Bali Goodbyes

Bali Goodbyes

I just said goodbye to blonde Kate.

I dubbed her that, as brunette Kate is brown Kate during practice. Kate flies back to London tonight.

I’m almost finished with my three month residency here in Bali. At first I found myself counting the goodbyes, a shocking although obvious bi-product of living in a tourist destination.

I realize that I suck at non-attachment. Aparigraha- a yoga tenant that I think I have a grip on when it comes to loosing iphones (four so far)– but when it comes to people , I sticky.

As of February I had said goodbye to no less than ten really precious people. Maurice ,from Sydney, Allison, Didier, and Rodulf from France, Susie from Australia, Isabelle from France, Luciana, from Brazil/Kuaui, Claire, from Australia, Zena from Oz/England the list gets longer and now as I now prepare for my departure, I will be the one leaving, saying goodbye.

When I first arrived I thought the local ex-pat community was being distant, now I realize they were just being selective. My heart broke each week as someone I had just grown to know and love and appreciate would come to class and announce, “I’m leaving tomorrow”. I taught classes about always saying goodbye. I relived my own childhood abandonment issues. I dreamt about my best friend Renee, in fifth grade, whose family moved away, to Texas. I remember crying for hours.

At some point I decided to act like an adult and see the good in all of these momentary intersections. Rather than looking at everyone always leaving, I chose to look at all the people I was gifted to interface with. I clung to the idea that had I not come to this “node” in the body of Earth, Bali, that I would not know the four quadrants according to Maurice, the dangers of basejumping according to Rudy, The cockney slang and wicked humor I discovered with Zena, or the ecstatic Brazilian joie de vive of Luciana, the cool French calm of Allison, or the tender heart of a poker player that was Didier. This is not even including the rush of nationalities that I met in the high season, Natasha from Russia, Adya from Portugal (the neurobiologist I spent hours with talking about teremeres- the future of ant –aging), Jim from Switzerland, Caroline and Claudia from Holland fearlessly trying yoga daily, for the first time for two weeks straight.

One by one they came, connected, and departed a revolving door of cultural travelers.

It’s not the average traveler that comes to Bali, and Desa Seni being outrageously beautiful centered around yoga and wellness as well as a little pricey also magnetizes a certain milieu.

The local expats come here for yoga, the visitors are here for a weeks in and out. People start to sort themselves into silt layers of staying power. After a month, I moved to a different silt layer, after three still another. These layers coalesce into certin groups. Those that have come in the last five years, the over five, the over 10, the over 15, the over 20 are like Bali royalty.

I understand, finally, how the urge to connect with travelers so thoroughly starts to wain.

Balinese too, have seen travelers come, fall in love with Bali, open a business, close a business. One Italian restaurant owner told me “They play with you, to see if you are going to be around, they’ve seen so many westerners come and go”.

I know as a teacher I see students come and go all the time. I learned long ago, they are not “my students” but students on the path. I may see them for a day, a week, a year, three years. But one day, one of us will move on.

The bittersweetness of life, the fact that everything is temporary is a daily reminding as the next plane out of Denpasar takes a whole other crew of people back to their respective homes.

“Let what comes come, let what goes go, and find out what remains, “Ramana Maharshi said.

I don’t think he was talking about Bali travelers, but experiences, thoughts, health, the body. And yet, this quote is what I also try not to cling to, as I prepare to say goodbye to the friends who will stay here for the moment, on this magical island.

The Crazy Cliff

B.A.S.E. jumping, also sometimes written as BASE jumping, is an activity that employs an initially packed parachute to jump from fixed objects (also see paragliding). "B.A.S.E." is an acronym that stands for four categories of fixed objects from which one can jump: buildings, antennas, spans (bridge), and earth (cliff).

On Thursdays for the month of February, I had an astonishing two classes. Every other day, I draw the line in Bali at teaching one class. But for the taxing month of February, I had to cover for Shirley and Steve Oconnor, my yoga teacher friends at Desa Seni, while they travelled back to the States.

The 8:30 am crowd in Bali is already a select bunch. Seminyak is a place where, it seems,there is a high preference for going out into the wee morning hours and sleeping late in the air-con rooms with shades drawn while pembantus arrive early and begin the household chores.

So I’m always impressed when someone wakes up for 8:30 am class.

Equally impressive are those that venture to my 12:30-2:30pm practice style class. A popular, advanced class in the states- a total experiment in the heat of the day at an outdoor studio in Bali.

And someone who comes to both classes in one day is unprecedented.

Meet my friend Rudolph, base jumper, windsuit flyer, climber…general fearless dude from France.

