Though Bali has a better press agent and gets top billing for my show, work and journey each year, I also return to my other heart home of Yogykarta (Yogya), Java, to hunt for local batik treasures. This trip was with a dear old friend who used to live near me when I resided there in the early 90’s, and now she and her sweetie call Bali home. We three flew to Yogya in the same tongue and cheek way many Muslim “mudik” or return to their hometown at this time of year to celebrate Idul Fitri. The city was bustling per usual even though a half a million people were fasting for the holy month of Ramadan. Per tradition, you eat an early meal before sunrise, and then nothing again - no water, food, cigarettes, nothing – until sunset. Come late afternoon, when everyone’s blood sugar has bottomed out, I am always amazed that there aren’t more road rage incidents or soundly sleeping old people on the side of the road. Instead, there is an ebb and flow of deeply practiced rituals so foreign to most Americans. Every time I am home for Ramadan, I recall many of my fellow US Jews kvetch (complain) about how hard it is to fast for Yom Kippur, our holiest of holidays, a fast that last a whole long day. Oh, the suffering. Try doing that but on repeat for 30 days in a row. On one day of work close to sunset, we were at a red light in the car of my long-time driver. Mas Ismudi, as the city was preparing for “opening of the fast.” At exactly 5:46 PM, through open windows of stopped cars, fellow fasters shared trays small, sweet bites, and hot sugary tea to ceremonially end their day of fasting. When the light turned green, no one leaned on their horns, but allowed the flow of the first tastes to fuel their bodies and souls for the ride home.
On our last night of our Yogya trip was the 70th birthday party for an old friend of Linda’s, who I also knew back in the day. She hosted us all in her home and invited a local band that is famous for playing Rolling Stone covers. Ever since I moved from in Yogya, in 1994, almost every week this very band has played “Satisfaction” and more, and the lead singer continues to belt out like Jagger with an open shirt, rake thin and wicked harp playing, seamlessly ageless as Javanese Mick. Many of the friends were people I hadn’t seen in 30 years: so much fun as we danced the night away like Wild Horses. The next morning, as we prepared to head to the airport to fly home to Bali, Mt. Merapi, the active volcano just north of the city, emerged from her cloud cover of the past week and rose triumphantly on the horizon in the early morning light. I delighted in her glory, noting the tiny wisps of steam escaping the top of the caldera as I shyly nibbled on my breakfast so as not to disrespect the locals beginning their fast nearby.
Ubud, my home base in Bali, held a major temple ceremony this month. Each day last week the village was teeming with celebration and long processions through the streets filled with music, chanting, prayers, glorious dress, and gilded barongs. To be a witness to such spectacle never ceases to delight me. These ancient rituals alone give me a sustained faith that even considering yet another onslaught of way too many tourists on this tiny island, the Balinese practice of their Hindu Dharma Religion is their solid foundation to resist the evils afoot. The current threat is the invasion of huge masses of Russian (and Ukraine) tourists (excuse the broad-brush stroke here: see article below). I almost wrote “visitors”, but the notion of being a visitor means you are a respectful guest in someone’s home, and in most Indonesians’ eyes, the Russians are far from that. Since the start of the Ukrainian war, well over 10,000 Russians have gotten visas to stay in Bali where it is far from the front lines (sparing many young men fighting & dying for Putin’s senseless war), with cheap living and lovely weather, while surrounded by fellow countrymen. They have brought their rubles and bought vast tracts of land, some active rice fields, building villas upon villas. Many other visitors have built homes in Bali, but the scale of the Russian development is astounding, and the earth under siege cannot breathe. Above the surface, the Russians’ blunt, direct affect is almost in stark contrast to the Balinese soft, deflective, accommodating nature. Here lies the one of the conflicts: Ideally, if one travels halfway around the world to be a guest in someone’s home island, should we not adapt to, or at least respect, the local traditions? It is not for me to say what is best for the Balinese to manage their way out of this scary time, but the murmurs and angst my local friends shared with me this month is troubling at best. For centuries and centuries, Indonesians have been colonized by foreign entities and yet have managed to maintain their integrity and culture. From the depths of my white Balinese spirit, through the wafting incense and ritual ringing of the gong, I hope their inner strength prevails.
This week, my return journey from Indonesia was my 23rd airplane flight since the first of the year. Mostly for good reasons and sprinkled with hard ones – aging parent visits and honoring lost loved ones – I have flown more in the past four months than most do in a year or two. Such a privilege to be able to be out and about again, seeing the world beyond our front stoops. Walking among strangers who all outwitted the pandemic to be able to taste a home-cooked meal from a kitchen across the world. How fortunate are we? Standing in queue for security, wondering if the sweet couple in front of me were high school sweethearts or did they meet on Tinder? As I wander through the terminal, I note destinations on departure boards foreign even to my well-traveled passport, and all those souls lined to fly there pique my interest. I have traveled most of my adult life, feeding my wanderlust with physical journeys dovetailed with imaginary ones. When I hear people complain about how much they hate to fly these days I pinch myself as how damn lucky I am. How lucky are we all, let us not forget.
Much love to all my fellow travelers.
NY Times: I’m Sorry, We’re From Moscow. In Bali, Warring Sides Learn to Cohabitate
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/15/world/asia/bali-indonesia-russians-ukrainians.html
]]>From the COVID ashes of the pandemic, rising like the phoenix, our From Bali to Bala show has metamorphosized into From Bali to Us. For 24 years, during each holiday season, our annual show & sale has brought together the art, culture, education, charity, and spirit of Indonesia to the Philadelphia region. Last year, unable to gather in person, we were forced to reimagine and to reinvent. Our commitment to Indonesia drove the creation of our online site, From Bali to Us, and for ages customers have been asking me to sell online. With a bit of initial angst, lots of hard work and delight, we continued to share with you the essence of Indonesia while supporting our artisans of 25 years. It was time to grow our brand as we experimented with the new by embracing the change.
Now, with the reopening of our world – learning to live with the threat of COVID, at least for now – we will be returning to our in-person location at 8532 Germantown Avenue in Chestnut Hill this November and December. We are over the moon to be able to do so, to meet you in three dimensions. But we are also a tad terrified. For the first time we will be running our show and online market simultaneously: Yikes and Yay at the same time! No need for two separate names or identities anymore: now we’ll all be sheltered under From Bali to Us. It’s a big umbrella that will include the online market, the annual show and sale, my batik paintings and teaching, supporting the artisans, outreach for the Indonesian community here in South Philly and in Indonesia, and more. My heart umbrella is big enough for it all, and I look forward to continuing to share it all with you.
