To begin with: there are daily unannounced visits from the jungle’s (other) resident inhabitants. Geckos, love ‘em – even when they sprint across the walls when I step into the shower, trying to dash out of sight. Butterflies and dragonflies soaring in and out of my room, snails silently, patiently gliding up bamboo poles… ahhh, so beautiful. Ants, spiders and various unidentified insects, miniature in size, ok I can accept. Cockroaches: Not. Never. Not on your life. (Brian, are you hearing me?) Caterpillars, I’m still undecided (unclear as I am about the risk they pose). Little unidentified oval and pointy-shaped things that cling to the walls, appearing and disappearing overnight.

And then, the almighty fruit bats. I’ve only spotted one once, when it swooped low enough for a momentary viewing – so impressive in size. But still they could not disguise their dawn visits: oh, such an abundance of droppings! Not only poop, but chunks of rambutan (tropical fruit), whole and peeled (!), and crusty, peach-pit-looking seeds that would spread out across the floor of my terrace with a daily, near-punctual regularity. I could be almost certain, when opening my door each morning, to find a nasty but colorful mess.

While I was in Tabanan last week, I was unceremoniously informed (via text, unfortunately and indelicately) that I had to find another house. Some of the message seems to have been lost in translation, but this much I know: it had to do with money. And though my legal training kicked in momentarily (what do you mean? Don’t I have rights as a long-term tenant?!), it quickly dissipated; it’s best to accept that things don’t quite work that way in this part of the world.

My hunch is that, while I was away, Ngurah discovered that other foreigners were willing to fork out considerably more than I was paying; leading him to conclude that it was perfectly acceptable to kick me out.

Welcome back to Bali.           

After the shock of his abruptness wore off, I came around to realizing that it is probably precisely the kick I needed to move; after all, I’ve sensed slightly out of place and misaligned since the day I first moved in; little privacy, unpredictable access to water, but mostly, that it is undeniably, impossibly just too damn dark for me.

And so, in addition to so many other things that I’m supposed to be busy with, I am, once again, desperately seeking the light…

Thank goodness for memory lapses where close relatives are concerned. Because, what I hadn’t fully taken into account were the challenges of spending two weeks in close quarters with my family. Then again, how do you actually prepare to spend time with your own family? Some long-forgotten memories are conjured up when you least expect them to – yes, even when you think you’ve put them behind you, when you imagine you’ve accepted, let go, moved on.

Oh, the buttons that get pushed – as if each one of were a mobile jukebox, with songs that get replayed over and over again, even when they already sound scratchy. Ancient sibling rivalries rise and outshine, niblings squabble amongst themselves, elbowing each other for a slice of the attention-pie, replaying only slightly modified scenes of our own rollercoaster journeys through childhood and tween angst.

In-laws, cousins, and friends from distant points around the globe are thrown into the mix, descending on our quarters, congregating for hours at a time (or more). I wonder: Do they notice and blend into our familial cacophony, our attempts to remain grounded, graceful and adult-ish despite the occasional regression into childlike behavior patterns – or do they merely provide a distraction?

The weeks are wallpapered with fun and activities: swimming in pools and the ocean, soaking in a Jacuzzi, mini-golf, jet-skiing, spotting manatees, visits to a leatherback turtle sanctuary and alligator rest area; dinners out, walks on the beach, TV, movies, shopping and catching up.

I took my first bath in over a year, my body delighting in the underwater bubblicious massage. I got buried in the sand (up to my neck). OJ and I were treated to a pedicure while watching YouTube videos, and I did yoga stretches to a soundtrack of morning cartoons. I bought a bottle of Aussie wine for $5 – because I had to – the same bottle costing upward of $30 in Bali!

But one of the most unexpected highlights (for me) was getting back up on a… two-wheeled; not quite a bicycle, but close enough to qualify (at least in my books): It’s called a WindFlyer, and absent a bicycle seat, it appeared like an elliptical trainer on wheels. What a thrill to ride around and around, powering the vehicle by a forward climbing motion!

