Grounding

My daughter, Christine, has recently been chiding me for the conspicuous lag between the subject of my blogs and my actual location. She’s right—and I feel bad. My last entry—posted on March 7 from Hammond, Louisiana—was about Bali, from which I departed more than a month earlier. A few days ago, I was having Tex-Mex in Houston—when I haven’t even begun to mention all the fresh fish, shrimp and grits, gumbo, cracklins, and other southern delicacies I’ve enjoyed in Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana these past six weeks.

While I’ve actually been traveling in the South for three months, I’ve written little that is unique to the region. And there’s been no shortage of material. On the contrary, I’ve had so many intriguing encounters I hardly know where to begin. My defense, as I tried explaining to Christine, is that I’m not only putting in considerable miles on the road, I’m also spending most of my “free” time with friends (and friends of friends). That, of course, was my original intent. But it doesn’t leave much time to write (at least not the considered reflections I want to post).

I don’t expect to catch up—which is reassuring in a funny way. Well into my third journal, I’m confident a book will eventually emerge from all the handwritten notes I’ve taken. And book or no book, I’ll have plenty of stories for the grand children (tales which will surely be embellished as both they and I age). For the time being, however, I’ll start sharing my Southern adventures—which I hope will at least pacify Christine.

Shortly after the detour to Bali, I hit the literal and figurative turning point of the trip. On February 8, my friend Stephen flew to Ft. Lauderdale to join me for a week. Three days later, on February 11, we reached the end of US Highway 1 in Key West, Florida—the furthest point from Portland in the continental states. Now, even though the route isn’t direct, every mile brings me closer to Oregon. While I’m not in a hurry for the journey to end, it feels good to be heading home. I’ll be there on May Day.

“Are you finding God?” my sister, Susie, asked on the phone last week. I could answer a hundred different ways. My initial thought was of Buddy Moody, a cattle rancher in Poplarville, Mississippi, who, after sizing me up, shot back, “I didn’t know that God was lost!” And Jacky Jack White, a country musician and part-time preacher up the road in Meridian, Mississippi, who asked, “Did you know that God’s lookin’ fer you?”

While I like to think that neither God nor I am lost, I was hoping to be on the receiving end of a little more sunshine here in the South. Key West didn’t get above 65—and the wind made it feel even cooler. It got down to 19 one night in Alabama, and there was snow 20 miles north of my campground in Mississippi. If it hasn’t been cold, it’s been rainy—and sometimes both.

But I’ve been warmed immensely by “Southern hospitality”—which, I’ve concluded, has nothing to do with the climate and everything to do with the people (and the food). No matter how foul the weather, I’ve been welcomed everywhere by people who made me feel right at home—whether I knew them or not. My rather circuitous route through Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana was not the result of calculated planning, but rather of generous invitations from friends and strangers alike who had heard of my travels and were willing to open their homes and hearts.

While hospitality has been the South’s most charming feature, the region offers a deeper lesson: we run a great risk by stereotyping anyone. Case in point: While many people talk openly about having a “personal relationship” with Jesus, a good number of them are likely to, in their next breath, condemn the deep harm they’ve suffered in churches. As one minister put it, “Religion’ll screw people up as fast as drugs.” That degree of candor—and distancing from conventional religion—was not what I expected.

Another discovery here has been the clarity of consensus around what really matters. Before setting out on this trip, I asked, “Can the ways we connect with God help us recognize and appreciate what’s truly important—and perhaps even transform how we engage with each other and the Earth?” While I have yet to discover a common language as it relates to God, I’ve heard nothing but agreement about what’s truly important.

“Where do you find God?” I asked two young sisters at a Coldstone Creamery in Marco Island, Florida. They were with their mother and aunt—who were quite animated and curious.

“Everywhere,” nine-year-old Summer answered casually.

“So, what really matters to you?” I followed up.

This time ten-year-old Sky jumped in—with equal speed and certainty. Affectionately embracing Summer, she said, “My sister!”

Sky’s innocent, spontaneous declaration encapsulates the only slightly longer replies to that question from every adult I’ve asked. My friends, Jay and Barbara, who hosted me in Foley, Alabama, summed it up in four words: “Family. Friends. Community. Relationships.”

You don’t have to travel 21,000 miles through 33 states to appreciate that perceptions of God vary dramatically. But despite the considerable differences as it relates to a Supreme Being, people are almost totally unanimous about what ultimately matters. Family. Friends. Community. Relationships. What might happen if we truly and collectively embraced that understanding? As Buddy Moody put it, “What we focus on around here is lovin’ people up.”