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To glean, a verb defined as to gather or collect in a gradual way; to search carefully for something; to learn or ascertain; and to gather grain or other material that is left after the main crop has been harvested. With this in mind, I looked to some of the best gleaners I know, the ducks in Bali. A duck wrangler, much like the pied piper with a long staff, ushers the flock into the newly shorn fields with stubs of rice stalks sticking up, bluntly cut and surrounded by a bounty of rice grains sprinkled on the earth waiting to be gleaned. The ducks show up at the final stage of the rice harvest, cheap labor and essential workers. They quack and chortle in chorus as they busily peck in the soil, filling their bellies with kernels of dried rice, unwanted leavings. Simultaneously while busy with work, they defecate in the fields, which in turn becomes an important element of the compost tilled into the soil for the next years rice crop. And so, each cycle comes round.
To me, these similarities are too close to be missed, and the gleanings too important to pass by, scraps of insights harvested from the pandemic. In looking back on this year, I reread what I wrote to myself last April, envisioning a time allowing for reflection, re-centering, and resetting. The purple ink is what I submitted in last year’s musings, with current gleanings in black.
- Find some small ways to make friends with the unknown: the ebb and flow of this surreal time seem inconstant flux, hour by hour. This new world implores me to practice, beyond words, a more fluid way of being. This constant teaching was with us all year, reminding me to remain in the present as best I could. The reality was a constantly changing scenario, so I had to seek my own sense of stability. We know now, more than ever, that the future is very tenuous, so we have to strengthen our core selves and remain open. We had no idea what was coming! Who would have envisioned the losses encumbered by so many?
- What we cannot control, try to release. What we can control, take responsibility for. Seems simple, but this one thing was reinforced again and again. We may not be able to control the situation, but we can choose to control how we respond to it. Such a year filled with learning to let go, letting go, letting flow, let flow, flow.
- Try to be comfortable with yourself, and love yourself a bit more, whether you’re with others or alone. Never have most of us spent so much alone time. I personally loved it, relished it, and never felt lonely (yes, I lived with my family, so I was rarely really alone alone). I walked more in the woods, keeping close company with Mother Nature. Now I must remember that solace, and as I re-enter the world, to keep this balance of quiet independence at play while reconnecting with my vast community of friends.
- Call someone you know who is in isolation or alone at home. Reach out. Reaching outside of ourselves to help others, to make connections, isn’t easy when we are our busy selves running to and fro all the time. This year gave us ample opportunities to develop more empathy for others, growing our hearts in many ways.
- Trust that we learn lessons, both small and large, from this crisis, and we absorb these on a personal, spiritual, and political level. Yes, on small scale (lots of new recipes) and large scale (reinventing my business) lessons. Yes, on spiritual ones as well (more patience with myself and others). Yes, on political ones (we got Trump voted out of office)!
- Write down wisdom that resonates during this time so that when we do, in fact, surface on the other side, we can draw on it to become better individuals and citizens, both within and together. I don’t think any of us way back in March of 2020 had any idea at all what the other side of this would look like. I started out journaling in the very beginning, but that lasted only a few months. When I rewind the months into last fall and winter, I remember only vaguely the anxiety and disbelief at how the world was mismanaging the chaos all around. I followed the news very closely, but to combat the insanity, I purposely crafted a quiet and calmness in my home and head space. Primarily I focused on what I could control, and took a deep dive into reimagining my business to continue to support the Indonesians I have worked with for decades. But there is an amnesia that clouds my memory now, and like childbirth, I cannot remember how painful it really was. Partially because we lived in a bubble and were fairly fortunate on many levels, our family suffered only one immediate loss, that of our very old and very wonderful dog member of our family, Kaely. Yet we grieved, and through her death I resonated with others who lost loved ones a little bit more.
For me, to leave the lessons on the floor or behind us as we move back to the new normal seems utterly wasteful. Instead, let us embrace the gleanings of the pandemic as nutrients. As we emerge from our homes with small and large, personal and political lessons, they will help fertilize us for the next wave of whatever life brings. And who really knows what that is? I do know for sure that the future will bring more texts from my beloved Indonesia in the middle of the night. Just don’t tell my husband.
]]>Despite my resistance, my US family and local friends persevered and convinced me to flee. I queued in line at the airline office for six hours to get one of the very last seats, on one of the last flights out of Bali. After shortening my stay and flying home safely as the world shuttered itself, I tried my best to let go of the fear of the unknown, and instead enjoy the solitude demanded by the early weeks of COVID, sequestered inside my nest. Yet, my heart splintered as it ached most for my long-loved craftspeople, the ones I did not get around to buying from on my truncated trip, who look forward to and depend on my annual visit each year. By then, it was becoming clear that, for the foreseeable future, there would be no international tourists, travelers or businesses visiting Indonesia, all but eliminating the craft people’s livelihood.
One daunting fact I had to address was that I had indeed amassed a small collection, about half of what I usually buy, of treasures that were going to need to be shipped to me eventually when trade routes resumed. I wondered if I could add to my shipment by reaching out to more of my long-term established artisans by shopping virtually. Nervously, I picked up my phone and sent text messages to dozens of these artists – halfway around the world. “Are you OK? Is your family safe? Do you have goods to sell? Can I still buy from you over the phone?” The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. For much of April, I found myself glued to my phone, sending and receiving WhatsApp messages loaded with pictures of handcrafted delights, filling out my shipment, regardless of not knowing how we would sell them in the unknown future. Because of the 12-hour time difference, as I slept each night the artisans were responding to my messages, and each morning I woke up early to over 100 text messages with photos. I lay in bed, sipping my coffee and literally hand picking on my phone screen which of the carved buddhas, batik sarongs, and glorious kites I wanted, and deciding how many, which colors, what sizes.
By force, I had to embrace technology and learn to shop from afar, something I had never imagined doing. I was able and happy to do it, though, because I have these long-cultivated relationships. A huge motivator for me was knowing that my small infusion of investment would make a big difference to the 20 families I bought from, and this drove home my primary mission: to support Indonesian artists. My heart was so energized by this, seeing on my little screen the faces of my friends back in Indonesia, and buzzing with excitement each time I picked out another item. With each selection I viscerally understood the attraction: was this the rush that other on-line shoppers felt when they added items to their carts? If so, could I translate this same magic to my customers?
A lightning bolt struck! This epiphany was enhanced by the acute awareness that limited public gatherings probably wouldn’t allow us to hold our annual show. This pushed me to make the jump, and jump I did, with my whole being and brand.
I had to figure out how to translate the magic created in our physical space – from our mission, outreach and special events – to a virtual From Bali to Bala? I was building on a 24-year-old brand, with the possibility of a new online marketplace as an extension of my annual holiday sale, on temporary hiatus until I can again greet you in person, with open arms in a physical storefront. My new online model, From Bali to US, emerges from the isolated COVID culture to acknowledge our connections, of Us being one, together, global, and fluid. The benefits of this new world reveal themselves more and more, and the possibilities are endless.