Servers at a restaurant we frequented hailed from countries around the world – such as Turkey, the Philippines, India, Zimbabwe… and (Sumatra) Indonesia; a prime opportunity to practice my Bahasa (Indonesian) – and to empty my stash of durian candies into the palms of Raja’s homesick and happy hands.

But devise too many plans and they will likely go awry from time to time: Unexpected visits to a car dealership and urgent care medical clinic took a bite out of the little down-time we actually had left. Unexpected also were the beached fish that showed up all along the coastline and weather that turned so chilly that heaters were plugged in and plants covered up to ward off impending frost. Unexpected (or, perhaps not), were the occasional bouts of pain that followed me to the other side of the world – could they not take a vacation too?!

In the end, the significance of reuniting with my family reminded me (rather oddly, I know!) of the Soviet-style vans that roar through the Mongolian Gobi (desert): They are durable, not all that pretty but can last for years; and they hold not one, but TWO fuel tanks, both of which have to be filled up to ensure a complete and safe journey. One tank may get you to where you want to go, but it’s the second that provides back-up, on which you can rely if the first fails, for which you will be grateful if your driver has taken a wrong turn when the regular signposts have gone missing.

There are other parallels too: Exhaust. Sputtering. Getting overheated, requiring a cooling down period. Tires that go flat or punctured. Seats that are somewhat comfortable at the outset, then start to feel hard and require cushioning. Plus you simply must step out and stretch your legs whenever possible. Refresh. Reinvigorate.

The thing is this: If you can hang on during the trip, if you can trust that the second tank will kick in when anyone in the vehicle really needs it, if you manage to sometimes ignore the dents and bruises , and you’re willing to get back in despite the approaching bumps, potholes and detours, even when darkness sets in with silence and uncertainty about the next day; if you realize that other vans careen down paths equally fraught with risks and uncertainty, then you’ll breathe in deeply once in awhile, stare out (or inside, all around) in wonder and admit to yourself that, sometimes for inexplicable reasons, you still gotta love these people.

After a couple hours of walking, I was in dire need of rest so I headed to my usual and favorite resting place in Singapore:  the lawn of St. Andrew’s Cathedral, where I tend to stretch out on my back on a grassy patch, my umbrella angled just so, to ward off midday sun and heat. But alas, five minutes or so before arriving at my idyllic midtown oasis, the skies opened and the rain came falling down. Oh no, mucky muck instead of dry grass.

The rain tapered off quickly, leaving wet patches all over the grass. Still, people were milling about inside and outside the church information center, a busload of elderly patrons walking around undeterred, slurping forkfuls of noodles from their pre-packaged boxed lunches. Some gathered around windows reading from posted notices, engaged in discussion about (perhaps?) the spirit of Christmas.

Since I couldn’t rest outside, I decided instead to head into the Raffles City shopping center across the street, hoping to get a bite to eat in the lower-level food court. As soon as I walked in the door to Robinson’s (department store), the answer to Singapore’s emptied streets became readily apparent: EVERYONE was in this mall, shopping for who-knows-what-else-they-don’t-need at Christmas time.

All at once, the buzz, the lights, the rushing, to-and-froing, the throngs, the bags, the lights, glitz and glamor, sucked out my energy like a parasite gone haywire.

Out of curiosity, I stepped into one of the multitude of high-end brand name stores, picking up a collapsible umbrella and nearly dropping it when I glimpsed the price on the tag: $125. I quickly did the math and figured that I could stock up on two years’ worth of umbrellas in Bali for that price!

Bottom line: It was insanity wrapped up in an overpriced gilded and glittery box. Shoppers in a frenzy, queuing up in lines stretching towards the back of stores, hauling stuff, a phalanx of high-maintenance women carrying Prada/Coach/LV handbags, tapping furiously on their PDAs while scurrying about on stilettos. (Oh no.. take me back to flip-floppin’ grass-hoppin’ Bali!!)