His third and fourth yoga classes were these two Thursday classes. By the end of his fourth yoga class he was jumping into handstand. It took two days to find out he was a base jumper. It took two more days for me to understand what that was, it took approximately 15 seconds after I understood what that was to realize he was crazy. It took one dinner party to know that this was the funnest fact info I could possibly drop into a collective conversation.

There is nothing more fun than watching people size another up, “Oh he’s French, he looks conservative, he’s from the south, he’s travelling for four months…” The brain tries hard to get a fix on what is never fixed.

Especially when there were big guys around.

Me: “Rudy’s a base jumper…” beat, beat, beat

Eyes grow wide. You watch the interior brain disorient. In some I watched a slight bit of drool leak out the side of their mouths.

“No.”

“Yeah. He’s travelling around the world jumping off things.”

Rudy shoots me a look of admonishment. It’s not that he’s not obsessed with base jumping and wind suit flying (Yeah, the flying squirrel thing) it’s just that he’s had this conversation in already at least 5 countries over the last four months since he was lucky enough to be fired from his finance job and take two years at 70% of his normal pay. This is why it’s good to be French.

Rudy has a fancy camera where he’s recorded his base jumps, which almost always now include the wind suit flying component. He can’t find a good place to jump in Bali. Nothing is high enough. So instead he shows me videos of jumping, flying off the Blue Mountains in Australia with some characters Aussie twins referred to as the Mario Brothers. Apparently Mario brothers talk like this,

“Fuck, we gotta fuckin jump off the fuckin rock before the other fucking fuckers beat us to it…” and they mumble. Rudy couldn’t understand half of what they said. But he jumped with them in the Blue mountains for four days.

He shows me flights in Norway, and South of France. Usually it goes like this. Some French exchange, him and another guy, standing on the edge of the cliff, and then without much ado, they are falling, or flying.

When you see a video of wind suit flying it looks like the closest thing to ultimate freedom one could ever know. Rudy’s longest flight was almost two minutes. He says comparatively skydiving is boring.

Skydiving is boring.

While base jumping is categorized as an extreme fringe sport, its not easy to get into. A minimum 100 plane jumps are recommended, and according to the dialogue I heard at least ten or more times to the inevitable, “I want to base jump” from the drooling guys at dinner parties, there is a long vetting process. You have to offer to drive jumpers up the mountains. You have to earn the respect into this elite crowd by carrying gear, learning where the jumps are, learning the equipment, knowing how to rock climb. All of this for the two minute high.

And, someone you know will die. Rudy has at least four friends that have died.

As I’m riding on the back of the motorcycle while Rudy drives, I think about how not smart it is. I’m wearing a helmet with a broken strap that I have to hold on my small head so the wind doesn’t blow it off. I start to refer to it as my hat. The number of times I close my eyes and say a silent prayer to not die exceeds my ability to count them. Rudy tells me among his friends, he drives slow. “Your friends are base jumpers, I say.”

But he’s still inevitably a much better driver than me. My biggest injury to date is from hitting a rock on my scooter driving home from a two hour massage. Rudy was driving behind me on his motorcycle.

“What did you do?” he says, scooping me up. “I saw you, see the rock, go toward the rock and hit the rock, boom, “ he makes the motion of me falling on me side. I knew this is what I did. It was like time/space slowed down and I had a five minute dialogue about the rock, the construction that was not there yesterday, how I shouldn’t hit that rock, and then I hit the rock. Even in my slow cautious attempts at control, I’m a hazard to my own self.

I joke that the one thing Rudy has taught me, is that I’m not as fearless around death as I once thought. I thought with all my non-dual philosophy and liberated embodiment teaching and playing with handstands that I actually had a tiny little grasp on fear.

But I realize, I’m a total pussy.

100% afraid of my own death.

I think about the end of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, jumping off the cliff into the clouds, as a symbol of love, freedom, the impermanence of life and the transition/non-transition of death. I think about getting a better helmet. I think I will never base jump.

I find myself making arguments to myself about all the ways in life I am fearless and resolving to grow ever more so, fearless but not stupid.

I think about how Rudy almost died from an allergic reaction to Brazil nuts after eating a mixed nut bar I gave him.

I think about JD Salinger and “the crazy cliff”.

Bali is a place where you are constantly shown alternative ways people chose to live. Either as they are passing through here on vacation, or as they tell you their relocation stories from their varied and fascinating backgrounds and cultures. It’s this constant contemplation.

Knowing the inevitability of my own death, how live.

Yayasan Kasih Peduli Anak

Yayasan

Bali is known as a paradise where there is no violence, no crime, a perfect tropical paradise somehow where the grace of the people is beyond the normal stresses of the regular world.

The mistruth of this impression was expressed to me by my fourth driver named Wayan, Wayan Ubud., “well, if they told anything else to the tourists, they wouldn’t come.”