This learning curve has been huge, but with so much time on my hands it felt great to have a project to fill my days and engage my brain. I surrounded myself with others who supported this new vision and brought all the technological skills I lacked to the table. Yes, it is taking a village to launch this online business, but the hardest part was understanding the basic nuts and bolts. Full disclosure: I am an e-commerce total amateur. I wished for, and manifested, Kim Raznov, a wonderful web designer & developer who is local. Most important, she has been coming to our show over the years, and therefore understands that we are more than just selling handcrafts. Her toolbox is essential. The simple act of digitizing a huge collection was daunting, yikes. My dear brother, Adam Cohn, is a professional photographer and has shot tons of tabletop items over the years, so who better to hire to photograph our large collection of goodies? My son, Daniel Cohn, a newly minted UConn grad, a millennial and master of all things data and computer, is my digital wizard and technology interpreter. And my wordsmith husband, Bill, who helps with everything, has the huge heart and strong arms that has supported this idea from the very beginning. With the team in place, all we needed were the goods to sell, and we eagerly awaited their arrival.
Much to my delight, in all the “over the phone WhatsApp texting & buying” that I did back in April, I amassed a collection larger than anything I had ever bought before in all my years of buying handcrafts: oh my, how my shopping cart filled up so fast! The trade routes opened again, and a cargo ship ferried the shipment from southeast Asia to Los Angeles to Philadelphia after a much-delayed journey. Two tons of goods, 48 boxes framed in eight large wooden crates, seven cubic meters in total, filling a 20-foot rental truck, were unloaded by my crew of strong men — Bill, Adam, and Daniel — just last week.
The basement studio is now brimming with glorious treasures we can’t wait to unveil. Our commitment to share with you the spirit, handcrafts, and culture of my beloved second home, while continuing to support the artisans we have worked with almost 25 years, propels us onward. Now the hard work begins cleaning, repairing, pricing, inventorying, photographing, and writing descriptions for more than 1,000 handcrafts will take lots of time and grit, but by show time – early November – and with great enthusiasm, we will reveal our From Bali to Us site. For our regular loyal customers, we hope you will feel the familiar warmth from us. Also, you can help to share the love of the show by making it accessible to your friends and family who perhaps have never been able to come in person. Oh, the challenge and the beauty of reaching a wider audience nationwide with more goods to sell, more artists to support, more bridges being built. It’s a little scary, but mostly exciting, and thank you so much for joining me on this journey.
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For weeks leading up to the New Year, in every village on the island, young people come together to build Ogoh-Ogoh, huge paper-mâché Mardi Gras-like monsters that embody the darker or unseen spirits that the Balinese believe live among them, mostly benevolently. These are magnificent creations. On New Year’s Eve, everyone gathers in the village center with all the Ogoh-Ogoh, and parade them throughout town while making loud raucous music and noise to accompany them. The raw energy, a cacophony of sound with the giant demonic creatures swaying overhead, the youth collectively navigating this chaos through the streets, and the rest of the village cheering and shouting creates pandemonium. It is beyond intoxicating; not only for us mortals but for the real guests at this special occasion, the dark spirits who lurk nearby, lured out of hiding by all of this craziness. Eventually, the energetic parade winds down, and everyone returns home to their families (and tourists to their hotels), deescalating from a night of seemingly drunken debauchery. Nyepi officially begins at midnight, and for next the day and night the island is totally devoid of worldly activities, literally on extreme lockdown.
On the heels of this fantastic night, Nyepi day is one of the most magical for me in Bali. A complete silence and serenity blankets the entire island. No noise pollution drowns the birds, frogs, and crickets that are now at center stage. No light pollution cloaks the night sky, making all the stars and heavens acutely visible. Together, yet in our own homes, we share a communal day of introspection, seeking to balance the ying and yang elements that abound. For some, Nyepi is just a day of rest, reading, fasting or feasting, prayer and meditation, and being together. (In fact, in the past several years the government of Bali disables the Internet to force the focus inward, an extreme measure for many.). At night we use only candles, creating the illusion from above of an abandoned island. The following day, the first motor bikes pierce the dawn light, roosters announce the return to our normal routines, and so the cycle begins again. This ancient tradition is rooted in the Balinese belief that the lowly “evil” spirits, who had partied to the max the night before, are totally bored by this deserted island, now absolutely hushed of sound and activity, and they literally leave to seek chaos elsewhere. If, in the previous year they had brought misery, they are now banished, with the Ogoh-Ogoh parade as their big, hooting send-off party.
This year, this ancient ritual connects directly to where I am now, in self-quarantine here in my American home: it is as if the entire world has been forced to practice Nyepi in a profound way. In this light, and following such a jarring juxtaposition of the two retreats, I see shards of light about our own confinement. While none of us are exempt from this pandemic, many in our global family are confronted with fear, sickness and death, isolation, poverty, hunger, the unknown, and more, and my heart bends toward them. And yes, Balinese Nyepi is only about thirty hours long, but for us all, I see this as a new year forward. From our vantage point today we may not see the end of our global retreat. Yet, as if I were still in Bali, I am choosing to use this time as a “blanket of silence” that allows for reflection, re-centering, and resetting with lessons to be gleaned by all who choose to embrace them:. I submit the following:
– What we cannot control, try to release. What we can control, take responsibility for.
– Find some small ways to make friends with the unknown: the ebb and flow of this surreal time seem in constant flux, hour by hour. This new world implores me to practice, beyond words, a more fluid way of being. – Try to be comfortable with yourself, and even love yourself a bit more, whether you’re with others or alone.
– Call someone you know who is in isolation or alone at home. Reach out.
– Trust that we learn lessons, both small and large, from this crisis, and we absorb these on a personal, spiritual, and political level.
– Write down wisdom that resonates during this time so that when we do, in fact, surface on the other side, we can draw on it to become better individuals and citizens, both within and together.
– Recognize how fortunate many of us are who have shelter, food, and health. And, from that perspective, and even with the smallest gestures, extend a hand to those down the ladder from us.
I by no means expect the demons to be banished as easily as the Balinese hold (and practice), but I am mindful of the irony and power that Nyepi is now upon the entire world. As the daffodils smile and cherry trees bloom calling forth spring, I dream across the world of the vibrant green rice stalks outside my Bali front porch, and the ducks chortling away in the still of this quiet day. Small gestures of grace abound all around us during this trying time, if we can feel them and pass them on. From my Balinese heart and soul, now felt deeply in my Philly home, to you and yours, in peace and hope.
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Sitting on my porch, kind of like back home where I overlook the deep hibernating trees of Carpenters Woods, but here instead the fallow fields with clumps of green & brown cut rice stalks mired in the dark earthy mud, surrounded by shimmering pools of standing rain water. It is mid-afternoon, just south of 90 degrees, and a warm wind blows through the trees, offering only a slight reprieve from the heat. I love my neighbors the ducks as they gaggle, quack and waddle around, pecking bugs from the still pools, gleaning old rice grains missed at harvest time.