The scene reminded me of a film I’d watched earlier this week at the Yoga Barn. Called What Would Jesus Buy?, the movie profiled an American activist named “Reverend Billy” who formed the Church of Stop Shopping. With a choir of like-minded performers, the Reverend heads out into the streets and malls of America to ask people why they feel compelled to buy, buy, buy in the weeks leading up to Christmas; do they really need ALL that stuff?  It’s a humorous and sometimes jarring romp through the consumerist craziness that Christmas has become.

By the time I’d finished eating my veggie wrap, watched hundreds of zealous shoppers and diners zip by, and saw enough SALE signs to last a lifetime, I was more than ready to call it a day.

I walked outside into the drizzle – trying to avoid the shoppers elbowing their way past me – and caught sight of a poster hanging inside the church center that I’d missed earlier…

… cuz this is really what it ought to be all about…

The gong signaled the transition.  We rose silently and stepped out to the adjoining living room to walk – the rain preventing us from doing so outdoors. I walked slowly and deliberately, lifting and planting down each of my feet on the hard stone floor with great care and intention.

I’m normally averse to walking in my bare feet on hard surfaces, but this experience allowed me to move slowly and feel deeply through the full range of sensations that still afflict my left foot: Ah here is that particularly raw and bony spot, there a nerve ending still tingles.

How to explain the shifts that my body still does unthinkingly every time I take a step? Imagine walking down a long road such that your right foot has to constantly step up onto a sidewalk half-an-inch higher than the road. (Takes a toll on other parts of the body, especially the hips.)

Every so often I stop, mid-movement, plant my feet and lean from left to right and back again. Swaying meditation. It is striking, as I slowly move from side to side, to notice the yawning difference between my right foot and its near-twin; the right foot feels solid, strong and sturdy, while the left feels smaller, shier, tentative.

Swaying still, I seek out my center of gravity. Memories of ballet class come flooding back; recalling how I would feel so strong and centered, pulling myself up by the spine. Planted. Grounded.

But now, shifting left and right, searching for a clue, a subtle sign, I have to admit that my center of gravity is as elusive as ever.

I walk again. Treading lightly. Heel to toe.

Why do I walk so much? Because, despite gnawing pain still, despite those nerve endings that yearn for cover, because because because because… I CAN.

So we headed down to the beach at Sukawati, expecting a clear and unhindered view of the moon. We caught sight of the earth’s shadow inching its way across the lower half of the orb, creating a partial-crescent effect. Oh, the potential for a magnificent viewing was within reach! But let’s not forget that this is RAINY season in Bali, a.k.a CLOUDY season, MONSOON season. As we arrived at the beach, dug into a plate of mie goreng at the warung near the beach, our gazes reached skyward and within minutes, the whole swath of sky was nothing but a patchwork of thick clouds.

Now what? The winds were picking up, the waves crashing, tides were indecisive. The lights along the shore burned bright. The clouds grew thicker. We settled onto the black beach sand to meditate. If you’ve not yet tried it, get thee to a beach, quiet and away from crowds, ideally at night, and meditate. If you’re going to miss a gift from nature, best to look for a gift inside yourself.

The sand was hard so I dug out a small indentation, lay down on my back, positioning myself in a way that my still-protruding sacral bump fit snuggly into the carved-out hole. As soon as I closed my eyes and began to breathe deeply, I noticed a sensation that took my breath away: An unmistakable pulse arising from my backside, beating like it had a heart of its own. Right inside my once-broken sacrum. The rhythmic thump reminding me, confirming that the bones and nerves were alive – or at least in the process of reviving themselves. I dared not move for a long time.

I breathed with joy, relief and surprise. A few tears ran down my cheek.

Indeed, I missed a rare sight, seeing the moon get eclipsed that night. But I was witness to a little miracle right inside my body.

The universe has a way of bringing us the gifts that we need when we need them most. Amen.