Everything in my existence here has changed since I started volunteering at Yayasan Kasih Peduli Anak –lit. Loving Care for Kids shelter.

Ibu Putu, a lovely, heavy-set woman who used to own a laundry in Denpasar, had the message in her heart to help street kids in Bali.

Yes, there are street kids here in Bali. Putu somehow became friends with the prostitutes in the slums of Kuta, and saw the overwhelming amount of kids working the streets. Much like the kids in Slumdog Millionaire, they are forced to make money for their families or their street bosses. The majority come from Karangasam- a village north of Mt. Agung, the most holy Volcano in Bali. Here the sex trade has thrived for the last 20 years.

You don’t think about Bali as having a sex trade. Thailand, yes, Vietnam, yes, Bali, no. But there is. And for some reason, which no one I have yet talked to can figure out, Karangasem village is the place where the proverty is thick, and the abuse is thicker.

Putu, has 17 kids in her Yayasan (which means non profit organization). It took me four visits to find out anything about the orphanage. I was nvited by a beautiful Italian ex-pat, Kikka who teaches the kids English, and offers a lot of time and money to the Yayasanan. Because she feels her Italian is not that great, she’s had Steve, the yoga manager/teacher at Desa Seni helping her teach. Steve went out of town and I begged to step in. This was the extent of what I knew.

Both previous times I arrived, somewhat hurried, having been driven here sweaty from teaching yoga class and running out quickly at the end of a two hour session to return to teach another class. The first time we were learning parts of the body, “Head fingers knees and toes, knees and toes, head and fingers knees and toes eyes ears, tip of the nose”, and family members. “Mother, sister, father, brother…”. Immediately I thought this was an odd topic.

Of the 17 kids, Kikka asked me to sit with the older ones and have them write sentences about their family. Great. Aren’t they orphans? Do they have a family. I knew nothing, absolutely nothing about the background of the kids. Did they come from the trains, like the kids in India, wait there’s no trains in Bali…where do the Balinese “The lovliest people on earth” deposit their orphans. I decided to push forward, there was no space for questions.

“My mother is Surya….” Ayu writes. Conversation didn’t work so well. My four: Ayu, 15, pretty, shy, speaks better English than she tries. Merta, 12- obviously smart, spends most of his time drawing, Pisak, and Tista. We go down the list sisters, cousins, are, etc. I start embellishing the conversation by drawing pictures and explaining relationships.

Somehow I never got a chance to talk to Kikka between week one and two. She, too is a busy clothing designer with a family We had the intention to. But then the Jiva Mukti workshop came with Sharon Life and David Gannon, and then I went to Ubud, and she runs a clothing company, and and and….

I’m here again. Back in the Yayasan. Equally uninformed about these kids status, holding more questions. Kikka tells me to go teach the four older kids about the verb “to be” which is not used in Indonesidan.

I am on my own. I have no translator. The lesson goes like this:

“I am…” I point to myself “a girl”

The girl and the three boys each point to themselves, “I am a girl”

“No,” I say, I point to Merta “You are a boy”

He points to me, “You are a boy…”

“I am tall..” Again I point to myself.

They all point to themselves, “I am tall.”

This was useless.

The next week, I go on a different day, without Kikka, because whoever was teaching them English on Tuesdays has apparently quit. I bring along my friend Martina, who is fluent in Bahasa Indonesia.

I share with her my frustration about not knowing anything. I have 400 questions, and no program. Finally, we arrive early, Martina and I and find Putu there. We have a long sit down. I ask everything. This is what I find out.

Most of the kids come from Karangasam. Putu, who has always been friends with the prostitutes and street kids (backstory unknown), from her heart decided to open a shelter. Her partner, an American Registered Nurse, Michael, from San Diego and she have opened their house, to these kids. At first there was 35, but now there are 17. They are not really orphans, they have families, but some have been abused, most have some boss, pimp, sex trade person they have to beg for and report to, some have just been abused by their families. Sometimes they leave and go back to the streets.

Jana and Lana are eleven year old twin boys. Jana is normal size. Lana is about two and a half feet tall.

Pika has deformed feet. A man, posing as her father, used to carry her to beg with. Because she was forced to walk on her feet, she has an ulcer that went to the bone- literally a hole in her foot the size of an orange. Alit is deaf. Wirya is blind. The rest seem to have various stages of physical or emotional abuse. They are all bright.

I think Putu must be a saint.

The Yayasan ,open for 2 years, has received non-profit status, but now the needs are piling up. Alit needs a sign language teacher. Pika needs a wheelchair and at least three operations. Two boys Jana and Sandi might have Tuberculoses. Putu looks exhausted. Michael starts to breathe heavy sighs as of relief as I tell him how we care going to help them. Martina and I tell her how we will help and help raise money.