]]>Happy Day my loves,
Sitting on my porch, kind of like back home where I overlook the deep hibernating trees of Carpenters Woods, but here instead the fallow fields with clumps of green & brown cut rice stalks mired in the dark earthy mud, surrounded by shimmering pools of standing rain water. It is mid-afternoon, just south of 90 degrees, and a warm wind blows through the trees, offering only a slight reprieve from the heat. I love my neighbors the ducks as they gaggle, quack and waddle around, pecking bugs from the still pools, gleaning old rice grains missed at harvest time. The farmers rest the fields (padi) every 3 or 4 growing cycles to give the earth a chance to regenerate without having to work so hard, and in turn, perhaps the farmers get a bit of a retreat as well. Oh, did I mention, not a cloud in the sky, less three soft white puffs just above the tree line off in the distance, dotting the palms like floating asterisks.
This has been a fast-paced trip for me this year, lots of running to and fro, working, schlepping, doing, not enough reading, sitting, being. But I have had wonderful visits with old friends, which is half the reason I call Indonesia home. Friends of 30 years, many who still live here, and some I meet up with each year as they return back again, nurturing a deep connection to this place as I do. Tomorrow morning, I will meet up with a group of old friends for our annual Oscars watching party, Monday morning here at 9 AM live, drawing me back into reality of the US days before I am slated to return. The slow wakeup call begins….with Hollywood as the lure no less. The other day we had real wakeup call at 4 AM with the loudest sonic thunder boom that I have ever heard in my life, right over my head rattling the windows as I trembled in bed. It was so extreme, it woke up all the ducks, crickets, and frogs, and the cacophony of animal sounds, following the thunder, was almost as loud as the boom itself. I wonder what they all thought. Within minutes, silence returned to our fields as the lightening flashed brightly as if to extinguish the storms might. Years ago, an old friend said about her new-found self-awareness, it was the “wakeup Olympics” – and this was the loud starters whistle at the beginning of the race.
As change is inevitable and so does Bali change, I can easily wax nostalgic about the distant and recent past before the influx of the newest immigrant culture of mass tourists. In Ubud, it is the yoginis and their spandex butts walking (not jiggling as mine would) to the nearest yoga studio to practice their Oms, surrounded by the saronged Balinese Hindus lighting incense to carry their prayers off to their gods that tether them to deep ancestral ties. I suspect the white yogis feel a sense of connection to this very spiritual place, hence it is one of the reasons they are here. Good for them, who am I to judge? I only wish they would dress more appropriately when they leave the yoga studio, to cover up so the local gods don’t get distracted by all the exposed skin and tight booties.
Kadek and Dewi, who work at my local guesthouse, just sat themselves down in the shade of the tree in the little garden in front of my neighbor’s porch, to weed the grass plucking the weeds, one by one, fistful by fistful. In contrast, on a larger scale for sure, last week I watched an old farmer up high on the mud wall of the rice terraces cutting the thick grass on the path, not with a sickle like he might have in years past, but with a gas-powered string trimmer whirring away. Ah progress, non? Again, who am I to judge the old farmer seeking an opportunity to finish his work in much less time? Before me, Dewi, the beautiful young women who brings me breakfast with a shy smile each day, is wearing a think long sleeved maroon sweatshirt synched around her head framing her glorious smile. Yes, it is still hot as hell, but the latte colored Balinese do not want their skin to darken, remnants of an old colonial past where the lighter skin Indonesians faced less discriminated by the Dutch powers that be. I am sweating more just watching her. Perhaps it is time to move on from tea to cold beer. For me rather than practice yoga I think I’ll practice being still, just being on my porch with a cold Bintang (local beer), enjoying the breeze, ducks, and the fact that my work is almost done so I can be still for a change. Also, I love being a witness to the innocent flirting between Kadek (male) and sweet Dewi, sounding similar to the chirping harmony of the song birds in the nearby Cempaka tree.
As I will return to the cooler temps of Philadelphia later this week (after a fun 24 hours in Hong Kong!), I will hold on to this heat, the cloudless sky, and chorus of quaking ducks when I sit on my Philly porch watching and waiting for the Warblers to return to the woods for their annual migration. Will it be spring in March or will be have snow into April like last year? I will take comfort in the fact that at least it won’t be the fine snow-like ash of the active volcanic Mount Agung raining down on Bali as it has in the recent past. So fortunate the Mother mountain has been relatively quiet on my visit this year, and I wish more of the same for the Balinese when I leave them. I close in reverence for the nature before me, the mountain behind me, and the promise of spring for us all.
From the heat of my Balinese heart, sending love on the warm equatorial breeze.
Laura
]]>Deep sigh…first an apology of not writing my annual letter from Indonesia, where I easily can capture the palpable energy around me and translate it from an unseen frequency into English and onto the screen/page distilled through my Laura perspective. But alas, I was just too full on this trip I didn’t have a chance to sit at the computer for my annual indulgence of writing you all, so now on my first day back, I am perched up in my home office in Philadelphia, on the 3rd floor of our old and fabulous house, looking out over the slate roof tops of my neighborhood with the very, pale steel grey sky as back drop…quite a contrast to the vibrant greens from where I have just come.
]]>Deep sigh…first an apology of not writing my annual letter from Indonesia, where I easily can capture the palpable energy around me and translate it from an unseen frequency into English and onto the screen/page distilled through my Laura perspective. But alas, I was just too full on this trip I didn’t have a chance to sit at the computer for my annual indulgence of writing you all, so now on my first day back, I am perched up in my home office in Philadelphia, on the 3rd floor of our old and fabulous house, looking out over the slate roof tops of my neighborhood with the very, pale steel grey sky as back drop…quite a contrast to the vibrant greens from where I have just come.
My home office in Bali is the table on my front porch of my bedroom which sits next to a huge rice padi (field) belonging to the local families nearby. Being connected to the land there, watching the rice grow daily, is something I often take for granted in my US reality, even back when we had our nice big garden. For all Indonesians, rice is the mainstay of their diet and is grown in cycles of four month crop rotations per year. First the melding of the mud and muck, then submerging the baby seedlings by hand so they poke up out of the very wet mud, to the emerging rice plants filling in the newly flooded fields that reflect the sky’s mood from above, to my favorite where water recedes and is barely visible because the now 3 month old plants fill in the rows with the greenest green imaginable. From there, the latter stages where the heavy rice seeds brown up and hang heavy on the end of the stalks, bending over signaling ready for harvest (they say when the rice plant it flaccid, it is ready for harvest), then the cutting of the crop, winnowing and chaffing by the women, and finally when the ducks come into glean the last few morsels left by the pickers and leaving their duck poop to be the fertilizer for the next crop to come. The cycle thus begins again. Just the other day on my last morning as I sipped my Bali coffee, the local farmer who appears older than the sea but probably is no more than 60, slugged through the thick mud preparing the padi for the next planting, he pushed and pulled a plank-like hoe, smoothing the surface of the muck. Even as Indonesia all around me gets more developed and modernized, I continue to marvel that by in large, the rice farming is still being practiced as their ancestors did before them, on this very padi, manually by hand and by heart. And yet, through my morning sleepy fog, I startled when I noticed against the farmer’s mocha colored skin, the strikingly bright white ear buds and wire that connected him to his smart phone, and in turn to this century. I couldn’t help but wonder what he was listening to: music, a pod cast, the news? Got a chuckle from that all day, and still do remembering it now.
