Bali throws flower petals at my feet everywhere every day. When I
step outside, fresh plumeria blossoms adorn my path. Arriving at my
car, they are on the windshield. It is beautiful and I have
experienced it in other tropical places such as Hawaii. The blessing
is compounded in Bali because blossoms are ubiquitous to the island.
Balinese people make offerings every day and
leave them all around and on the ground too. It is called canang sari. Canang
means beautiful purpose and sari means essence. A small tray
made of woven palm leaves is filled with different colored flowers, with
perhaps some food, incense, and even money. The whole arrangement is
specific and includes careful placement as to direction of each
object. It is time consuming to prepare each day and I have seen a
woman at my hotel here in Ubud spend hours carefully preparing scores of trays to be
placed in many places each day. People all over Bali spend countless
hours in this daily ritual of prayer offering. To walk anywhere in
the street is to see canang sari on the ground in front of
businesses, at temples and homes, adorning sculptures and shrines;
everywhere. This morning I walked to my car and the vehicle next to
mine had a freshly made canang sari offering sitting at a place of
prominence on the dashboard.
Balinese girl, adding fresh offerings midday on a sidewalk in front of an establishment or home
On a sculpture of Ganesha
At first, I took note and simply stepped around the little baskets,
but now I am also honoring their meaning and absorbing the blessings.
It is respectful. I feel blessed.
Read more here: Offering
On the pavement
Offering flowers being sold at market.
Early morning, on a car dashboard!
On a sculpture of a praying man.
I love the term canang sari, beautiful purpose—essence! Something to meditate upon. The Balinese do each day, and then spend time and resource manifesting it.
Traveling in THE DREAM has a life of its own. All experiences are
essential and woven together, and cannot be labeled or isolated by
the dreamer. They unfurl like a flag in the wind, ceaselessly
changing shape. When I arrived in Sanur, Bali, I spent the first
night in a hotel near the airport, since my arrival from Cambodia was
after midnight. The next day a short taxi ride brought me to a
homestay I had booked in Sanur, in a densely populated neighborhood
not far from the beach. The hostess from Finland met me, along with
the Balinese owner of the house who lived with his family in the
rear. Cia, the Finnish woman showed me around and I put my things
down in my room. Immediately, I felt a bit sick to my stomach, and
when alone, went in the bathroom and vomited. I realized that
something was amiss. The room was windowless, and had a shallow
light, peculiar smells were in the air, the furnishings were worn and
drab, and I felt unsettled.
Cia is a short woman and underweight. She drinks and smokes, and I
soon learned that she is battling lymphoma cancer and has large
tumors on her neck. Her mind is bright, and she smiles readily, but
there is a darkness settled around her. I discovered that she cannot
eat because it causes her pain, but drinks beer and smokes
cigarettes.
I never had the thought of leaving, and spent seven days with her.
I didn't feel comfortable in my physical circumstance, but I
am not physical. THE DREAM brought me to Cia, and I came to
appreciate her and could relate with her because I lost my Naomi to
cancer and walked with her for two years through the valley of the
shadow of death. Cia has been living in Bali for five years and has a
wealth of knowledge about the island and its culture. She speaks at
least four languages, is an ardent animal lover and takes care of
them wherever she finds they need help. Three cats and a dog have
found her and stayed to live with her. She is pragmatic and accepts
her condition in a matter-of-fact way.
One night at dinner she mentioned she was trying to make a
doctor's appointment for the next day. I told her I would go with her
so she would have company and not feel alone. Her eyes opened wide
and she stared at me and said, “But you are on vacation, you don't
want to do that!” I looked back straight in her eyes and said,
“Yes, I do.” Her jaw dropped, and looking even more intensely
into my face she said, “I believe you.” And then she started to
cry, and apologized. Later I told her that the two years I spent in
close communion with Naomi, by her side through all her medical
treatments and living with her in foreign cities, was the best time
of my life. “We were burning the candle at both ends.” I said.
I left Cia a couple days ago and THE DREAM put everything in place
for me. I found a lady from Bali who is renting me her car. Anne, a
young woman from Finland who is a friend of Cia's has given me the
keys to her bamboo house up the coast in a place that Cia wrote on
her list of places for me to visit. I am now in the bamboo house,
making paintings, visiting nearby villages, swimming in the sea,
taking photographs, and continuing creatively.
Cia said, “There is a reason we met.” We will meet again. I
left a few of my things with her so must return before leaving for
New Zealand in about a week.
It probably has happened to every salty-dog sailor while crossing the sea—doldrums are encountered, the breeze stops blowing, and the vessel slows to wait for the wind again to fill its sails. The travelers are at an impasse,
unable to go forward or back. I am at an impasse in this voyage
around the world. Here in Bali, I can stay a month, but was planning
to leave sooner and go to Papua New Guinea. My original thought was
to end by traveling in Ecuador before flying home to the USA. I
invent as I go along, and have discovered New Guinea surprisingly
expensive, as is Australia, and likewise getting to South America
from anywhere in these parts. I feel stranded and realize I
need to make plans quickly to book the passages I need and get the
best opportunities. Maybe I don't know what I want.
This feeling of being stranded in my personal life has
occasionally come upon me, and it is like the sailor in doldrums.
What can one do but wait for the wind?
The Lavender Umbrella, Chiang Mai, oil on canvas, 40 x 30 cm
Like unstoppable sand falling to the bottom of an hour glass, my
time in Thailand is running out. I have to leave within a week, and
although just stepping across the border to Cambodia, thinking of going away brings tinges of remorse.
I have Thai friends here in Chiang Mai, the streets are no longer
confusing, I like riding my motorcycle, the cost of living is low,
the climate is great, I have had good apartments including now when I
can go swimming at the pool every day, I have made paintings and
captured wonderful photographs. There is much more to explore—yet
I am leaving. Thailand visa requires a limit of thirty days. I can turn
around and come back immediately and stay longer, but THE
DREAM is carrying me around the world and I must arrive again in the
United States.
Papua New Guinea has always held an attraction for me, ever since
I saw photographs in National Geographic of fearsome men in makeup
and bones through their noses. I am making my way there, and have
found that one of the cheapest routes is through Bali, where I arrive Christmas night.
In dreams, one experience flows into the next, with grand
eloquence and abundance of awe inspiring surprise. This is THE DREAM,
and I know it has many dimensions. I will stay in touch with my Thai
friends, think fondly of them and keep them in my heart as I do with
everyone that I meet along the way. With some people, it is never
good-bye, but rather, we will see each other again.