When you get right down to it—no matter what your faith or spiritual inclination, what really matters is family, friends, community, relationships… and lovin’ people up.

Now that’s the kind of ground I can stand on. How about you?

(Galveston, TX)

Bali III

(Last of three parts)

Immanence

On January 25, six members of our group traveled to a viewpoint overlooking Mount Batur in central Bali. The scene reminded me of Crater Lake in Oregon and Mount St. Helen’s in Washington. As with Crater Lake, the large body of water created by Batur’s ancient eruptions is stunning. And like Mt. St. Helen’s, the volcano remains active. Relatively recent mud and lava flows border working roads and hundreds of homes. But villagers—clearly reconciled to the threat—continue to reside in harm’s way.

The vivid co-mingling of beauty and danger underscored life’s random and precarious nature. How could I have lived these 57 years in such safe and comfortable surroundings, while people here were destined to enter (and likely exit) this world in less-than-enviable conditions atop an active volcano?

There is no rational answer. And yet, we can’t stop asking ourselves such questions. It’s the same with God.

Theologians routinely characterize God as simultaneously immanent (meaning near and implying accessible) and transcendent (meaning not near and suggesting beyond or outside us). This paradoxical depiction underscores the fact that God cannot be known intellectually. Yet, for believers, the Divine is visible and vibrant—evident through nature, metaphor, ritual, prayer, relationship. In other words, through the heart, spirit, and senses, not the mind.

In the 21st chapter of the Tao Te Ching, Lao Tsu might well be alluding to God when he explains “the Tao” this way:

The Tao is ungraspable….

Since before times and space were,

the Tao is.

It is beyond is and is not.

How do I know this is true?

I look inside myself and see.

If one accepts the premise of God, it’s easy enough to concede both immanence and transcendence. But we can only know by looking inside ourselves.

Bali not only invites, but encourages its visitors to look inside. For those who do, the island’s gift is a vivid taste of Divine immanence.

During one of our morning sessions, David Patten suggested that there are four basic perceptions of the Divine. One, that the Divine does not exist on this plane—that you have to die to encounter God. Two, that the Divine is accessible through a narrow path—but that an intermediary (such as a priest, rabbi, or other spiritual guide) has to lead you there. Three, that the Divine is readily available to anyone—but only in certain places. And four, that the Divine is everywhere—a state of awareness (and life) David called “the golden age.”

Many people I know consider this the golden age. My friend, Steve, who was part of the Mount Batur contingent, is among them. But as he so eloquently observed, “Living in the golden age is not experiencing an ongoing cosmic orgasm!” On the contrary, it’s more along the lines of French novelist Marcel Proust’s observation that the real voyage of discovery is about having new eyes—the kind that remain open to the world’s encompassing wonder.

In his new book, The Rebirthing of God, contemporary scholar and poet John Philip Newell paraphrases the fourteenth-century Christian mystic, Julian of Norwich. According to Newell, Julian says that we “are not just made by God, we are made of God.” At every turn—through its gorgeous landscapes, gentle people, and countless public displays of both sacred art and sincere gratitude—Bali reminds visitors of their divine nature. How, I wonder, would the widespread embrace of such self-understanding transform our interactions and stewardship of the earth?

Anyone insisting on indisputable proof of God is destined to be disappointed. But those who remain open to the miracle of creation are apt to realize a great truth (as conspicuous in America as it is in Bali): all that really matters is that we live fully and joyfully, with gratitude and grace.

As I look back on my 17 days in Bali and 10 months on the road in America, finding God has been the easiest part. Finding myself—and, like the Balinese, bringing my purest energy to the “temple” of daily life—that’s the real challenge. And a journey that will continue until my parting breath.

During our final morning together, David Patten offered this encouraging reminder:

Each morning we waken anew. But we often cling to what we were the day before instead. We stand on the ashes of giants. We’re the living embodiment of everything and everyone that has come before us. And we’re supported in every new endeavor by everything that has passed before. Bali’s invitation is to live in the present—and to bring ourselves to each day as an offering.

Later that day, I enjoyed the last of my six massages. As I was about to leave, Tini (the incomparable masseuse) asked, “When are you coming back?” Not will you return—but when will you return?

There’s a subtle yet significant implication to her question. Once you’ve experienced the Divine’s abiding presence both within and around you, why would you not continue returning, over and again, until, finally, you remain there forever? In other words, when you’ve reached the golden age, is there any turning back?