Most of my time in Bali was spent not day dreaming on my porch but rather out on the road with my dear friend Connie and our driver Kadek, gathering treasures for my show. One day, at our perhaps 10th stop of the day, all hot and tired from the schlepping, schmoozing and the constant decision making that comes along with my weird little job of shopping for handcrafts, we were sitting out front of a family home waiting for the mother to make change for us after picking out our goodies (bird houses in this case), enjoying the reprieve. I heard bells ringing and the vocal chanting from behind the shop, signaling a family temple ceremony was taking place. I was immediately filled with a cognitive dissonance - on one hand I was embarrassed that the mother had taken time away from her religious family duties to come deal with us, but also, in love with the local temple ceremonies especially smaller family ones, my senses were transfixed. When I asked her forgiveness for being such a bother, she waved me off saying she had her period and could not participate anyway (a Balinese Hindu ritual preset strangely enough), and asked me if I wanted to go back and pray with the family. Knowing how much more work we had left for the day, I thanked her, and apologized once again, feeling of course conflicted. Almost as if on cue, the women of the family made their way past us as we sat on the front stoop, in procession with chanting in prayer, lighting incense for blessings, and tossing holy water to the gods in a sacred act to purify as well as rid one of evil. They stopped right in front of us old white looking tourists, and the matriarch insisted we take the holy water in blessing. No time for full on ritual prayers I thought, instead, the blessings came right to me! I couldn’t tell if it was holy water running down my face or tears of joy, but that is just one vibrant memory of what a strange and wonderful place Bali is and how blessed I am to have it in my life.
The rains here in Philly are just starting with a sweet sound on my window panes. Last week in Java I watched the rain come down in truck loads with such a roar I could not hear my friend speak across the table from me. The dramatic storms there help cool down the hot heat of the day, and after walking about 6 miles in the 90 degree sun, I welcomed the deluge. Earlier that morning I had set out to find new inter-tubes for my becak (Indonesian pedi cab many have seen at my show or in my garage). The tires have been flat for years, and I really needed to get the tubes in Java where becaks are common, as the tires require a rare measurement, hence a fun new shopping challenge for me. On a main road that morning I happened upon a huge crowd gathering for a protest, and much to my delight it was about 100 becak drivers, kind of like becak union meeting of sorts. I queried a few of them as to where I could get my new inter-tubes, and they scratched their heads and chuckled at the white woman who had such a request, a first for them I am sure. None the less, later in the day I was the proud owner of 3 new inter-tubes (yes, it has 3 wheels), with the hope as Bill says, that we can find someone back home to help us get the very rusted wheels off our strange chariot to change the tires. No doubt we will…where there is a wheel there is a way!
Now with the light waning up here in my perch, I hear the jet lag is climbing the stairs to overtake me. Off to bed I must, only to dream of my other home half way around the world, the place that makes my heart quake in amazement - even in the midst of intense heat and contradictions that are all around me. Or perhaps it is because of these that my soul overflows and delights me on a daily basis? When I wake tomorrow morning next to my beloved Bill, I hope I can remember that I am but the vessel - be it here or there - that contains that amazement wherever I am. And for you I wonder, what makes your heart quake?
Much much love,
Laura
I arrived less than two weeks ago, but it seems like forever. Having a two chambered heart home, I so appreciate that both sides need blood flow to them in order to thrive, and I am eternally grateful that they work in harmony with each other; also that my beloved Bill supports this strange duality. But my American side has fallen ill, and in truth, since my arrival, I have been on a strict black out of all US politics. This strong and essential medicine is for my heart, the side sickened by the state of the world, my home country in particular. Indonesia has had its fair share of megalomaniac leaders over time, and could teach us a thing or two about corruption and business leaders in bed with the political elite, so nothing really shocks them about our new regime change. Being away from home at this time, fully committed to my denial, feels like a gift for sure, but one whose prescription will only last a few more weeks until I return to US teraferma. This retreat is an elixir for my soul. Perhaps it will refuel my stamina for the work to be done back home. I can only hope so.
My trip started in Yogyakarta this year, allowing myself to wade in my beloved homeland by way of the slower moving Javanese, flowing into a city of 5 million like molten wax that is the foundation of the batik tradition there, pulsing through my veins. The cars, buses and motorbikes crowd the roadways much more than they used to when I lived there 25 years ago. This confirms my favorite mode of transport still to be the local becak (ba-chack, identical to the one I have at my show each year) the classic pedicab motored by drivers peddling from behind on bicycle with a two seater carriage in front. On my first morning in Yogya I sussed out my options for becak drivers on the local corner, and the selection was lean. Instead of choosing a seemingly younger one relaxed in his parked pedicab, I instead buried my ageist tendency and opted for the older skinny man calling to me in hopes of making a good fare from a Western tourist. As he propelled my large body up a slow grade hill with the ease of a highly toned athlete, I asked him how old he was. Sixty seven, he answered. Bill says Indonesians either look under 25 or over 75 therefore you can’t really tell their age. This old soul looked like he had perhaps shuttled the original Dutch colonist back in the day, wizen with a toothless smile from ear to ear. How long had he been driving a becak? I asked. Not long, he said, only since 1975. At that, I immediately insisted to get out and walk alongside him as we began to ascend a slightly bigger hill. No way, he would hear nothing of it, as if I insulted his mother assuming he and his melon calves couldn’t push my over sized white frame wherever he agreed to take me. So I sat, feeling even more humbled, and paid him double the fare when I we got to my destination. With the advent of taxis, much cheaper, faster and without having to inhale all the city fumes you get in the front of the open becak, this mode of days gone by will be relegated to our memories in the very near future. Already I notice this year many of these treasures had motorized scooters behind them, like motorbikes becaks, with the younger drivers happily zooming past their old stoic fathers who still self-propelled their chariots, methodically weaving their way in and out of the traffic with grace.
Flying home to Bali from Yogyakarta takes about an hour above the clouds. Luckily our flight path had a fairly clear day last week so I could gaze below at Java, the most densely populated island in the world crowded with over 140 million people living in crowded giant cities, side by side fertile agriculture lands that supply almost enough rice for the masses daily diet. Off the jagged coast line to the north and in the strait between Java and Bali, small atolls and tiny islands pepper the sea, reminding me that in theory there are over 17,000 islands making up this vast archipelago, and yet only a bird or on a traveler as myself that day, could I really visualize this reality. I saw rocks with dragon back ridges poking out of the shallows, the reefs breaking waves swirling around making glorious patterns of fluid foam. On land when I take in the splendor of a mountainous volcano rising on the horizon, it is beyond awe inspiring; but from the sky above imagining the lava erupting over the ages, and the shifting tectonic plates under the sea, who together organically created this clunky string of islands, I can’t help but wonder about mother nature and her work ethic. Amazing she is, continually transforming her landscape with powerful, powerful storms some we have witness in our lifetime, a hairline blip on the timeline of her creations. As we approached east Bali, the majestic Mt. Agung (9,985 ft.) poked her cratered tip out of the fluffy clouds that skirted her mountainside as if to say hello, welcome to Bali. The Balinese believe that when the active volcanoes let out little puffs of smoke occasionally, teeny tiny expressions of steam that release some of the buildup of an inevitable larger caldron of hot lava waiting to erupt, that this is good and welcomed. Much like when we humans vent our frustrations over time as opposed to holding them in and building up to great spurts of anger, which is rarely very good. More lessons to learn from Mother Nature.