Scores of restaurants, shops, banks and money exchange depots dot this dense chunk of Ubud’s pseudo-urban landscape. Everywhere you look: locals on motorbikes, on their way to/from school, market or temple; slow-moving, camera-wielding tourists (mainly Japanese and Australian); long-time expat residents weaving their way expertly (sometimes a tad dangerously) through long lines of traffic; tourist buses, taxi drivers, priests and others carrying offerings around town.

But if you walk past this intersection with any regularity (as I do nearly every day, sometimes twice or more a day), you discover people, sights and occurrences that might go unnoticed by those just whizzing by. Such is the case of an otherwise non-descript Balinese woman I’ve seen many times. My guess is that she’s Ubud’s bag lady. But not just any bag lady…

I first noticed her a few months ago, in bare feet, with bun and burnished skin, as she sat in front of the Tourist Information Office. Surrounded as she was with a half-dozen bags, what struck me most was how intently she read a newspaper. None of the passersby, tourist police, honking motorbikes distracted her; she kept on reading,

Since then, I’ve seen her picking through garbage and offerings after they’ve been nibbled at by dogs, roosters and the wind. One time, I saw her dragging a large garbage around, obviously alert to the auspicious day on the Balinese calendar, one on which the offerings promised more food choices: rice, crackers, candies and a wider selection of fruit.

I passed her on the road one day, offered some of the fruit I was munching on (pundung) and couldn’t help notice that one of her plastic bags was overflowing not with food or clothing – but newspapers.

A scholarly bag lady.

Why not.

Welcome to Bali.

And then, in the same vicinity, the other side of Ubud’s economic spectrum, I recently sighted something that caught my attention: Tucked into the royal family’s garage, amidst the Hondas, Nissans and Mercedes Benzs, a novel addition to their fleet – but what a conspicuous addition…the biggest, blackest, shiniest, monstrous Lexus SUV I’ve seen in many many months.

It seemed so completely and utterly out of place, so out of synch with the rhythm, vibe and character of this city that I flinched when I first noticed it. Oh no, a Lexus?! Subsequently, I’ve seen that uber-machine parked outside the roadside garage a number of times, being washed, scrubbed and sparkled on many occasions.

I often wonder: what do the locals coming to market every morning make of it? The Javanese women who carry the heaviest loads in town for a pittance? The tourists, who gawk? But mostly, the bag lady: does she even notice? Could she care less?

What a contrast. The same intersection, the same coordinates, the same city. But, behind the bags and newspapers, behind the luxury cars and fancy duds, there is an obliviousness to the existence of the others.

In this regard at least, Ubud is not so very distant from where I come…

Still in pain, I began the long and slow trek home. On the way, it dawned on me that my decision, a few days earlier (while still in Penatahan), to beg off Dewa’s instructions might have been ill-timed; perhaps my body was showing signs of withdrawal and I needed to re-assess…If you think it is not possible to fry an egg on your body, I am here to tell you, unequivocally, that you absolutely, most definitely, can do.

But I’m getting ahead of myself, so let me back up…

One evening towards the end of September, Gede picks me on his motorbike and we head up to Tegallalang, past Gede’s house, past the night market, the football field and lots of farm animals, to his wife’s cousin’s house: Dewa is a bone balian, a traditional Balinese healer specializing in repairing broken bones. I’ve heard of these bone balians, incredible stories of healing, unimaginable corrections of bone formation, accident victims with bones once again intact. How can I not seek one out?

Dewa lives with his large and extended family in a non-descript compound at the near-end of a darkened unpaved road and up an inclined driveway. We are greeted by a disproportionate number of growling dogs. Further inside, Dewa’s mother and another female relative are sitting on the ground of a fluorescent-lit covered terrace, preparing tomorrow’s offerings, weaving coconut palm fronds into little hanging enclosures, barely glancing at their handiwork – so skilled are they at churning out these weavings, their fingers flying through the air in a pas-de-deux of green leaves.