In the end, that’s the ultimate lure—of Bali, of America, of God. When you’ve had a pleasant taste, you can’t help coming back for more…

(Hammond, LA)

Bali II

(Second of three parts)

Immersion

“Wisdom,” says David Patten, “is to witness. In order to be wise, one must retain one’s innocence. One cannot be wise without being innocent, without being humble.”

David and his wife, Gay Luce, served as our guides in Bali. Both in their late 70s, they’re lovely, gentle souls—and fountains of wonder and insight. They’ve been conducting tours for nearly three decades, and this was advertised as their last—a major incentive for going.

Most mornings began with an hour-long orientation to the island’s culture and spirituality, after which we were off to explore, either individually or in groups. Every other day, our 16-member party boarded three vans (luckily, driven by locals) for a journey to one of the country’s significant temples or other intriguing sights.

First, however, came a ritual purification. And before that, we had to learn how to dress.

For men, appropriate temple garb consists of a sarong (a long piece of fabric which is wrapped around the lower body like a skirt), a saput (a shorter piece of fabric, similarly wrapped and tied), a sash (especially handy for holding things up if you have a hard time tying them, as I did), a white cotton shirt (the lighter the better in the warm, humid climate), and an udeng (a turban-like cap, which I really liked). Women also wear a sarong, along with a kebaya (a colorful cross between a blouse and a light jacket). Since few of us had packed the proper attire, our first outing was to the local market—where we discovered that bartering with the vendors was an expected part of each sale.

Once everyone was properly appointed, we were ready for the purification. This particular blessing—performed by a high priest called a Pedanda—involved a bit of smoke, a handful of rice, and lots of water (poured over our heads repeatedly—the effect of which was magnified by the fact that we were outdoors in the rain). Though I didn’t understand a word and was new to the required gestures and bows, I could appreciate the reverence. It was an “out of worldly” experience, which I didn’t need to figure out. There was intrinsic pleasure in its mystery.

We visited five temples during the day and two more at night (one of the evening visits was for a performance, the other for an anniversary). The newest structure was hundreds of years old; at least two dated back thousands.

Our travel exposed the Bali landscape I had anticipated. Open farms and rice fields, often terraced, gave the countryside an idyllic, exotic appearance—in sharp contrast to the crowded villages.  

The rides themselves were an adventure. The roadways are British (or more accurately, Dutch), so vehicles drive on the left. But two and sometimes three vehicles come and go on what would be a single lane back home. It took some getting used to, but I eventually began to trust the virtual highway tango, in which our drivers were well practiced. I learned to take deep breaths, sit back, and leave the dance to them. One—a happy-go-lucky fellow named Chookie—even added his own Bob Marley tunes.

While each temple was impressive, I had my favorites. At Gunung Kawi, we had to walk down (and then back up) 400 concrete steps—no easy trek in the heat and humidity. But the views—first of lush fields, then of dense, colorful foliage, a scenic river, and finally of the temple structures themselves (Hindu altars constructed atop a former Buddhist monastery) were well worth the effort.

At Tirtha Empul, we enjoyed a ritual bath. The temple sits on a hill at the site of an ancient spring; crystal clear water from the spring is channeled into a series of 14 fountains. In orderly lines, we entered the pool fully clothed, offered brief prayers at 11 of the fountains, then submerged ourselves below each. A Balinese man ahead of me guided us through with both enthusiasm and delight. Equally reverent and playful, the experience was wonderfully refreshing. Once again, even though I had little by way of prior context, I felt good—and clean!

Tanah Lot proved a challenge. The temple—erected on rocks that jut into the Indian Ocean—is, from a distance, one of the most beautiful sights on earth. And because it’s accessible only at low tide, its splendor is magnified by its isolation. Fortunately, our timing was good and we were able to enter. Unfortunately, as we were removing our sandals and assuming our prayer positions, I noticed that the place was teeming with rats. And I mean rats—large, scruffy rodents that were clearly relishing the hefty baskets of food placed on the altar by visitors! Having a profound aversion to the opportunistic critters, I surrounded myself with other group members who served, unwittingly, as a human “rat wall.” Understandably, my prayers were compromised; it was all I could do to remain silent and respectful. Susanne, on the other hand, was so awed by the natural beauty that she didn’t even notice the rats. “I could marry you here,” she said softly as we were walking out—a proposition that hadn’t even remotely crossed my mind. “I’d consider that,” I whispered with what little courage remained. “But it would have to be a different venue!”