The landlord of the house has decided that instead of being 30 million rupias a year, it will be 10 million. That’s $3000, to $10,000. It costs about $1700 per month to operate. Who in their right mind would take this on. Even as I look at these numbers and think how small they are , truth is to a Balinese person they are astronomical.

Martina and I decide I will teach yoga, and she will translate. She is brilliant. The kids love yoga. Especially the boys. They do crow, and Surya namaskar, and handstand, screaming and laughing in delight. It flows very well. Martina is so tender with the girls. When Ayu is beside herself that her shirt will come up if she does a handstand, Martina tells her in Indonesian, “Don’t worry, don’t worry, Tara gets it, she will help you.”

I leave, now obsessed with the desire to help. I decide to bring in the big guns.

I know from teaching yoga at Desa Seni that there are expats here who want to give. They want their yoga to have a karma aspect, and they just need to know where to put their energy. Tom, the owner/visionary of Desa Seni comes with me on Thursday. Kikka, Tom, Myself and an Australian yogi, Susie sit down and begin to hash this thing out.

The Yayasan needs money. It needs teachers. It needs soap. It needs computers. It needs eggs.

“I noticed that Merta likes to draw, and Yanti loves to sing, Pasik plays guitar and loves to dance, we could pair expat/mentors with these kids to help them develop there talents, “ I say, overwhelmed with ideas.

“We need a place to live, “ Michael says. “We need rice.”

“We need a list, “ I say. Even this does not exist. Well it does, written in magic marker, in this order:

Eggs

Rice

Shampoo

Komputer

Sauce tomat

Soap

Englis teacher for Tegil Beach

I tell Putu I need two lists, one with small items, and one with the bigger lists.

Tom sees that the kids are working on cutting out cards. They draw pictures and the Yayasan sells the cards for $2.

We grab one hundred that sell at desa seni in almost four days.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Avatar Masters

AVATAR MASTERS

The Java Sea kissess the shores of Tejakula, a small village in the North of Bali. It couldn’t be perfectly more created as a fairy tale backdrop for living with nature. A Shangri-La of sorts.

I’ve come here, unknowingly, to have counsel with the “elders” -which I mean only as a term of endearment.

Ever since I was little, I’ve had the utmost respect for those with life experience and have wanted TO KNOW what they know. I’ve felt distracted and obfuscated by the small talk of others and, if anything, have suffered from harboring too serious a nature, something I’ve chalked up to my eastern European roots.

This word: AVATAR is suddenly omnipresent. Without Google capabilities I’m guessing it means an enlightened master. But when I get to a proper Internet connection I find it means “ Embodiment: A new personification of a familiar idea, ‘the embodiment of hope”. Or a Superhuman embodiment of a deity, especially Hindu.”

Avatar is not a word that had been in my common parlance, as I had eschewed dungeons and dragons and all magical reality paradigms, mostly because they have always been the domains of geeks. And while I’m interested in consciousness, I have never been interested in the “wizards, or warlocks” variety. However, the same package in Indian robes has always completely entranced me. Go figure. Sai Baba can pull a watch out of his asshole, and I’m over the moon, must know how to acquire that siddhi, but say the word Merlin, and my eyes roll far up in my head.

I suppose this is why there is different means for different humans.

The other day I met a girl at Desa Seni, beautiful bright-eyed, fresh. Tara (pronounced Terra) had the “download” to come to Bali while watching the new James Cameron blockbuster Avatar. I haven’t seen this movie. I know from Facebook it’s “the best movie of all time”, that you must see it in 3-D, that it is an epic adventure involving blue people, returning to nature, and that people are freaking out about it. Other searches online reveal that some people are depressed because they can’t go to Pandora. It brought Tara (Terra) to Bali. It’s grossed over 1 billion dollars.

I’ve always referred quietly to my lesser self as Terra and my higher self as Tara. The irony of meeting my doppelganger, at least in name is not lost on me.

One time, while I was at a teacher training in Tucson, 2005, someone wrote “Ava” in front of my nametag, which said Tara. I looked down at the anonymously renamed “Ava-tara”, nametag. I was so honored, though really didn’t know the weight of its meaning.

Years later when I was teaching at a troubled kids program and told them my name, they asked me,”Tara, like Avatar…?” I thought they were little geniuses until I realized that was a cartoon on TV.

In my tidy little bungalow at this edge of the world resort, there is a stack of stale, crusty, roach infested magazines. Since my friend Shirley down in Seminyak has been dying for magazines, something, anything, I risk the roaches and bring down the stack. They are all called “The Avatar Journal.” All are dated 2006.

