Cambodia's Word

"What sort of future is coming up from behind I don't really know. But the past spread out ahead dominates everything in sight."  ~Robert Persig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance 

I.

I walk among the ancient ruins of Angkor and through the narrow passageways of the temples--old and empty and silent. I climb up steep, steep stone stairs and over the roots of strangling trees wrapped around the still standing structures. Stone figures sit cross-legged on snakes, their heads all decapitated now. Giant Buddha faces tower at the top of some temples and stare out over the region. I try to picture what this place was like hundreds of years ago, back during the Khmer Empire, back when these temples were first constructed and life vibrated throughout them. But all I see is the haunting afterthought of what was.

II.

The only people lingering in Otres this time of year are the locals and expats--those long term expats who keep coming back again and again until they just never leave. Like a few places I've been, I can see how never leaving is easy to do here--life is slow and easy and inexpensive--the Gulf of Thailand in one direction holding secrets and stories of privately owned gun patrolled islands just beyond the coast, and in the other direction, long stretches of nothing beyond the village. I talk to a group of young expats one night--broken dreams and nothing to lose in a big world.

A guy from New Zealand sits across the table from me and talks enthusiastically. "I'm broke as fuck, but this is where it's at, this place has potential. Thailand's ruined so I came here, but Phnom Penh's a dump, Siem Reap's a tourist trap, Sihanoukville's way too seedy, but here, Otres, this is the spot. I can do things here." He could be a character in the Beach which is both amusing and terrifying. He flicks his cigarette and stares into space for a moment then abruptly points at me. "Stay out of Australia. Everything there is trying to kill you."

And in some sort of mysterious cross wiring of conversations, the guy to my left from somewhere Eastern Europe whispers to me--a mid-conversation confession. Between his thick accent and drunken rambling, I could only catch a few key words--tattoo, prison, brother, spy. There were a few different ways I could put it together. Later when the group dispersed he looked at me with his icy blue eyes through his shaggy black hair and thanked me for listening. Anytime, I had said. Though I hoped not anytime soon.

III.

A few nights later walking back to the village from the beach, I stop at the darkest part of the path and look up, and for the first time ever, I see Scorpio clear and full and on the rise. It really hits me then that I am literally in a very different point on the planet looking into space, into the past, from a whole new angle.

IV.

On the bus to Phnom Penh the kid sitting behind me says loudly, "Are we there yet?" His mom tells him no, of course not. And in the most matter-of-fact way, he then states, "Well, it sure looks like we are." I gaze out the window--at the rain pelting down on the flat stretches of fields--vast emptiness in every direction.

V.

Nothing can really prepare you for a silent walk through fields where mass genocide took place or through the halls and rooms of an elementary school turned secret torture prison. I didn't have to wonder about anything. The man narrating through the headphones I wore left nothing to the imagination--images that will haunt for days or weeks or years or much much longer if you're from Khmer lineage.

I've given a word to every country and every town I've lived in on this journey--an all encompassing word that captures the essence of the place. Cambodia's word is haunting--an unsettling quite that lingers over Angkor and Otres and the killing fields and S21 prison of Phnom Penh. I take all these stories and all the old energy that came up in Ubud and release it into the haunting. It vanishes along with all the old ghosts, and I continue on my path toward the unknown.

Do you agree with Persig's quote--do you let the past dominate everything in front of you? Does it haunt you? How do you let go so you can continue moving toward the unknown?

I absolutely loved Cambodia and will miss it terribly. I will definitely go back to Otres and linger a bit longer one day, but today onward to Gili Air! Also, watch out for a future post on the words I've given to all the places I've been on this journey!

Strange Paradise

I.

I carefully walk along the muddy roads of Otres Village down to the beach. I pass half constructed buildings, shut down businesses, and a tuk tuk parked along the side of the road--the driver stretched over the back seat sleeping, his leg dangling over the edge. A few motorbikes pass me splashing puddles and dodging potholes. The entire village is eerily empty.

The long stretch of beach that sits between Otres I and Otres II is even emptier--not a soul as far as I can see in either direction. The air is warm, the water even warmer. My eyes scan over the Gulf the Thailand--dark waters and reckless waves, thunderstorm afterthoughts.

In-between the storms and black looming clouds, these moments of sunshine feel like a strange paradise--vast and empty, like driving down a Montana or Wyoming highway--a never-ending, limitless expanse into the unattainable horizon.

Incredible, breathtaking temples, sprawling white sand beaches, devastating war, still buried landmines--what lens do the people here see their landscape through?

II.

Back when I lived in Santa Cruz, I would always walk by this guy who worked right around the corner from me, and we would always have the same exchange--he would wave and say: just another day in paradise.

Early on, I would politely smile and nod. Because I was living in paradise...right? Over time, my responses became--if you say so or depends on your definition of paradise. He might have been being sarcastic all those years. I'll never know. It took me far longer than it should have to learn that one person's paradise can be another person's hell.