I was fascinated by the bearing with which the Balinese approach their temples. While westerners are instinctively inclined to invoke their faith in times of need, the Balinese are careful to enter temples only when fully aligned—in other words, when they have energy to offer. So, if ill or injured, menstruating or mourning, the Balinese do not participate in temple rites. The devout gather in spiritual community only when able to contribute whole-heartedly and without distraction.

When we visited the temples (all of which were outside and open to the elements), our prayers generally lasted just a few minutes; the form was identical each time. We removed our sandals, sat or kneeled on our shoes (to cushion the hard and sometimes wet ground), and raised our hands to our heads five times (with palms together and thumbs touching just above eye level). Each of our silent devotions took 30-60 seconds; a temple priest (called a Pemangku) voiced the prayers aloud. During the second, third, and fourth prayers, we held flower pieces between our index fingers—each a tribute to the different ways the Divine is manifest. Empty hands during the first and last prayers were reminders of the fact that, ultimately, our most significant “offering” is our vulnerable selves—making these the most humble of devotions. Once again, I didn’t need to understand either the words or the gestures to appreciate their essence. If nothing else, the prayers proved an effective form of “grounding” and “quieting”—enabling me to further explore the site with a calm spirit and open heart.

As the days turned to weeks, I became increasingly aware of our status as “Brahmins”—the elite of the elite. Such accord was clearly a consequence of the trust David and Gay had built with the locals over decades. Of course, there’s an economic reality to the status. But, more importantly, there’s a moral responsibility. In all ways and at every turn, Brahmins should be the most generous, the most sensitive, and the most respectful. I remain cognizant of that now, as I’ve resumed my place in the American middle class. It’s not what you have. It’s who you are. And how you treat others.

Near the end of our stay, I finally got the hang of tying my sarong (and there are well-understood innuendos about just how it hangs!). I grew fairly comfortable walking around in what was essentially a skirt. And I became quite fond of my udeng—for which I await an excuse to wear in the states.  But no matter how much I witnessed and how long I spent soaking up David’s insights, I’ll never fully understand Bali’s essence, its customs, and its “theology.” It will remain delightfully mysterious—a reality for which I’m deeply grateful.

“Much is left for God to know,” David emphasized. “But for the Balinese, less is more. The goal here is better understanding of ourselves. And that starts with getting still.”

From that place of awareness, we eventually had to still ourselves for the return to America—a task for which David offered one final piece of advice. “Back home,” he reflected, “it’s as strange a place as this. So approach it the same way—with care, compassion, and curiosity.”

NEXT: Immanence (Living in the “golden age”)

(Hammond, LA)

PS. One of the highlights of the trip occurred on January 25, when a number of us visited a coffee and spice plantation. In addition to enjoying a lovely view and sampling a number of flavorful brews, we were introduced to Café Lewac, celebrated by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman in the movie, The Bucket List. Derived from sterilized beans that were ingested, digested, and subsequently excreted whole by wild civets (possum-like creatures), the coffee is uniquely rich and smooth. But, as is the case with many of Bali’s spiritual treasures, its fullest appreciation is more likely to occur when certain details are left to mystery!

Bali I

(First of three blogs about Bali)

Impressions

I know. It’s not America. It wasn’t part of the original plan. And it certainly wasn’t in the budget. But the detour to Bali (on a spiritual excursion guided by two teachers with whom I studied last year) was a “once in a lifetime” opportunity—and I wasn’t going to let the fact that it coincided with this “once in a lifetime” adventure stop me!

So I left the RV in St. Petersburg, Florida on January 13 and flew to Minneapolis, joining Susanne for a departure early the next morning. Roughly 32 hours and 15 time zones later, after stops in Tokyo and Singapore, we landed in Denpasar and were shuttled to Sri Bungalows on Monkey Forest Road in Ubud, Bali—our residence for the next 17 days.

Now that I’m back in the states, the trip retains a dream-like quality. I was told beforehand and reminded several times during the stay that Bali is as much a feeling as a destination. That it would take time to absorb and comprehend. And that I may never fully understand it. In that sense, it’s a microcosm of my yearlong journey through America—and of life itself.

In the native language, Bali is actually “Wwali”—meaning “offering” or “home.” It was both.

The first few days—spent exploring the streets of Ubud within half a mile of our hotel—were somewhat overwhelming. The city was more congested than I expected—with stores, restaurants, and hotels crowded atop each other for blocks on end, and hawkers peddling their wares in the few remaining crevices. Though the roads were supposedly one-way, scooters traveled in both directions and the sidewalks were a shifting carpet of ruts and bumps—so you had to step carefully. The only open area was a scruffy soccer field—mowed with a weed wacker, and occupied alternately by children and dogs.