Just now I returned from spending the afternoon with my old friend at his organic farm up in the mountains. As soon as we got there, an hour in the car on the twisty turny small roads up up up, the skies opened up and the winds whipped the rain sideways. Cold and wet we sipped Balinese sweet coffee made for us by the farmer’s wife and as the workers moved about slightly sheltered from the rain by their natural umbrellas of huge long banana leaves held aloft by their handle stems. Seeing the fertile and productive gardens they have created to grow all the veggies for their restaurant, made me really long for my garden gone by. But it also inspired me to come home and make my little new garden that Bill and I have, into a verdant little Garden of Eden, homage to our Bala land and in the spirit of the old Balinese farmers out in the rain with sweet grins on their faces. I will carry their spirit with me home, fuel for the other side of my two chambered heart.
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I am home now, nestled into my house on this side of the world, comforted by the love Bill pours all around me to ease me back into this reality. Daniel is away in Boston this weekend on a school trip with his band playing and touring all about the city, so it is a very quiet home coming for me, one much needed after such a packed three weeks away. I am cold here, wouldn’t take my hat off at dinner last night in a restaurant, convincing Bill and the wait staff that I was now an observant Jew. Just a week ago I was bobbing in the sea at my friend Sarita’s beach, just downstream from the “Tsunami warning tower” that goes off once a month with a pre-recorded warning, much like we get on PBS radio here at home….”this is a test, it is only a test of the national broadcasting system…”. On the 25th of every month, the locals are non-plussed by the warning that goes off just to make sure the system is working. However, I was not non-plussed when earlier in the month, not on the designated day the 25th, the loud speaker blared in fuzzy Indonesian that I could barely make out, but enough to realize that when it continued on the hour all morning long, that perhaps we might not ignore it. My friend reassured me that in deed they were fixing the speaker system, and not to worry. As it was a glorious day, high 80’s, blue sky from horizon to beyond, I succumbed, and swam once again undeterred by the barking voice telling me to head for higher ground. When one can, float in the ocean, ideally without fear.
One more bit of Bali magic to share with you from this year’s journey is a reminder once again of the lesson always present there, that Bali will never ceases to surprise and delight me when I am fully present and open to her. Imagine me, invited by a dear friend to have lunch at a villa he manages, north of Ubud, my home base, about 15 minutes. This is in the middle of a tiny hamlet, not much happening there, like saying I was going to a friends for lunch in Chalfont, not even Doylestown (local reference here). Six of us were gathered for a scrumptious lunch and Kadek mentioned that some other friends were going to be stopping by for a drink later on. Didn’t pay it much matter, as the crisp cold wine, freshly grilled fish, endless pool, and old friends captivated me all afternoon. When the friends arrived, I knew one from around Ubud, an American film maker I had met a year or so back. The other was a Jakarta woman, a film maker as well, and the third a “tamu” or “guest” meaning tourist. Introductions all around when the third guests turned to me and said “Laura, do you remember me?” I was stunned, he looked familiar but I couldn’t for the life of me place his face, and then like a thunderbolt, Oren reminded me that we worked together in Maine at Georges, a summer restaurant I worked at to put myself through college. We hadn’t seen each other in over 25 years, and here we were on a veranda overlooking a palm lined ridge in the middle of Indonesia, some random occurrence. Some call it chance, I call it Bali magic. Love it nonetheless. Be open to it, you never know who you will meet, or meet again.
I will end with that, the magic of being open, with souls lit from above or below, and swimming without fear wherever our path takes us. For now, my path brings me happily home again, and as always, already anticipating next year’s journey back.
All my love,
Laura
Many little stories I could share, but I am in my last day before I leave for home tomorrow and have much to finish up before then. I will spend the day with my loves here, do a bit of spa treatments, long swim and lunch, and attend an art opening later, and final dinner. Tomorrow night in Hong Kong and then onto Bala for a re-entry into my other life. This life is as real as that one....planting the garden is only a mere month away and then the greens and colors of spring. I can't wait!!
Love to all. Please don't forget that we can choose our happiness and it is so much more fun!
Laura
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At 5 AM the gong of the kul kul (large, wooden long bell in the temple that acts as the alarm bell) crept through the screen of y room. Dong, dong, dong repeat to call the locals to temple on this most auspicious day – Hari Melasti. The drumming woke me but the gamelan wooed me from my comfy bed. I threw on my sarong, grabbed my camera and walked down the path to the main street where by the whole village was decked in their finest to load into open back trucks 6 across 10 deep (60 per truck) to schlep in a procession down to the sea. Piled into the trucks like sardines they are reminiscent of the masses headed to Auschwitz only wearing smiles on their faces and their finest clothes, all together to prey and be blessed by their gods, their priest, and their ancestral spirits. This is a major holy day time in Bali with today being the day of Melasti, where everyone brings the vessels that hold their ancestors spirits, from the temple down to the sea for special blessings. Tomorrow is Nyepi, the day of silence, and all this is wedged between the two most holy days in Bali - Galungan and 10 days later Kuningan (kind of like Christmas wedged between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur). Needless to say I am totally unable to get any work done this week because all commerce virtually stop so everyone can prepare for all the ceremonies. So instead of running around shopping like a chicken with my head cut off, I am forced to stop, to be, and to take in all the splendor of the rituals of the Balinese - one of the most seductive aspects of Balinese culture that I fell in love with 20 years ago when I first came arrived. The colors intense and saturated, the smells of incense everywhere, and the fancy outfits they don for prayer
and temple bedazzle and floor me every time I see them coming down the road - literally take my breath away. The last truck in the procession has the small gamelan that will serenade the group on their drive an hour to the beach. Gong gong gong with the engines starting they head out. Back to bed for me to resume my dreams. Or was this it?
A few days have passed and I am now almost ready to begin work tomorrow after this wonderful time of rest. Today is Kuningan the final day of this holy period where the ceremonies are to usher the ancestoral spirits back to the other world after their 10 day visit. We eat yellow rice and smoked duck20(yummmmmmmy!) and go visiting to all the relatives. I will join my dear friends family for prayer, lunch and then to head home to rest up for a big night in Ubud. There is a concert of Michael Franti - a well known world music guy - where 600 white expats and yogi followers will dance and sway in a bamboo grove near by. It is quite a happening here, and a fund raiser for my friends kids school. This will be a strong contrast to the spectacle of the Balinese in prayer earlier today. But life in Bali is all about balance - the ying and the yang, the black and the white, the local and the expat side by side.
