March into April Love Letter
To my beloved Indonesia – you have nourished my soul once again.
March….Leaving the insanity of the US (at this time) for the generous smiles and open hearts of your people brings a renewed spirit in me that has been altered by the state of our world. As I sit on my porch sipping gritty local coffee, a soft breeze weaves through the tops of the palms, rustling the fronds to and fro, giving rhythm to the young woman sweeping the walkway of fallen aromatic flowers, one hand gracefully behind her back. My first morning home, I woke to the sounds of shoveling rocks and digging dirt—not with a front loader, mind you, but two older Balinese schlepping piles of earth with a rickety wheelbarrow, accompanied by a live gamelan practice resonating from the nearby wantilan (local hall). This field, once a rice padi for centuries, has been my front yard in Bali for the past 17 years. In pandemic times, the old farmer grew tired and let the ancient rice cultivation pass on to an unkempt field of wild grasses. On occasion, I see him cut the greens and ferry home the bundle on top of his head to feed their cows. Now, dappled with white herons and an occasional morning screech of a kingfisher, it is being prepped for some sort of construction. For me, a selfish imposition to my respite and view, yet more so the loss of the very limited open green space in Ubud that gives the island lungs to breathe without concrete atop. No one seems to know what will be built, but the initial footprint is set in the northeast section of the padi, designating it as a Balinese temple required to fortify the rest of the development. Next year my vista will be something entirely different. Through my privileged lens I glean… how too will I be changed?
Much to my surprise and delight, as I entered Mas Gong’s Javanese antique shop, his ancient mother beamed with a warm smile and total recall, exclaiming “Laura cantik” after not seeing each other for at least three years. Ibu, mother, is 94, born in 1932 under the Dutch occupation. Talk about changing vistas. Each year I return to the old city of Yogyakarta, Java, where I lived for two and a half years in the early 90s, for both work and sustenance, ideally during the month of Ramadan. Mornings, I woke around 5:30 to calls of prayer echoing across the rooftops, bouncing off Mt. Merapi way off to the north, sketched by light mist. Below my hotel window, I see daybreak already buzzing with the locals afoot, bellies full of their big dawn meal that will carry them all the way till sunset, when they “open their fast” with family, fruit, and sweet hot tea. Foundational to their discipline of not eating, drinking (including water on 90-degree days), or smoking, the mantra of the Ramadan month is one of self-reflection, abstaining from negative feelings leading toward a more spiritual inner time. Throughout the city, there is an essence of softness all about, despite this being one of the most densely populated islands in the world.
My long-time driver, Mas Ismudi, insists I have lunch each day, even as he fasts. He drops me off for the local dish of soto ayam (chicken soup), and the sweet hijabed young woman serves me with shy eyes, spellbound by my banter in Indonesian, asking for more condiments and no sugar in my coffee. If one eats during Ramadan daylight, we sit discreetly behind curtains blocking us from the street, as I do, totally alone in this unusually empty food stall. And yet, I still feel guilty—but what good does this do if I am supposed to let go of such bad feelings? Pivoting, I inhale the limey chicken soup quietly with delicious gratitude.
In anticipation of a long afternoon out and about on the road shopping, I pay a quick visit to the kamar kecil, or WC (water closet). Like many traditional bathrooms in Java, this old one still has a squat toilet—the classic way most Asians use the bathroom. Over 35 years in Indonesia, I have mastered my squat and am not the typical Westerner who sees this option and looks with panic for another. However, as of late, my over-60-year-old knees are feeling rickety, and I fear once squatted, I may not gracefully rise as before…and there is but one sweet, young, shy soul in the restaurant to help me if I fail. Nonetheless, I squat, and then slowly and awkwardly rise—but I do. Let this be a reminder of my, and our, resilience and deep connection to traditions!