Dewa’s mother rises promptly, smiles and, while speaking with Gede, pulls out a rolled-up white tarp (in fact a few emptied wheat bags sewn together) and unfurls it on the ground for us to sit on. I nestle onto my pillow sideways while Gede sits cross-legged across me. While we wait, Gede tells me how he came to see Dewa after falling off his bike and seriously injuring his shoulder; within a couple of appointments, he was completely healed.

A few moments later, a young man in bare feet walks out of an adjacent room, greets Gede with a few words, turns and nods towards me with a smile. He can’t be more than 40 years old, with shoulder-length hair, his face deeply burnished by the sun, his eyes red-shot but the whites giving off a sharpness amplified by his deeply-tanned skin. Dewa sits down, in well-worn sweat pants and top, joins Gede in a smoke and we are all offered drinks. I pull out my bag of offerings and incense that Gede has prepared for the occasion, tuck in a bill and place it on the ground in front of me – customary procedure.

The tea tastes putrid but I know well enough not to insult my hosts so I sip it just slowly enough that they notice. Gede reminds me that Dewa won’t begin to scan a body or ask for information before he’s had a cup of kopi (coffee); one of sixteen cups he drinks daily. (He’s just come back from a long day, beginning in the rice field, then working on a construction site; his day job).

So I sit and observe quietly as the men speak and the women behind us, still twirling long palm leaves in the air, listen and join in periodically. Dewa speaks in even tones, smiles easily; I sense an energy in his presence that I cannot pinpoint, an aura of spirituality and intuition emanates from this man whose words I cannot understand (Gede translates back and forth). When our eyes meet, I wonder: Is he already scanning and reading me?

As they continue to speak in Balinese, I look over into Dewa’s room: Barely furnished, it’s Spartan in every way; a simple wood platform with a thin mattress and sheet for a bed; a small set of drawers between the bed and wall, a small TV on top – most likely an Indonesian soap opera playing at sotto voce. The room is very dark, the walls grimy and bare. A door inside leads (I later discover) to the altar room, where Dewa seeks out guidance from his spirits.

Gede’s attention turns to me: He wants you to lie down on your stomach. I do so, laying my pillow underneath to soften the hardness of the ground below. Dewa starts to poke at the soles and toes of my feet, rolls up my pant legs. He palpates all over my lower back, the sacrum and the upper part of my buttocks; up and down my lower legs.

Dewa says that circulation in both my legs is very poor – so much so that in a number of years I may not be able to walk at all. I’m not as surprised to hear his words as you would think because I’m instantaneously transported a few months back to the office of Dr David the Chinese doctor in KL who, after scanning my body, said the exact same thing…

Dewa expresses regret at not being able to do much for me; had I seen him immediately after the accident, he is sure to have re-set and healed my bones. Nevertheless he offers to consult his spirits to see if there is something that will help ease the pain.

Dewa returns from the altar room, his sweatpants replaced with a sarong. I rise onto my knees with my head lowered. A ritual of incense sticks, smoke, holy water and flower petals ensues. I’m thankful that I’ve already learned the (basic) ropes about receiving blessings from attending countless ceremonies.When Dewa is seated again, he resumes his conversation with Gede. There is more information for me: If and when the time is right, and if I have patience and am able to withstand more pain, he may be able to press down very hard onto the bones to re-set them. He also suggested that I should get married, because movement may be very helpful as well; Gede and I later realize that marriage is Dewa’s euphemism for sex – as a way to promote and accelerate the healing… of my bones. He was dead serious.

Dewa then explains to Gede exactly the kind of obat (medicine) I am to prepare – to both help with the pain and release liquid that is stuck to bone; the poultice dressings that I am to prepare each evening: one egg yolk – but not any egg, it must be telur ayam kampong (from a free range chicken), onto which I am to sprinkle a pressed small red onion and a garlic clove – but only the button, bottom part of the garlic, throwing the rest out, because I injured the bottom of my body. I am to place the concoction on a cotton pad (or wad of toilet paper), lay it onto my sacrum, then wrap a roll of gauze around my hips to hold it in place.