I hope all of us balance, keeping the many divergent sides of our life and spirits dancing together, in check and awake.
All my Bali love, Laura
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Today is the Balinese New Year, 1929 and it is my favorite holiday in Bali. I haven't been here for NYEPI for 6 years so you can imagine my delight that I found out that my trip this year overlapped with it and I would be forced to take a day off from all my running around and stop, stay home, and be still in accordance with the local customs. Something we hardly ever get to do in the West, except on Shabbat, if one really honored that tradition.
]]>Today is the Balinese New Year, 1929 and it is my favorite holiday in Bali. I haven't been here for NYEPI for 6 years so you can imagine my delight that I found out that my trip this year overlapped with it and I would be forced to take a day off from all my running around and stop, stay home, and be still in accordance with the local customs. Something we hardly ever get to do in the West, except on Shabbat, if one really honored that tradition. This is what it says in the local leaflet handed out to the tourist:
Sunday night, March 18, 2007 In this ceremony, the people gather together to pray and make offerings to appease the gods and powers that abide in our community. By making offerings, sacrifices and prayers at this time, we are letting go of the past year, appeasing the powers that threaten the harmony of our community and will be ready to welcome the New Year. The afternoon around 5 or 6 we do many things to "scare off" bad influences, and what might be called bad spirits. You will see people making smoke and banging on pots and pans in their houses the day before Nyepi to scare off all bad things. Some light off bamboo firecrackers so that the explosions will scare off evil influences. One of the biggest and most exciting ways we send evils away is the Ogoh-Ohog (Giant Puppet) parade, in which representation of all kinds of troubling creatures are paraded through the town and then disposed of. The significance of this special ceremony is to harmonize the three worlds in accordance with Bali Hindu belief.
These worlds are:
Bhur - Level of the lower beings
Bwah - Level of the humans
Swah - Level of the Gods
Monday, March 19, Nyepi Quiet Day Nyepi means to observe silence. It is a very holy day and on this first day of our calendar, we observe total silence. It represents a way to begin life a new, with the troubling and dark aspects of the past year put well behind us. From midnight on the 18th until sunrise on the 20th you are expected to hide indoors, make no noise, light no fires, and shine no lights.
Here I am in the middle of the day of silence and I am ever so quietly typing on the computer. As a westerner, I am afforded a few transgressions of the local customs as long as I abide by most of them. Today, blissfully entrenched at my old friend Penny's home, I slept in until 10 AM awoken only to the crowing of the roosters instead of the rumble of the local traffic on the roads. No cars, motor bikes, airplanes move on this day. (The international airport in Bali closes to all air traffic for the 36 hours of Nyepi - I am sure the only airport in the world that closes down for religious purposes). Since I arrived last Wednesday afternoon and stayed one night down at the beach with my dear friend Sarita's, I have put in 3 long days shopping already. No jet lag at all this year for me, happy to say - I feel totally healthy, energized and fantastic! Yippee on Nyepi (pronounced Nyipee)!
Ah, such a joyful treat, a sweet late afternoon rain has just started and it smells like springtime; an absolutely delicious sound and smell. Behind the rain hitting the palm frowns and banana leaves I can hear little kids laughing and not much else. It is amazing, the stillness. The Balinese tradition for today is based on the belief that on the night before Npepi, if they make as much noise and racket before and during the Ogoh-Ogoh parade that the island will look like such a fun party place the lower gods will come to party and all night have a grand old time. Then, when the whole island goes home, keep all the lights off and stay indoors for a whole day in relative quiet, the lower gods will think the Island has become abandoned and a boring place to party -- then they will leave it, alone and at peace. This is the ancient Balinese Hindu belief and I think it is wonderful. So here we are on the day Nyepi, my friend Penny and I resting and reading the day away, eating scrumptious meals she prepared in advance for us, so peaceful. We even gave ourselves facials this morning. A day kind of like Yom Kippur but without having to dress up and go to temple to pray, reflect or atone. Refreshed and recharged and lazy, I am lounging around in my sarong and singlet sipping strong coffee and dreaming about the chili rellenos and smoked duck we are having for dinner.
For the start of my holiday yesterday I hopped on the back of Penny's motorbike as we scooted around up in the mountains looking at the local Ogoh-Ogoh's. Imagine, if you will, giant bizarre animal-like creatures made of paper machete and foam with feathers for fingernails and nipples up too 25 feet high. They are supposed to represent evil spirits or demonic beings so I have seen over the year's large missiles and other phallic things, some foreign political leaders (who shall remain nameless), giant bugs, monsters of all sorts. No matter the subject, the creations are amazingly detailed and bold beyond belief. No reason to be subtle in your artistry when trying to court the demons. Before coming back to Ubud (our hometown) to go to the soccer field where all the villages Ogoh-ogoh convene to start the parade, Penny and I stopped briefly back at her home at dusk to rustle up all the monsters from the corner of her house. Each with pot and spoon in hand we banged and whooped up a storm to coax the spirits from under the tables and behind the doors. Party time, we said, come out to play. Then off we scooted to the center of town to see the Ogoh-Ogoh's in the all their splendor with electronic lights and smoke on them and anywhere form 10 - 50 boys to men carried them on bamboo platforms through the center of town making as much noise as possible. I haven't been to Mardi Gras but I imagine it much the same feeling without the breasts or beads or drunken debauchery. I recognized many Balinese friends and their sons carting the giant monsters on their shoulders and shouting loud chants in their black and white sarongs - to represent the balance of good and evil. What fun. After dinner I walked back towards Penny's without the aid of any streetlights or shop lights, I did my best not to fall into any holes in the street. I say this in part because I was walking with my head towards the heaven, gawking at the sky ablaze with so many stars unencumbered by electric lights. Quite a show they gave me.
Now the rain has ceased and I can hear my dear Penny in the kitchen mixing up our evening cocktail of vodka & tonic and fresh lime from the tree in her garden. I will sign off now with love and peace for you all; peace for the gods and monsters alike; and in hopes that we all can have a healthy and happy new year. From the bottom of my mulit-cultural heart, I send my love,
Selemat Hari Raya Nyepi,
Laura
]]>First let me apologies for not writing sooner, as I feel I have been away from home for years. The past three weeks have flown by as fast as the snow has fallen for most of you in North America and the sweat has dripped down my back here on the equator. I write from my beloved old home of Yogyakarta in my dear friends Linda’s home. Norah Jones is singing in the other room in eerie harmony with the echoing call to the mosque down the block. It is 10 in the morning and the temperature is already 92 degrees. Hot and happy I am.