I open up to a random page and the first quote that jumps out at me is :

“The harsh judgments you make about others are about the same things you resist recognizing in yourself.”

I close the magazine almost too quickly. This is exactly the theme of my last month in Bali. Exactly. Not that this isn’t common theme in life for any heady person, but If there were one phrase to encapsulate my own pain and suffering it would be this.

In the world of movements, and self-help programs from Landmark Forum, to EST, to TM meditation, to Lifespring… somehow the program called “Avatar “ has eluded me. Unthinkable, since the woman who wrote the Harry Potter mega hit novel series turned movie series was “an Avatar master”. Hiding in plain sight. The creator of the Avatar method is Harry Palmer.

The crusty magazines are almost like magazine advertisements filled with photos of “masters” with big hair, and business cards with rainbows and galaxies and invitations to the programs and testimonials to its life changing capacities. The quality of their pictures makes it that looks like they are selling real estate, in the 80’s. All of this is very off-putting. I put the magazines down and pick them up again intermittently. I decide to bring them with me while I attempt the dial up Internet. It takes so long to load a page, or email that I can read a whole “article” while waiting for an email to be sent.

Then this catches my eye:

BUTTERFLY ENLIGHTENMENT

The Butterfly Effect is a term that was popularized by American mathematician Edward Lorenz to illustrate how a small change could set off a chain of events that could result in a major change. A butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil causes a chain of events that leads to an atmospheric disturbance in Texas.

Avatar is one of the first technologies capable of deliberately accelerating the conscious process of enlightenment. It is a path to truth that doesn’t begin with a lie. The Avatar adaptation of the who am I? question is, “What is the purpose of who/what I create myself to be?” or “How did I come to believe this?

The rest of the paragraphs from the publishers go on to talk about Avatar Masters and Wizards, and that’s where my eyes uncontrollably roll back in my head and I have a problem listening.

So I just stick with the first part.

Martina, an older friend/student I’ve made from Desa Seni, who has lead me here says we will go up to Abasan to meet Sabine, the founder of Gaia Oasis. I’ve already read her vision, written in 1989, about forming an intentional community of like-minded individuals dedicating to awakening.

The Vision: In 1989 this is what I saw:

I found myself among a large group of people in beautiful natural surroundings, with soft slopes, trees and mild air. The main feeling was an auspicious, indescribable softness, tenderness and openness. Suddenly I sensed and saw that we were all interlinked with each other by light streams for channels. I became aware that these were direct soul-connections and that each of knew what the other was feeling and thinking. These were channels, in which information was exchanged directly, because our life was ruled by sincerity and honesty. I sensed that I found myself in a place of healing, a sacred place….

Gaia Oasis has two centers: The Ocean Center and the Mountain Center. Abasan, the mountain center, is where Sabine lives. We take a car up a winding road that looks very much like Hawaii. Lush green dramatic mountains lead up to mist covered mountaintops. We get out and walk the moss-covered steps to a wantilan (meeting area) where three elderly women sit having lunch. Monica: grey haired but youthful round face, is the resident yoga teacher at Gaia Oasis. Saicho, the body worker we’ve technically come here to see, German/Irish accent, but half Japanese, Asian shaped but blue in color, and then Sabine. Tall like me, with piercing blue eyes, wears a simple green cami dress, grey hair is held back in clips, her expression is often a half smile. I immediately love her.

We sit down to lunch and I immediately feel like I’ve found myself at a council of Saraswati, Durga, Laksmi, and Kali. I am Kamala, the youth, the virgin, the innocent, despite my 38 years of age. This council of elders has hundreds of years of collective experience.

After lunch Saicho and Martina excuse themselves, so Saicho can do Chen Tsen organ work on Martina, and Monica grabs a scooter back down to the Ocean community, Sabine and I are left to chat.

At first we feel each other out. We talk about my yoga teaching; I quickly decided add in shift to the Body Mind Centering stuff to let her know that I’m more than an Anusara teacher. She is relaxed and happy.

“Are you a therapist?” I ask, trying to get my handle on this woman, who is clearly the mastermind of this paradise and yet is so girlish and childlike belied by her German accent, which gives her an heir of profound authority.

“I don’t know what to call myself…” She says, bemused if not somewhat consternated by the question.

She tells me of her psychology studies in Germany and being frustrated, and then finding a more sensing, emptying approach. Finally being led to India, she tells me of years in Pune, studying, everything from Reiki to rebirthing, to Tantra, and then in the 90’s finding the Avatar teachings. She is a master. She founded Gaia Oasis 1999, 10 years after her initial vision.

“My parents raised me Buddhist, not as a religion but as a way of comprehending experience. So I always had that, and with all the work I’d done, nothing prepared me for the Avatar courses.”