And so, here is what I can report after more than two months of nightly egg-apps: I couldn’t get the smell of egg out of my room, my bed, my pyjama top, my mind. I don’t know how I managed to still order soft-boiled eggs or an omelette for breakfast. Maybe you can never have too much protein – regardless of whether you eat it or absorb it sub-epidermally. Good thing I don’t have issues with high cholesterol.

But infinitely more fascinating was this:  I went to sleep every night with a glop of runny egg, and other smelly ingredients glued onto my back… and a few hours later, when I awoke and de-mummified myself, I was peeling off my back a warm frittata with fossilized strands of garlic and remnants of red onion. How comforting to realize that my broken sacrum was the ideal vehicle for at least one thing. Not edible, perhaps, but ta-da! – a daily serving of protein nevertheless.But after two months of no further appointments, no more guidance from Dewa or clear indication of whether or not this healing treatment was effective, it was time to re-assess (and give my back and egg-soiled underwear, towels and sheets, a much-needed break).

With so many bone balians on this island, the hunt continues.

Then again, maybe I wouldn’t have given up so easily if I could have figured out how to use my body’s heat energy to whip up an order of French toast or grilled cheese…

A guy steps out onto the west end of Jalan Raya (main road), waving his arms, attempting to slow down the very few motorbikes and cars passing by. I’m expecting a van-load of tourists to come barreling down the gravel road that veers off the main road up ahead; or at the very least, a pick-up truck loaded up with bicycles, on its way to Mount Batur for this day’s cycling adventure.

But what I see seconds later is so totally unexpected that it’s like a punch line to a joke that NOBODY saw coming.

A rice farmer, wearing rubber boots and wielding a tall bamboo stick, is coaxing his flock of loudly yakkin’ ducks (bebek) across the road. Another farmer, this one in bare feet, follows closely by, holding a duck by its neck – errant, I assume, hence punishment by dangling! Good thing those bebek have crossing guards, because they’re too busy chattering to look both ways.

But they follow a well-trodden path, turning the corner, en masse, when they reach the sidewalk, waddling up the hill with a sense of familiarity borne of routine. They’re likely on their way to the rice paddies adjoining the temple and cremation grounds next to Murni’s Villas.

We, the people, are just  intruders in their neck of the…um… fields.

Just when you think that motorbikes, tourist buses, taxi touts and villas have taken over the neighborhood, quite out of the blue, you might be treated to an insider’s view of authentic Ubud and its oft-forgotten, but not-too-distant agrarian past (and present).

Welcome to Bali: The island of never-ending surprises.

The word ‘tumpek’ means a particular day on a Saturday in the Balinese lunar calendar and the word ‘landep’ in high Balinese dialect means ‘sharp’ and is most often associated with weapons. People who were born on Tumpek Landep day are believed to have sharp minds and brains.

In the past, the Tumpek Landep ceremony was only dedicated to weapons made of steel such as Kris daggers, spears, swords and so on, especially weapons that were vested with magical powers. Traditionally, on this day tools and family heirlooms of weaponry, such as sacred swords or keris (or kris, a ceremonial double-edged dagger with a wavy blade), are sanctified.

But as time passed, concessions were made to modern life and technology. As such, ceremonies on Tumpek Landep are now extended to ritualize all objects made of metal, including cars, motorbikes, trucks, computers, televisions, digital cameras and machinery. Cars, motorbikes and bicycles all around Bali are adorned with colorful coconut-leaf decorations.

Some believe that blessings and offerings for vehicles may ensure safe travel, while others may fear that accidents that occur while driving a car (or operating a machine) may be caused by carelessness during a ceremony on Tumpek Landep. The festival also marks an opportunity for people to sharpen their minds and hearts, as they are the ultimate users and beneficiaries of technology.

Cars and motorbikes aside, Tumpek Landep would seem to be an auspicious day for other events as well – such as the grand, over-the-top, boisterous opening of a supermarket…?! Ubud’s third supermarket held its official opening yesterday afternoon, with all the pomp and circumstance one might see at the swearing in of a government official.