III.

I recently finished reading The Beach--dark and twisted and oddly funny. Apocalypse Now meets Lord of the Flies--you know it doesn't go anywhere good. But how could it? A group of people to young to have lived through or remember times of war brought up on pop-culture and video games and boredom find themselves living in paradise--an Eden, a utopian society on a secret beach in the middle of an island in the Gulf of Thailand. What begins in paradise ends in hell because once people are introduced to paradise it ultimately cannot hold--paradise lost. It is a complex story, powerful on so many levels.

I have seen paradise in every place I have traveled--tropical beach paradises and Himalayan Shangri-La paradises. I have also caught glimpses of the dark underbellies of some of these places. The only difference between me and the locals and long term expats is that I can pick up and leave anytime. I never have to stay long enough to experience anything but paradise. Another reason (perhaps the only reason these days) to fall to my knees in gratitude.

Have you ever lived in a so called paradise and wondered if other people see it the same way? What do you consider paradise? Have you ever witnessed your paradise turn to hell? Tell me your thoughts. Tell me your stories.

And please folks, for the love of good literature, do not watch the movie. It doesn't come close to capturing what the book does (not to mention it leaves out a main character, changes relationship dynamics, and waters down the ending). Skip the movie, read the book. 

Six Months Gone

Six months ago today (on January 4th) I boarded a plane in San Francisco with a one way ticket to India, and I have not looked back. I made a leap into the unknown with full faith that whatever awaited me was where I was meant to be and what I was meant to experience.

Two things have become very clear in these six months gone:

1. Letting go of expectation unleashes magic--all that blank space will be filled in with things better than you could have imagined.

2. I have been blown away with how different all the places I've been so far are from what I'd always heard about them. This is the magic of traveling--seeing for yourself what these places are all about and what they can bring out in you.

When I arrived here on Otres Beach I was stunned at how deserted it was--long desolate stretches of beach with nothing but trees and clean sand and clear water. The monsoon rains not yet set in making it truly feel like a deserted island--though I'm not on an island and there are still a few guesthouses and food shacks up and running at either end of the beach and in the tiny village that 3 years ago didn't exist. No yoga studios or workshops or classes to take, no night life to explore, no winding streets or alleyways to get lost down. Where have I landed?

I have landed in the perfect place to reflect on these past six months. I have nothing to get involved in, I have no distractions, there's no intense energy to move through nor too many things to choose from. I really wasn't sure why I chose low season Cambodia to spend this month--now that I'm here, I know.

Deciding to take the leap into the unknown has been the best decision I've made in my entire life. And each time I get on a plane or train or bus I take another leap and always land where I need to be. I don't know where things will go from here, but I do know that I can never go back to the kind of life I came from. And the only plan I have is to keep moving forward toward the light.

Do you ever take the time to reflect on your life--on the choices you've made, where they have gotten you, and where you'd like to see them take you? Have you ever hit a milestone and really thought back on how far you've come? 

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.

Music and the Magic of Storytelling

This past week I wrote a song. I know! Weird, right?

Specifically, I wrote lyrics to the music my amazing and talented friend wrote. I'd never written song lyrics in my life, but I enthusiastically said yes. And I began. This is how stories start.

Stories are embedded in every song--lyrics or not--and we shape the music to our lives that resonate with us at various points in time. Music and memory swimming through each other over landscapes and people and situations.

Every country I travel to, every town I live in, every person I meet on this journey has a story that collides with my own. Every song I hear and every book I read becomes a part of it as well.

Stories lurk in the eyes of lonely expats in every seaside dive bar and in the souls of fishermen working the shore in the far northwest regions--the towering volcanoes of Eastern Java loom across the Bali Straight, hiding their own stories.

Stories hide behind the elaborate walls of family compounds and temples scattered over the island and echo down the busy streets of Ubud, the sleepy roads of Amed and Lovina, and the tucked away beaches of Bingin and Padang Padang and Canggu.

I have spent most of my life telling stories or writing stories or watching stories or listening to stories all the while living my own story--letting them all jumble together to create something of a surreal existence in my mind.

Stories permeate our lives--always walking in and out of the ones surrounding us while simultaneously living our own. We tend to fill in the gaps of what we don't see or hear with ideas we draw from our own stories--we do this with the songs we hear, the literature we read, and the lives we brush up against. There is always more to someone's story than what we see and read and hear.

I wrote some lyrics that tell a story, but when someone else reads or hears it, it will take on another meaning altogether--always morphing as it enters the periphery of the next person's story.

Do you tend to attach meaning to songs you hear and stories you read to reflect your own life? Do you tend to fill in the gaps when you cross paths with someone else's story? If you are reading this, most likely our lives have collided in one way or another--tell me a story about how our lives collided!

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.