Here, I forgive the name, and know that the basic premise is that we are creating our own reality in each moment, based on our ability to see clearly. This is what the Bok Jinpa Buddhist meditation course I’ve found myself in at Desa Seni is all about. This is what Kashmir Shaivism is about. This is the whole theme of my journey here.

“I know this,” I say, “but I found myself in Seminyak getting caught up in the loss of myself, my identity as a yoga teacher in LA,”

“The ego, “ she says,” is always looking for something to grab onto.”

“I know this, and yet I was shocked that it came up for me here.”

“Yes, but even the things we know, are memories and things that we hold onto. Even the experiences of this or that attainment or level of understanding, are things that ego holds onto…”

I know this too. I look in her eyes. In the next moment I am crying.

“What is this?” she says with nothing but kindness, “What is coming up for you?”

“Just appreciation, recognition…” I say, fighting my embarrassment at being so candid, but also knowing it is ok, “I was getting so discouraged, down there.” I say and start crying harder.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me, “ she says with so much experience and wisdom beneath her, “ I know…oh I know…”

When I leave her for my appointment with Saicho, we hug for the longest time. We are exactly the same height, and her eyes, her face, remind me exactly of my Grandpa Fritz from Switzerland, it’s almost as if I’m looking at, me.

Later, after my session with Saicho, I wander up to the Lotus house to find Martina and Sabine talking. I’ve already had the thought while looking at the moss covered steps traversing up and down the mountain to the salt water pool, the outdoor bale, the inside/outside healing space, that Martina should move here.

When I arrive, they are talking about just that.

“Tell her,” Martina says, “About the meaning of Tejakula.

I explain to Sabine that Tejas, in Ayurveda means light, like the light of someone’s essence. The tejas in their eyes. All of Ayurveda is based on the balance between prana, ojas, and tejas. Tejas is also in the Anusara invocation “Tejase”, the light of consciousness. And Kula, is a community of the heart. A community that is yoked by its desire for spiritual awakening.

Now it is Sabine’s turn to cry.

Tejakula has been a trading community since the 1^st century, and is a very sacred place in Bali. It is the home of the only native aboriginal population, according to one article. Sabine only knew that it meant “Light Village”.

Later, when back in Seminyak I think about the people who are depressed about not being able to visit Pandora. I can’t even find the local movie theater. And even when I do Avatar won’t be in 3-D. But it’s comforting to know, there are great embodiments here who are trying to live in harmony with nature, with each other, and trying to create a world that is enjoined by love and understanding, even if there method of getting there includes Wizards and Masters, it’s a worthy endeavor.

Moving Towards or Running From

“What brought you to Bali?” Maurus asks.

“I, well, I was, I wanted I…” launch into a too long story about needing respite from working too much, transitioning in my teaching, wondering what’s next, a breakup….”

“Are you moving away from something, or towards something?” he asks.

“I, well, I guess …both?” I say, not sure which.

“Because, moving away from something is out of fear, and moving towards something is done from love.”

We’ve been talking for awhile already, in fact, I have spent a combined total of 7 hours in the desa seni café _-really an indoor/outdoor joglo (an open aired structure with a four pillared inner area), participating in the most amazing satsangs.

7 hours.

Talkingswith various groups of people with topics ranging from enlightenment, to a shifting world consciousness, to ayahuasca, to pineal gland (of course), to boys, to business, to Avatar.

Yes, people here too are obsessed with Avatar. And no, I haven’t seen it yet.

Maurus is a delightful man from Sydney, whom I had noticed earlier in the day happily laying about in his sarong by the pool with a sublime grin on his face. I thought ,”this man is wealthy, this man is happy, this man knows something.”

Later, during my class in the yoga pavilion, he wandered down and sat ,not watching, but listening. “This man knows something,” I thought (Doing my best Ram Dass impersonation in my head).

Later, in the café, sharing conversation with him and Andree (another transitioning expat), the conversation meandered into Bali conjecture. A favorite end game topic that often includes everything. Like why, WHY does everyone seem to come here to get what they need, and leave completely transformed in one way or another.

“Bali,” Maurus says, “ is a node of the universe. People are often coming here in search of something, moving toward, or running away from something escaping.”

Well, that about sums it up. And this, he will later explain accounts for the positive light energies, the healers, the seekers, the visionaries, the green, recycling optimistic international community, yogis, meditators, creators, as well as the darker energies, the ruthless business people, the drug dealers, and double dealers, the black magic, the self absorbed hedonists .