Strategically located at the intersection of Hanoman, Monkey Forest and Pengosekan Roads, Coco Supermarket sits on a prime piece of real estate… overlooking one of the last parcels of rice field in the village of Padang Tegal (otherwise known as central Ubud). Nearly all the signs inside the store are in English, a blatant effort to attract tourists and resident expats – rather than locals.

The Pecalang (Balinese village security guys) directed traffic in and out of the parking lot. The store’s lights flooded the interior, visible to onlookers through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Visitors and invited guests from all around Ubud (and, I imagine Bali) arrived and were treated to speeches – given from a dais erected on the side of a Coca Cola truck – as well as balloons, traditional Indonesian dishes and frivolous swag (loot bags – not surprising, given Balinese fondness for bunkus = take out or delivery)

I still can’t figure out why this opening would coincide with a day dedicated to the blessing of metal objects. Perhaps it wasn’t about the store at all; maybe the Coca Cola truck had just rolled off the production line and needed an audience for its Tumpek Landep ceremony…

As the crow flies, Penatahan is probably less than half an hour’s drive northwest from Ubud. But with Bali’s road networks being what they are, it took us – Patricia, Sangtu, Eric and I – more than an hour to get here last weekend. Here is where, on a large patch of land leased (long-term) from Pak Putu, in the shadow of the Batukaru mountain range and the holiest of Bali’s peaks – Mount Agung – Patricia is building a silent meditation retreat center.

I was virtually surrounded on all sides with picture postcard views of of nature: Rice fields, coconut groves and mountains. And sky; a whole lot of sky. But rather unexpectedly in these parts, I have also been overlooking a construction site. So it’s just as well I couldn’t connect to the internet; I’ve had work to do…

The first day, I read a book titled Anticancer, from cover to cover. I cooked and ate well. I wrote, sketched and watched movies uploaded to my laptop. I also spent many hours walking around the property, the banjar, into the neighboring village; down the road to the hot springs, skirting umpteen rice fields.

Vegetation flourishes wildly in these parts; durian trees, jackfruit trees, banana trees, guava and papaya and palm trees. Coconuts are plentiful. So are the chickens and roosters. Not so with motorbikes (amen!), dogs (amen, amen!), and burning toxic trash (triple amen!!) Still, I succumbed to the strangest allergic reaction when I arrived, which reared itself a few times a day (inexplicably), throwing me into sneezing fits lasting a few hours – disappearing as quickly and inexplicably as they appeared.

Once the others left, I had Patricia’s house to myself; the top floor a large room with 2 beds and windows with expansive views. If you seek solitude or sequestering for some time, I can’t think of a better place. The sunrises – if you don’t mind waking at 5:30 to catch them – are breathtaking, each morning a new variation on a theme. I can’t help thinking of Symphonie Pastorale as I scan the horizon, Lucky, lucky me.

And the animals that become my constant companions: Birds roosting, cooing, swooning on the roof. Swallows circling low at dusk, then flying smack into the window in front of me, as if blinded by the glass. Cecaks sprint across the walls and underneath the roof, dropping their black poo-pellets all over the floor.

I visit the site daily, sometimes twice a day. Mostly to walk about, get a feel for the land, sketch, take measurements. Just after returning to the house from a site visit, the sky clouds over and the winds pick up speed. Within moments, the skies open up and rain falls, but not just any rain… I stare out the window, wondering what happened to Patricia’s angels who tend to keep the showers at bay. I send her an urgent text message: I think yr angels are on hiatus. Monsoon in progress. Power is out… Minutes later, this reply beeps in from Ibu Patricia: Oooops. I ask for a little rain for the newly planted vetiver at beginning of road. The volume thing is a mystery. Maybe if u just ask it to move on to the mountain? Thing is: I was serious – and so was she. The angels have a funny way of being omnipresent in Bali – especially with, and around, certain people that I’ve come to know.

