fire fame!) once stated in an interview later in life: I go on excursions often. There is no way I can live here on Bali full time--I would go absolutely mad.

Goodbye for now Bali! I'm looking forward to all the unexpected surprises and magic awaiting me in Cambodia.

The Secret of Surrender

There are few things in this world that terrify me more than doing a handstand in the middle of the floor with no wall to catch me if I start to topple backward. I have no fear when it comes to throwing myself into the world where there is no guarantee it will catch me with loving arms...but a handstand?

Our instructor will not let us use the wall. You'll never learn with a crutch, she tells us. Then she teaches us how to fall--which looks more like fancy gymnastics than falling when she demonstrates. Why do I have so much resistance? What exactly am I afraid of? Dying? No. Falling through the earth? No. Hurting myself beyond repair? Maybe, but that's unlikely. Hurting myself temporarily? Maybe, but that just sounds silly.

I have given up so called security. I have traveled and lived in countries some people wouldn't dream of going anywhere near. I have gotten lost (sometimes purposefully, sometimes not) in foreign villages and cities for hours. I have bounded into each of these situations with trust and love. I completely surrendered and I flew.

The secret was surrendering--letting go of that resistance to the unknown. To surrender into every moment creates an expansion and mindset where trust can grow and fear or resistance transforms into something else entirely. Another method of bending reality, perhaps.

When I first arrived in Ubud, I had resistance. It was nothing like India or Nepal, and for some unknown, illogical reason, I resisted it. Whereas in India and Nepal you cannot escape the fact you are in India or Nepal, here in Ubud, it's easy to forget you are in Indonesia. I found every reason not to like it--too developed, too catered toward tourists, and it was taking me too long to find my niche. I needed to either surrender to my new environment or have a very irritating 6 weeks ahead of me.

Not too long ago while wandering down busy Palace Road, I followed an arrow and squeezed my way between the buildings and continued down the narrow, winding, never-ending path that cut through what I'm sure was private property. I kept pushing forward until it opened up into expansive rice fields on both sides of the path. Not knowing where I was being lead--I passed tiny local cafes and an art studio, rice field workers, and indescribable scenes of an utterly surreal world. This is what letting go of resistance is like. This is surrendering.

I began to give in and let myself surrender--around every turn I found hidden gems folded into the thick layers of Ubud, and it was there I found Indonesia. But it was riding a motorbike around the outskirts of town when the layers finally melted away and everything began to reveal magic.

All round me the intricately carved stone temple and homestay entrances popped out. Women in sarongs weaving small offering trays smiled at me as I walk by, others lit incense and recited prayers at their storefronts. Families gathered at the soccer field as kids played and the parents cooked rice over small fires on the sidelines. The more I softened to my environment, the more I saw what I loved about this town.

Each class I attended whether yoga or dance or sound healing, I dissolved more resistance. Where it typically takes me a few days to a week to settle into a new environment, it has taken me almost a month to let go of all my resistance and melt into something of a magical life here in Ubud.

Why was I so resistant? What was I afraid of? All I have found on the other side of that uncertainty, that resistance was the Indonesia I've been searching for. So why am I so resistant to crutch-less handstands? What am I afraid of? What will I find on the other side of that fear?

We all have our fears that we cling to, our crutches that prevent us from surrendering to the unknown--they are all illusions of our individual mindsets so why let them own us? And according to quantum mechanics, there is even a random chance that I will fall through the wall or earth. So why live in fear and resistance with so much uncertainty carousing throughout the universe anyway?

There you have it folks--I've just written my way into a crutch-less handstand. What crutch or resistances will you dissolve? What fears are you ready to release to allow yourself to surrender into uncertainty? You just might find expansive magic on the other side. 

Life Upside Down

I.

The fireball of a medicine woman stared into my palm and told me I had cloudy liver, bad circulation, and terrible anxiety from my monkey mind. But I had very good luck! She laid out an array of pills for me to take, had me chew and swallow a variety of bitter leaves, then proceeded to scrub my face with paste and a bunch of wet leaves. About halfway through the face scrub when it really started to burn, I began to wonder if tracking down this woman was the best idea.

It is one thing to attempt to track down the fictional, those places and people that will remain fuzzy on the ever distant horizon. It is quite another to track down the non-fictional, to come face to face with the real--as she shoves pills and leaves down your throat. But, this is why I'm here--to collect these stories and patch them together in that mysterious, unseen, unreliable place called memory.

II.

Emily and I followed the steep and loosely etched path of volcanic rock by flashlight. We had left Ubud at 2am in order to reach the summit of Mt. Batur by sunrise, and we barely made it to the top in time--catching our breath as we watched the sky turn from deep red and orange to pastel pink and purple until there was nothing but golden light. Night to day, bottom to top. Volcano, summit, island, sunrise. I've been here before, on the other side of the world, Maui. My mind playing leapfrog on lily-pads of memory.