Both exist, side by side on this tiny island, and somehow (another favorite topic of conjecture) this island tends to crash you up against the exact forces you need. I’m not sure if the honeymooners, tourists, two-week retreater get this far into it. I only, just now, in the last three days, turned a major corner myself, like the fever breaking, and all of a sudden the clouds parted and I’m in a different perch of consciousness.

Maurus , as it turns out is/was a business man- of the multi-house variety, I’m guessing from the things he’s not saying ,that he was stupid rich, “I used to lecture on business, and success, and do real-estate and investments until I threw a big typhoon in it…now I’m looking at abundance of a different kind…”

His mind is sharp and he catches all my references, which is refreshing , as does Andree, Thank you god, so hard to keep explaining who Ken Wilbur and Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche are…

Maurus writing a book about the game of life, and he speaks in simple power point ways: four steps, three tendencies, two ways- his mind understands the benefits of simplicity organization and maps. The exact inverse of the way Andree and I speak. He works to keep bringing us back to the point.

“I think enlightenment is a red herring..” he declares quite bluntly.

He goes on to explain his understanding of the purpose of life. Evolution. And because this is the purpose our purpose is creation. And thus we are compelled. We must, we absolutely are designed to create, and not only create but continuously reinvent and move forward.

“God wants to experience himself as other, it says in a Course on Miracles”

“The Kashmir Shaivites said that in the 10^th century” I say. I go on to explain to him the tantric cosmology. It turns out to be exactly what he’s intuited as the way universe works – Iccha, Jnana, Kriya .Will ,knowledge, action, compellingly combing to create the whole of creation in order for God to experience the totality of himself.

“We need align with that,” Maurus concludes.

I say, “Anusara.”

“I don’t know, “ I say, “If waking up is a red herring, I wonder how is someone to best express their purpose, their creation? Maybe seeing the big picture, the void, the everything is just halfway up the mountain. But knowing that, then create.”

It’s the classic vedantic verses tantric model, but I remember that in the morning.

“All you have to do, “ says Maurus “Is follow your heart, and that will lead you to your next creation.” And because he has a business background, he can bring in the most stunning references to evidence this.

“You know,there’s this example of Rupert Murdoch talking to a guy on an airplane that asks him, how did you do it, how did you create all that you have? Rupurt Murdoch looks at him and says, ‘I bet you, you’ve had to make two, maybe three important choices in your life: where to live, what to do for your career, who to marry,” The guy says, , “Yeah maybe two of those three,” Ruport Murdoch says, “And 50% of all your important decisions will work out. I have made two maybe three thousand such choices, 50% of which have worked out, and that is how I’ve created my life.”

“So, “Maurus concludes, “You’ve just got to create, because the logorithm of consciousness went from creating planets in 14 billion years, life in the last 2 million or so, an is exponentially speeding up. And it seems, it wishes to create to experience all the possibilities of itself, so if you create, at least 50% of those inventions will turn out.”

Apparently, that is exactly where Bali wanted me to be, to hear this, on this day, in this joglo, which I waited in for 7 hours, to have that piece of information delivered to my ears.

Don’t fuck with Hanuman

My soul sings with the spirit of adventure.

What I needed, and boy did I need it, was to get out and about in Bali. Away from Seminyak/Canggu, fashionista beautiful people haven in the flatlands…

I needed to come to Ubud, nestled in the mountains, where the artists live.

Somehow my soul resonates better up here. In my first stretch of several days off in a row, I spontaneously hired a car to whisk me away up to the town where royalty lives. It’s funny how I’m such a creature of wanderlust that even in the beauty of a place like Canggu, I can get cabin fever. But as soon as the car was in motion, passing small villages , zooming scooters, uniformed school children and neighborhood temples my heart sang with freedom.

My first stop in Ubud, without question was the monkey forrest. The jungle forrest home of little Hanuman- esque macaques. Apparently the most widespread and successful of all primates (according to the brochure). So human like. Playing fighting, nursing babies, grabbing bananas out of your hand, making makeshift tools, with rocks and sticks and leaves, swimming, staring at the clouds like they are contemplating god, fighting territorially. The monkey forrest is an Indiana Jones like jungle with Banyan trees dripping thick ropey vines which plunge down into the earth. Moss covered dragon carvings, and monkey statues, waterfalls, and steps crawling down into the forrest floor are the backdrop for these captivating creatures which look so much like us. You feel as if the poet writers who wrote the Ramayana walked these steps, watched these monkeys, saw them looking up and envisioned them flying across mountains to save Sita.

I sat with a monkey holding an nursing her baby, and thought how communal and loving and caring these simian creatures are. I watched them play for hours in the water, jumping and leaping and playing tricks on each other. I identified with the lone monkeys. As I wandered down to the end of the path there was one large monkey, sitting amid the sound of the crashing waterfall and the blue mountain stream, staring into the forrest. I thought,” this monkey is me.” This monkey is pensive and thoughtful and earnest and alone.