I’ve met Bill and his wife Mita before, but not the kids, D and I. I pop into their house a couple of times, for tea and a visit. I drop into Bill’s office, once for a chat, another time to ask to borrow his laptop. Bill and D play ball in the front yard often, so I join them there too. And I’m even invited to attend a wedding, Mita’s friend’s brother’s (!); apparently it is good luck to have a tamu (guest/foreigner) at a Balinese marriage. But when we arrive, after the heavy rains have subsided, it’s clear that we’ve missed the ceremony! Tidak apa apa (no problem)!

We’re invited to take a tour around the elaborately decorated grounds, and to feast on Balinese traditional (but more elegantly cooked and presented) dishes. The groom is, after all, an “Agung”, considered royalty (or at least aristocracy) in Bali; the extended family lives in a Puri (palace) with its own grand temple and many extensions and new rooms for a growing family. It’s by far the most ornate and luxurious wedding venue I’ve seen here thus far. They even have a musical trio (a la Bali) playing bamboo instruments for guests while they eat; rare in Bali, but consistent with the more sophisticated tastes of the upper castes.

After a couple of days, D musters up the courage to befriend me. He knocks on the door, walks into the house, tentatively climbs the stairs to where I’m writing and drawing. I let him play with some stuff lying around – a cheap telescope, my headlamp, speakers, colored pencils. I teach him the words (approximately) from the classic children’s book, Brown Bear, Brown Bear. Even though he was born and lived in America, he’s never heard of it. D gets a kick out of the singsong and we continue to improvise with silly additions for a long while.

I know he’s taken a liking to me when we together notice that hundreds of coconuts keep falling from the roof onto the floor; there are so many that we have to collect them and place them on the table and the couch, and in the fridge. Who says you can’t play pretend when you’re an adult?! Mita later recounts that D had said with absolute seriousness: No, mama, like is not as strong as love, so I love her. Ahh… how’s that for honesty from a six-year-old boy?

I’m plugged into my work when I suddenly hear a new sound in the distance, a sound that clearly does not emanate from nature… It takes me only a moment more to realize I’m listening to the unmistakable rumblings of a cement mixer. Ah yes, they’re pouring concrete into the circular foundations of the meditation deck.

In the late afternoon, I set out for walk in the banjar – population unknown (but no likely more than 100). As I reach the bottom of the driveway, I see the petite figure of Ibu coming toward me. She’s without a doubt the grand dame of this hamlet; despite her shriveled and shrunken body, I bet she is the oldest and hence most respected elder of the community. She recognizes me because we first crossed paths two days before; and her face breaks into an easy smile. We greet each other, she with her hardly-buttoned top, dirty towel swung over her shoulder, her sarong hanging in the same way, with the same folds and creases, as it has for decades.

I head out to the site at eight to meet Dody, but he’s running late, buying screws in Penatahan. I pull out the industrial-size metran (measuring tape) and, using a stone to hold down one end, I walk across the width of the cleared terrace to take measurements. I’m suddenly distracted by something I feel gnawing on my foot. I look down and see a gooey brown creature slithering along the top of my foot: a leech! Memories of the day-trek I attempted with Charlotte and Jamil up to Saranghkot (Nepal) flood my mind…

While we’re setting about taking measurements, I get a message from Patricia: We’re coming to collect U tomorrow. (And have 500 meetings – ha!) Wud u check the water purifier + see if there’s water going into it? If not maybe dodi can move to gudang. After Patricia clarifies the gudang reference (storage shed), I chuckle to myself, because though she’s referred to me as if I were a castaway (about to be rescued), I feel anything BUT; I am blessed and grateful to have been gifted respite in this little slice of nature’s paradise.

Sure, I had work to do (designing a labyrinth), but imagine waking up every morning as I have, to spectacular sunrises, working, writing, reading and walking in nature. Total body and soul immersion.

Vis medicatrix naturae. The healing power of nature.

Oh, and those sunrises…