In a spacey, sweaty fog one afternoon, parked at the traffic light (the only one in Ubud, my hometown in Bali), I marveled as the light changed, catching something I had never noticed before. Following the red light came a yellow one before switching to green again, then back to yellow, and to red, to yellow, to green, and so on and so on. Another yellow/yield was inserted between the red and the green lights, not the norm for our American sense of order. For the Balinese, who move with a grace that exists in the yellow—in between stop and go—striving for harmony between the inner self (niskala – unseen/spiritual) and outer self (sekala – seen/earthly), this makes sense. Such insights emanate from traffic lights, of flow, of breath, to embrace the spaces in between.
If one is open, Bali is said to give you what you need most. Nyepi, or Balinese New Year, draws me home each year for the bizarre and wondrous celebrations that lead up to it, and the stillness that envelops the day of. I spent the few days around Nyepi down at my dear like-a-sister’s home near the beach. The cacophony of Nyepi Eve mayhem reverberates with the locals parading through the streets carrying their Ogoh-Ogoh, the larger-than-life, magnificent mythical creatures embodying demonic spirits that annually need to be exorcised from the island. Gamelan music bursts and youth shout to wake up the evil spirits, luring them to come party. By late night, everyone returns home and stays inside for 36 hours in a collective effort (and effect) to convince the evildoers that the island is abandoned; hence, the hellions are bored and leave Bali to look for another place to party, extensively purging the island of harm for another year. We stay home (or in your hotel, etc.), living simply: no lights, no cooking, no noise making, no airplanes in the sky (the international airport closes), not a vehicle allowed on the road. It is a completely immersive experience like no other. Strangely enough, the roosters at Sarita’s neighbor’s house didn’t get the memo about Nyepi this year, and they started their morning wake-up crowing as usual at 4:00 in the morning. Up I rose and sleepily walked out into the garden to see the night sky in total darkness—absent of any light pollution—fully ablaze with a zillion stars, or so it seemed. With no blaring motorbikes or cars zipping past, the early morning birds began their chorus with my full attention. Exquisite sounds of rapture, with the ocean waves breaking a slow chant against the beachfront. Thank you, Mr. Rooster, for your alarm call to roust me out into this most brilliant breaking dawn.
April….Four days before I left for Indonesia this year, the war with Iran started; my flight was canceled. After one night of a solo pity party about my disrupted trip, I regrouped and bought a new ticket via Hong Kong (rather than Doha), a simple adaptation from the First World perch. Not coming home to Indonesia this year was not an option for me (unlike during the pandemic, when we really couldn’t go), as not only did I need to do my buying in preparation for our 30th anniversary show this fall, but deep down in my soul I needed a respite and a reset. It demanded extra time and expense to make it happen—but it did not disappoint.
Now back home in the US with my dearest Bill and love, Daniel, spring is upon us with bursts of pink blossoms and youthful green leaves. Looking out over the oak trees of Carpenters Woods, some over 200 years old, I feel that my heart is stronger, and my soul is reset. Flooded with vibrant, visceral memories, my spirit is fortified for the coming year, until I return once again to my beloved Bali: the slight eyebrow raise of hello from the old Javanese man I passed on the sidewalk as I bowed my head below his out of respect; the depth of the stillness on Nyepi morning; grinning ear to ear while stuck in traffic at the smiles of the kiddos out my window as they float paper boats down the flooded ditch along the road; being hugged so tight by Ayu, one of my lamp artists, as she teared up with the knowing that my smallish order will help toward her daughter’s university payment; the joy from sharing a simple yet delicious dinner on Nyepi, in almost darkness, around the table with my “kids,” who are now 47 and 51 (whom I once threw a sweet 18th birthday party for back in the day); the grace with which the towering 2-meter-high offering stand is balanced on top of the stunning Balinese beauty, with perfect posture and the invisible hand of God helping her carry it—these and more make my heart quake and soar.
I wish the same for all of my loves—find something in your life that makes your heart fill; may it bolster your spirits through this coming year.
Much, much love and light – Laura