Then another monkey came close and he hopped on top of her and humped her madly.

I started laughing contemplating my own horniness, and what if we were that visceral and raw as humans just running and humping whomever, however we wanted. And I snapped a photo. Then , all of a sudden turned and ran at me, bearing teeth, and screaming in a frightful manner. He was definitely going to bite me. I thought about the woman I heard about in New York whose faced was ripped off by her friends pet monkey. I stepped back, he advanced, I screamed, he waved his arms screaming at me. I ran backwards screaming like a school girl, heart pounding. I stopped again, turned around and looked back at him. Once again, as if nothing had happened, he was just sitting , contemplating, looking meditative.

I laughed again. Stomach dropping back to normal position, fear abating.

This monkey is me.

We talk about the monkey mind, and it’s funny how apt the analogy is. The monkey’s are like us without higher cognition. They play, they love, they eat, they fuck, they attack, and do it all over again. Looking at that monkey as myself, this is the play my mind has been on since I’ve been here. Meditative and peaceful flpping in an instant attacking myself like a terrorist, then calm again staring out at the Balineses sunset.

I haven’t jumped on anyone and humped them, but that’s probably because, unlike the monkey, I’m a bit self conscious.

Bali Karma

I’ve heard this now three times. Bali has a way of bringing out your Karma. You come here, and get exactly what you deserve. I’m not sure why this is, I can’t quite figure out if there is an excess of negative ions due to the pressure dropping regularly, and rainstorms changing things up, whether the community is small, insular but international, whether people come here in search of a spiritual something, but I’m definitely bumping up against myself here in a pointed a direct way.

After a particularly gnarly night where I managed to alienate the entire local Bikram population from me (well done another cherry bomb in my life) at a party, I was thankful to happen into the perfect meditation class the following day, on enlightenment, of all topics.

I admit, wholeheartedly, humbly, I am a highly flawed and often misinformed individual. Against my better judgement I went to a party where I knew there would be partying of the Burning Man type, which is all fine and good, but I happened to get particularly bent out of shape by the local Bikram teachers, “what’s your yoga Anu what? Who’s your teacher, Frank somebody?” who had done a catalogue of questionable things to my friend, and now had discovered the more psychotropic drugs, which I guess are opening their minds. I shouldn’t have gone to the party, but I had just taught a class that day on finding where the resistances were and going there. So I went. And I watched. And I judged.

And therein is the problem. I am a judgmental asshole. This culminated in a particularly ill-advised act which consisted of me, frickin visiting American teacher, going up to the owner of the local Bikram studio and saying, “What are you doing?”.

“Hey?” he said in his thick Australian accent.

“What are you doing?” I didn’t mean in that moment, I meant, as a yogi, as a person, as a propigater of yoga in Bali. He knew what I meant.

We stared at each other for a long pregnant moment, and he said, quite rightly, “Who are you to judge?”

And he was right. So I said, “You’re right,” and quickly embarrassedly tried to leave, tripping most excellently on my flat treadless sandals, and then had to spend the next 10 minutes finding a ride home amid the snickering teachers, no doubt laughing at my gall.

The next day at Desa Seni, an amazing teacher, Jason was leading the third of a series of Bok Jinpa meditation classes- a form of Tibetan Buddhism that emphasizes compassion and intention as a means to enlightenment. And, as far as I can tell, the concept that everything outside is a reflection of your inner state. So what, was that party showing me about me, and my yoga.

Like I have to ask.

I know already the parts of myself that are tamasic, and lagging and which I must unconsciously bring into the vibrational fold that I want to live in and teach about. I know all too well the parts of myself that continue to slumber while acting out among those around me. And that conversation, with that poor Australian Bikram teacher, who everyone agrees is a nice guy, was only conversation with myself.

What am I doing? I often wonder what business do I have for teaching yoga, and why should anyone listen to me. I tell myself it’s not me, and I truly believe that but the flickering candle of ego constantly plays with concealing and revealing the big Self that I am seeking to maintain. I don’t suffer fools gladly, but when I look at them as a projection of myself, I am again brought to my knees , humbly, begging for forgiveness.

After listening to Jason talk about Enlightenment coming in the form of prayer and action, and compassion breaking down the differences between us and them, about the projection inward on the mind and the projection outward, I was so so so grateful. “You can’t change others” he said, “but you can change yourself.”

It’s not like I haven’t heard this before, but I’ve always been a fantastic procrastinator. Railing against those things outside of me while failing to look at the me it reveals.

So, as the wind blows through the palm trees I sit here immersed in the Karma of myself, and feel so humble and so grateful, for the work I have to do.