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)

Voices

(For my daughter, Kate, on her 32nd birthday)

“God speaks in a whisper,”

a friend said recently.

“And if you don’t hear it,

he’ll raise his voice!”

Our ears

are unaccustomed

to whispers.

Even a raised voice

is often ignored

in the din

of our daily lives.

But eventually—

if we’re lucky,

or receptive,

or helpless enough—

we will hear the words

meant for no other.

In our naiveté,

we sometimes approach God

as a destination

rather than as a direction—

the soft voice

ever reminding us

of the peace,

the love,

and the joy

within.

Close your eyes.

Take a deep breath.

Listen…

What do you hear?

(St. Petersburg, FL)

Touring

In mid-November, my friend, Tony, and I spent several days in Charleston, South Carolina. While looking at an historic home near the Battery one afternoon, we were warmly greeted by Rusty Denman and his wife, Lisa Ohler Denman. Our accents immediately outed us as tourists; theirs readily evidenced local roots.

Rusty was as gregarious—and graciously curious—as anyone I’ve met. Upon discovering that both Tony and I were born in Detroit, he shared details about the city that signaled more than passing acquaintance. As it happens, Rusty’s grandson is a student at the University of Michigan, where he’s a member of the crew team. Tony has two nieces at the school, both of whom are competitive swimmers. So, Rusty and Tony promised to facilitate an introduction (which occurred last month).

But another introduction—to the work of Lisa’s late father—has proven far more profound in light of my quest. The day after we met, Lisa sent me an e-mail. After noting that Rusty “knows more people than anybody but God,” and has a gift “for seeing and making connections,” she continued: 

America is a very big country, indeed—and yet it's a "small world after all.” I have this theory that connections are present all the time without us realizing it; it's only when we engage with each other that we become aware of them.

A good buddy of Rusty’s, Andrae Crouch, had a neat way of explaining something to me once. Drae is a singer-songwriter best known for that great song, "Oh Happy Day." Drae called one day, around the time that my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Drae said life is not always easy to understand. It's kind of like looking at the backside of a needlepoint, how there are all these loose threads and random-looking colors, knots and such, which don't really make much sense. But one day, God is gonna flip it over, and we'll see the marvelous tapestry he's been weaving together all along.

Dad was born in Brooklyn, went to Lehigh to be an engineer, then felt a call to the ministry. After Yale Divinity School, he went to Warren Wilson College—a unique liberal arts school in the mountains of western North Carolina. Dad ended up staying there for almost 40 years, as chair of the Department of Religion and Philosophy, teaching classes in poetry and autobiography. He was chaplain of the college, pastored its Presbyterian congregation, counseled the student body, coached the baseball team, and in his "spare" time played principal violin in the Asheville Symphony. He was a Renaissance guy who was always learning.  

Something about the way you write makes me think you'd really like a book he wrote, "Better Than Nice and Other Unconventional Prayers."   

It was the kind of invitation I’ve learned to take seriously—and to recognize as more than mere coincidence. I immediately ordered the book—which was waiting for me when I arrived in Minneapolis for Thanksgiving.

To put it mildly, Frederick Ohler’s prayers are both riveting and beautiful—unlike any I’ve seen or spoken. He eloquently captures the magnificence of the mundane—in a way that invites both believers and non-believers to see and appreciate the profound beauty of the world we share. Originally published in 1989, the book is still available through both Amazon and Barnes and Noble; I highly recommend it.

One of Ohler’s final prayers is called, “Tourist Eyes.” “We take it all for granted,” he writes, 

overlook what is right before our jaded eyes…

When familiarity evokes a yawn…

give us the chance

and the will

to see anew with tourist eyes…

all the wonderful sights

all the lovely people…

and as much of the glory as we can take.

What a wonderful approach to life! It's one of the hoped-for consequences of my journey.

Finding myself in unfamiliar places almost daily (often by myself), I’ve had little choice but to see through “tourist eyes”—especially on some less-than-hospitable roads. The trip has also enabled me to test a set of figurative “compass points”—ways of approaching both experiences and interactions. When I chart my course by them, the four—gratitude, wonder, empathy, humility—help preserve my tourist eyes.

By gratitude, I’m referring to a level of appreciation you would display if you knew that this was your last day of life. It’s a significantly heightened attention to the smallest of details—and more importantly, to each and every person you encounter (especially loved ones). Try spending a day as if there will be no tomorrow. It’s a sober experience—but one that can only make you more aware and thankful.

Wonder is the innocent delight best evidenced by young children. I envision my grandchildren each time I lifted them up to a Christmas tree over the holidays. It was as if they were seeing each light and ornament for the first time every time—even when the exercise was repeated several times an hour.

Empathy is the sincere opening of one’s eyes and heart to others—even and especially when those others seem different. I vividly recall the man I met in Washington, DC while passing out dinner on the street. He wanted me to see rather than serve him. He challenged me to see myself in him, and by extension, to recognize and acknowledge the very face of God.

Humility, rather than simply an absence of pride, is a practice of allowing the world to come to you. It’s the peaceful, pervading acceptance that “control” is but an illusion, and that our greatest gift (and most generous quality) is simply a genuine, attentive presence.

I wish I could say that I’m able to sport these lenses all the time. What I will say is that, like Frederick Ohler, I pray for tourist eyes—and a tourist heart as well. At home and on the road.

(St. Petersburg, FL)

PS. A new cinnamon bun has taken over the top spot: The Carlton Bakery in Carlton, Oregon, where the delicious, croissant-like pastry is called a “Pain du Matin.”

PPS. On January 14, I depart for a 16-day “detour” to Bali—so there won’t be any new posts until early February. Though Bali is not in America, I’m told the local culture is uniquely spiritual. So I’m still looking for God!

Advent

‘Tis the season of anticipation

and arrival…

What do we await?

Is it only the foretold coming

of a newborn king

on that silent night

so long ago?

Or do we silently hope

for something more?

A re-emergence, perhaps,

of a royal quality within—

equally precious, but long suppressed?

Innocence, perhaps?

The open,

unpretentious,

uninhibited ability

to welcome the miraculous…

to embrace the world

with unfettered wonder…

and to be likewise encompassed

by unconditional love?

Rather than seeking a distant redeemer,

shouldn’t we summon Emanuel—

“God with-in us”—

here and now?

Two thousand years later,

the babe from Bethlehem

remains a vivid reminder

of our own heavenly heritage.

Let us follow the child’s lead

and claim

the divine spark within.

Surely, that

would bring comfort

and joy

to the world.

(Portland, OR)