Raw, idiom, 14a: in the natural, uncultivated, or unrefined state: nature in the raw.
5:44 am, Sunday morning, outside of Canggu. Sun an hour from rising. Indian Ocean quiet.
Quick report this morn before we head up and out for the day.
Skin browning, nice maple syrup color. A couple of long-stroke, dirt-caked traditional Balinese massages under my belt. A helluva lot of ridiculously good organic greens and nuts and papayas and snake fruits and coconut milks consumed. Thick afternoon humidity cut by intermittent rain showers. An illuminating solo walk into Seminyak yesterday. Plans for Ubud this evening, and perhaps a run-in with MLS's dear friend Clair, and certainly a lot of art and music and people-watching. A heart-racing version of Sondheim's "Johanna" from Matt last night lingering over coffee at the dinner table.
(Oh yes -- and do you want to know where we're staying? Meet Desa Seni. Also known as Balinese-Alice-in-Wonderland-fairytale-paradise, home of the saline pool and ridiculous hippie veg cuisine and endless buds and blooms that magically appear on walkways and pillows and tucked behind the ears.)
There's quite a lot to say and very little to say, at once. I'm glad I brought the vodka. The morning coffee klatsch might be my favorite little ritual of this whole shebang. I wish I'd brought more mosquito repellent. It's nice to wear little flippy skirts again and not fear the fog rolling in over Nob Hill to whip them up and freeze your little San Franciscan ass off. And I find, again, how easy and remarkably lightening it is to slip into this no-internet thing. Life slows down. The rest of the world seems like very much inane chatter compared to the sun and the sky and the rain and the practice. I could be content with this for some time, and then most certainly would grow impatient, I imagine, as most of us do when we're rather unfamiliarly still for a long stretch. I watched my monkey mind swing from branch to branch to endless branch the other evening in a dark twilight guided meditation there in the open-air Trimurti hut, the silence juxtaposing so dramatically the clatter and chatter and buzz of our animated [dirty] dinner conversation, and it was a lesson in learning to watch and not judge and sit and be still in spite of the persistent mosquitoes sampling my blood. Good bites and bruises all over the place. A tiny frog sat with me and shared Paschimottanasana last night. And a little black dog, he who runs the place, shared Padangusthasana and Adho Mukha Svanasana (naturally) the day before.
All good. Adventures set for this week, a Thai massage here and a climb there and really just a savoring of this seemingly timeless moment of life. I can't imagine this experience without the yoga, or the chant, or the people, or the rain.
Sambasadasiva, sambasadasiva, sambasadasiva, jai jai om.