The 23rd of January, 2017
I’ve never known a poet more aptly named than Rumi. The ruminant wrote and to this day, we ruminate upon the pearls he put down with his pen. In the Art market of Ubud, a very graceful, old woman sat by her stall, selling worded remnants of the greats on canvas. She’d painted cursively on one, “Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead let life live through you. And do not worry that your life is turning upside down. How do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?”
“I don’t”, I shook my head, ruminating. With her pretty, radiant bottle green eyes, she told me, “It’s quite possible things will turn out far better than you could imagine.” She shined, that woman. It lit up my dark tunnel. Just then, I knew something. I was certain. I knew I’d make it to the other side. I wanted to make it to the other side.
Another vendor sold me a dreamcatcher. To hang up in the Cruz. Of all the Art available; of all the Art that moved me; all the handicrafts vibrantly and eagerly on display; all the curios that have been my lucky charms over the years, I picked a dreamcatcher. It rests upon a window in my Yellow ride, just above the bunk bed in my cabin.
This small hoop with a horsehair mesh decorated with feathers and beads would give me good dreams. This talisman would protect me from nightmares. The night air blows, filled with dreams, both good and bad. The dream catcher attracts all sorts of them, catching them, absorbing them into its web. The warm morning sunlight brings its own set of dreams, falling right onto our protective juju. The good ones pass through and slide down the feathers to silently enter the minds of the sleeper. The bad ones, however, are captured and crushed in the shielding screen, charred by the coal of night and scorched by the light of day.
A heart full of wishes and wonder, raring to go, nerves throbbing, jittery and jumpy: only a head full of dreams could get you to start now. Start where you are. Start where I am. Start with fear. Start with pain. Start with doubt. Start with hands shaking. Start with voice trembling but start. Start and don’t stop. Start where you are, with what you have. Just…start.
I’ll miss shopping here, even without making an actual purchase. Taking stock of woodcarvings and weaves, brass statuettes and Beachwear. The craftsmanship and artistry of the Balinese. The faithfulness painters bring to their canvases. Nature and places and people. Sincere recreations of them. You can see it in the liquid eyes of characters sketched and painted. Those true eyes, too pure and too honest – sweet souls shining through them. My people. Or should I now say: My first people?
Still have some more goodbyes to say.
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