There actually is a monkey forest on Monkey Forest Road. A large urban jungle with a beautiful temple, it’s full of monkeys, whose territory extends several blocks into the city. Once you get used to the clever critters (who routinely help themselves to jewelry, cameras, and hats), the forest is a peaceful refuge. But it’s also a tourist magnet—as evidenced by our happening upon Paris Hilton, conspicuous in purple gown and gold slippers (and yes, I have photos).

Early on, I gravitated to the Tutmak Café, which, in addition to good coffee, had a distinctly western flavor. Gradually, though, I began venturing beyond Ubud’s tourist-oriented face and finding its essence—which waited patiently in the background.

Our hotel was a perfect example. Its front was a discreet brick driveway, two cars wide by two deep, sandwiched between a restaurant and convenience store. The sign was so small and entry so unassuming that I walked past several times. But once you crossed beyond its open-air registration desk, the place evoked Shangri-La. A series of four-room pagoda villas neatly surrounded a picturesque rice field; two pools, a spa, and dozens of ornamental statues (many robed in native attire) graced the quiet, hidden retreat.

The concrete sculptures are everywhere. You can’t go 20 yards in any city without sighting one. And, in the unapologetically Hindu culture, offerings are made to them daily. Called chanang, each offering is comprised of a stick of incense and a small, palm leaf basket filled with flower pieces. In addition to adorning the statues, these incense-laden flower baskets are found on nearly every residence, business, market booth, and taxi dashboard. No other symbol so eloquently captures the culture’s underlying spirituality. If you didn’t know better, the ritual offerings might seem superstitious. But one soon begins to appreciate how effectively they serve as a reminder of the divine’s encompassing presence.

One evening, a member of our group—referring to the preponderance of statues—asked our maître de at the Café Wayan if he could explain “all the gods.” The man’s response was precious.

“Just one God,” he said with a wry smile. “But many forms. Like me! One man—many roles: husband, papa, worker…”

“It’s that way with all the religions,” he added earnestly. “Same God—different names.”

The contention was neither pretentious nor preachy. It simply illustrated a theological mindset that gently stretches our western, Judeo-Christian conventions.

Bali’s spiritual underpinnings were evident in other ways as well. While the local standard of living is modest and conditions far from pristine, I saw little poverty. Families typically live in compounds, with three and sometimes four generations inhabiting simple dwellings on small plots of land. Groups of 300-500 families unite as “banjars”—civil and spiritual communities, each with its own temple. Most men remain in the same banjar their entire lives; women generally move to their husband’s family compound and banjar.

Mid-way through our stay, we attended a native dance performance called a “Kecak.” The performers—members of a local banjar—acted out a story from the “Mahabharata”—ancient tales (which include the Bhagavad Gita) that attempt to explain the human condition and serve as the theological underpinning of Hinduism. The actors were backed by a 70-man “chorus.” For more than an hour, the group sang and chanted, employing a wide variety of indescribable sounds, creating a trance-like effect. The men ranged in age from about 20 to 80—including, I’m sure, many sets of grandfathers and fathers and sons, each continuing family traditions dating back generations. The sense of community was profound.

I was pleased to hear from several locals that, among tourists, Americans are far and away the most polite and respectful of Balinese customs and culture. And I wasn’t entirely surprised to be told by an energetic healer that, while I’m a “strong captain,” I need to “relax and have more fun.” Less than a minute into our session, just after I had sat down with my back to his legs, the 86-year-old man laughed heartily and pointed to my head. “Think, think, always thinking,” he said of me to the others in our party. Susanne got the biggest chuckle out of that!

Bali’s healing power and other charms continued to evidence themselves daily (and I’m not just alluding to the six lovely massages Susanne and I enjoyed). The weather averaged in the low 80s, fluctuating no more than a few degrees, day or night, rain or shine. Tropical fruit was abundant, tasty, and medicinal. I especially liked three that were previously unfamiliar: Mangosteen, Dragonfruit, and Snake Fruit (or “Salak,” which was recommended for those who suffered the temporary discomfort of “Bali belly”). And the American dollar went a long way. Elegant dinners for two rarely exceeded $25.

Weeks later, Bali remains an enduring, sensory feast.  And I’m sure that everything we experienced—the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes—will linger evocatively for years to come.

NEXT: Immersion (temple visits and other exceptional experiences)

(Foley, AL)