Steam rose from the inner edges and out of small hidden caves, and monkeys ran amok. It was suddenly cold. We warmed our hands between hot rocks then began our long, slow, sketchy decent. No wonder people hike up here before sunrise. If they could actually see what they were climbing, they'd turn back.

III.

Canggu surfers, Bingin bliss, Padang rocks, Uluwatu sunset--I made my way down the southwest coast lingering just long enough to catch the vibe of each place. I squeezed myself between the narrow crevasse of the cliff and down the steep, winding, stone stairs that led to Padang Padang Beach. I sat in the sand drinking straight from a coconut and eating veggie fried rice from the only little food shack on the beach. This is how I want to remember Bali--fried rice, coconut, beach, sun.

IV.

In between island adventures and searching for the best gado-gado in all of Ubud, I spend my days upside down. I take yoga classes that focus on inversions and hanging from swings. In these upside down moments, I begin to see my life as an incohesive cluster of stories. Pull a memory every 5 years and you'd never know they were from the life of the same person.

I stitch together these memories, these incohesive stories and turn them right side up. My life is not a novel. It's a series of vignettes, a collection of short stories made of memories loosely bound by my natural inclination of curiosity and stubborn refusal to fall into bad habits and unhappy patterns.

Like the busy, relentless streets of Ubud--where you have to follow the narrow, seemingly dead end alleyways and unassuming business entrances to find mysterious never-ending jungle walkways and lush gardens and peaceful, quiet spaces--you need to fall between the words that trigger memories to find that big open space where the stories hide. Or maybe all you need to do is turn upside down and let them fall into place.

Do you see your life as a collection of short stories--a jumbled, patchwork of memories? Or a novel--a cohesive, unfolding story? Do you believe your memories are the sum of your life or do you see the sum of your life in other ways? Tell me about the lenses you see your life through. 

Auspicious Signs (or Where the Magic Hides and the Mystery Begins)

When the quirky Balinese medicine man whacked the side of my left arm really hard in the middle of my palm reading, I took it as an auspicious sign. Because this is my life--following these auspicious signs and omens on the coattails of miracles. He was a bit hard to understand and generally tells everyone the same thing anyway, but to be hit? This was for me. This was my omen. This was my firefly.

Nearly 10 years ago, back when I was living in Santa Cruz, I came upon a serial documentary in the library called Ring of Fire about these two brothers back in the early 1970s who took 10 years to explore the Indonesian archipelago and document their discoveries--they hit up all the major islands by boat and let curiosity guide their way. They met a medicine man who could set fire to paper with the energy in his hands, visited villages thriving on creating art, they befriended cannibals, and wandered the jungles searching for nomdic tribes and birds of paradise and komodo dragons. I was mesmerized, and I knew that one day I would go to this magical and mysterious place as well.

My plan for Indonesia round one was to tether myself to Ubud Village on the island of Bali for 6 weeks, explore slowly, and let magic unfold as I had back in India. Inspired by the Ring of Fire brothers, I was going to get swept up in the mystery, I was going to follow magic.

In the past two months since I've left Arambol, I've moved every two weeks, and I've kept busy--not wanting to lose an opportunity to get everything I could out of where I was in two weeks time while still attempting to relax into each environment. That needed to change, but I had inadvertently brought that energy to Bali and I exhausted myself immediately.

Upon arriving in Ubud, sitting in stillness and slowing down did not look promising--there were volcanoes to trek, yoga classes to take, jungles and rice fields to explore, group meetup activities to happen, and let's not forget about the coast and all those beaches! This is Indonesia 2016, not 1972. It has been discovered and developed, and it wants you to know this.

I was not letting stillness and curiosity guide me. I was, as Gurmukh had told us back in Rishikesh, caught in the washing machine. The whack from the medicine man was a reminder of my intention for this year--to move slow and not try to do everything, especially within my first week of arriving somewhere I was going to be living for the next 6 weeks. It was also a reminder of my Rishikesh lesson--to sit in stillness.

It took me a good week or so to slow down and adjust to living in this bustling little tropical jungle town, to find the hidden sleepy streets and desolate rice fields and oasis coves tucked behind the busy surface. Ubud can be a stimulation overload, but if you hone in on the stillness, you'll be led to the right spots at the right times and the entire town shape-shifts to something altogether sublime and unreal. This is where the mystery begins. This is where magic hides.

Do you tend to get caught up in life and forget to slow down and be still? What do you do to bring yourself back to that point of stillness where you can slow down? What happens when you do? What mysteries are unveiled?