]]>First let me apologies for not writing sooner, as I feel I have been away from home for years. The past three weeks have flown by as fast as the snow has fallen for most of you in North America and the sweat has dripped down my back here on the equator. I write from my beloved old home of Yogyakarta in my dear friends Linda’s home. Norah Jones is singing in the other room in eerie harmony with the echoing call to the mosque down the block. It is 10 in the morning and the temperature is already 92 degrees. Hot and happy I am. My heart is soaring for many reasons, but at this moment the truth that Bill and Daniel are en route to me is a big reason. They arrive tomorrow afternoon in Bali as I also return from Java to rendezvous at the airport and meet them. Yahoo!
As expected, and as always, coming home to Indonesia completes in me sense of coming home to a part of me which is difficult to access in America on a regular basis. I have energy that fuels me through out the day from which I move with glee. For those of you who know me well, I never ever have to nap when I am here. In light of what I have just said, I must admit that one of the reasons I haven’t written in the past few weeks has been because I lost a week laid up with a chest infection which complicated my asthma a bit. My friends and family here in Bali cared for me and brought me back to health with such love. I feel once again blessed by how my loved ones here for the past 16 years continue to infuse me with the same love I feel for this special place. Again, always the lesson for me is the love you put out there comes right back to me. The cycle goes round and round and round. Do not worry; I am in good health once again, strong and breathing deeply, grinning from ear to ear as I do.
Norah Jones has stopped singing and the Imam wails away on his own. Five times a day he calls the loyal to partly and reminds me to take the time to take deep breaths. Yesterday we tooled around Yogyakarta shopping and shopping and shopping for my favorite batik wood products. What fun. Before I fell ill (that is the Indonesian translation of getting sick, literally they say you “fell into sickness”) I got much of my shopping done in Bali. Lots of goodies for you all. One of my favorite days was going to pick out some of the stone carvings that I brought back for the garden last year and am trying again this year. All of the carvings are done in Bali by the deft hands of the Balinese carvers, but some of the cast stone pieces are done in Java and brought to Bali by truck. My dear friend Connie and I delighted in witnessing the unloading of the truck freshly arrived from Java as I waited for a specific Dewisita sculpture that I wanted to be unpacked. Six totally taut small Indonesian men picked through the truck stuffed to the top with hay. As if on a treasure hunt for hidden gods lost in the hay pile, they unearthed layers and layers of packaging to uncover Buddha heads, 50, 60, 70 and 80 centimeter sitting Buddha, exquisite Dewisitas, Shiva sitting in prayer; all resting in their hay padding until snatched by the hands of the deft man who plucked it up, tossed it down off the truck to the waiting arms of the next man in line and so on and so forth. Every so often, there was a big enough Buddha that warranted two men to lift him and they tossed it down onto a waiting bed of hay to break the fall.
The Buddha landed softly and was picked up again and carted off to and garden of other carved Buddha and friends of the Buddha. After over 100 pieces of carvings uncovered from the treasure hunt, there lies in wait the Buddha of all Buddha. At the bottom of the truck, after watching for almost an hour, was a Buddha twice as big as me sitting in meditative prayer waiting patiently for all the others to be brought down off the truck. It took four men to lift him as they last bit of hay fell around their sweaty backs. I smiled and laughed at the memory of Bill schlepping my little sculptures I brought back last year and will again this year into our garage. Buddha’s journey from Java via truck and hay pile to Bali, into the strong arms of the Indonesian workers bringing it to rest in a garden studio waiting for me to purchase it and have it packed into a wooden crate, picked up once again by truck and escorted back to Java where it will set out by cargo ship, sailing for 3 months via Singapore to LA and then by train to Philadelphia, finally picked up by Bill in the rental U-haul truck with our hand cart to roll the Buddha home to my garage studio four months from the time the sculpture initially left it place of creation in central Java. Such a journey for the Buddha, none? If all goes well the sculpture will sell in my annual show. If not, I get the joy of having the final resting place for this Buddha in the middle of my Bala Cynwyd garden between the basil and chili plants that remind me so of my Indonesia – her food, heat and the profound love affair I have with her.
Deep sigh. By now, the rain has started and cools down the day a bit. I will set out shortly to visit my dear brother Jon (my batik teacher and old friend). Tomorrow I fly home to Bali (so many homes I have, aren’t I lucky?) to meet Bill and Daniel. We will settle into Ubud to the comforts of a guesthouse with a pool, yummy breakfasts, and great desserts. I will close with love from Java, via Bali, straight from my huge explosive heart. Write if you wish, I only go on line every 4 days or so. Before you know it we will be home to you all. I vow and strive to bring my love affair home and continue to fan the flame of my happy heart back in the States. From Bali to Bala is more than just my annual show and business, it is really the way I live my life and love my life. Thank you to each of you for helping me keep this dream a reality.
All my love,
Laura
P.S. Because I was initially busy shopping and then laid up being sick and getting well, I haven’t had the time to devote to the relief work in Aceh. Now that I am mostly done with business I will send out a report next week to update everyone on the progress being made in the region. There is lost of talk and good work being done by many devoted folk in Bali and I am sure I will have a lot to send you word of. Sorry I can’t offer more now, but know that the people of Aceh are moving forward with their lives as I write.
P.S.S. I am now back in Bali, in Ubud with my two loves. Bill and Daniel arrived in fine form and we spent a night at the beach. Oh I am so happy to have them here, and they are also equally elated. More later after we swim the afternoon away.
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I want to think about the metaphor “batik”; of wax, layers, color dyes that initially do not look like the color they turn out to be. Colors that need to be ”fixed” before they can ”take", the same color dye fixed with a different fixative produces a whole different color. The absurdity of using indigo sol dyes which are solar activated, and that therefore need the sun in order to penetrate the cloth - and here I am making art in a tropical climate with two seasons: the dry season and the wet season. During the wet season, I may not see the sun for days or weeks. Hence, weather influences my palette. It also forces me to slow down. My patience and my flexibility are infinitely greater than even if I were an oil painter in the Amazon. Building up layers and layers from white to dark and back again, perhaps. Each color taking two stages, waxing and dyeing. The layers of wax obscuring the image and color so much that each underlying step is cloaked and hidden until the final stage of boiling. Only then, when the painting is submerged in the hot, boiling water, does the wax come off and the true painting emerge. Until then, each piece is only a process, play experimentation. Finally, clean of wax, a painting is born.
I want to think more about the creative power of mistakes. Mistakes are really opportunities in disguise. If, in fact, I accidentally dip into the wrong dye (and I have been known to do that), then I have a color unplanned. Rarely does it disturb me except on paintings where I have a very predetermined plan, a committed game plan of what I want the end result to be, and therefore I am more attached to each stage. I'm not that good to be so attached. Batik is too complicated a medium to be totally accurate. The few times my ire has been up has been because of thinking I wanted something other than what I got. I have had to abandon my plan and follow on the path of spontaneity. Flexibility is the best committed batik path around.
Laura, March 1993
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