When I bask in the Balinese garden, coming to breakfast amidst the measured rhythms of lives well-matched, well-metered, I repeat all the same steps each time. First there’s a sense of constriction, then shame for my own unruly nature. I work to breathe. My arms cling heavily to my body while I admire the pristine counter tops. I bridle; I conform. I relax into it and drink it’s nectar. After fifty hours or so I must rebel a bit. I fling my arms out from the shoulder and let them spin and knock over everything in their radius. I dare to rinse the blender without removing the mechanism.
There are tidy people in my life. I know people who wash the teapot and wind cords around their appliances. I’m old enough to know my clutter is not creative–though it rebounds from creative outbursts. It offers my shoulders room to expand and unleashes my mind. Periodically, a good wash-up will out. Then my own shiny countertops comb my hair flat and lift my spirits away from overwhelm. I gasp the surf, intoxicated by the salty fizz up my nostrils. Oh….but my hair is curly and it cannot be combed flat. Not for more than a few minutes.
But in the Balinese garden I relearn the value of beauty and gentility in every move of every day. I marvel at the synthesis of color, function, chime and blossom. Found objects embrace recent treasures and converse with scavenged pictures and family jewels. Each texture is different. Hand turned goodness dribbles out of every corner and, while my shoulders might need to reign themselves in for a time, some other spark in my soul refreshes. The difference from my own world is renewing and affirming. I needn’t trade for it—I just need to notice its jewels.
I travel to this place each year to unburden my heart from the tedium of life and to welcome the secrets of my friend. Not that they are such secrets, mind you. But they may not yet have met the dry opening beyond breath. The serious introvert and the garrulous extrovert meet. Status reports from the learning and knowing we’ve pursued in parallel reveal that our turnout reaches far, even while our toes come together. Ocean tales take cover under waves.
When I get back home, I’ll put away, polish and codify. I’ll keep my resolutions for at least half a day. Then my spirit will gurgle into my shoulders once again…
I forget this garden will be a part of my journey. Perhaps it’s just as well to meet it with surprise each time, to really notice the little layers of it’s loveliness and soak up the sun through it’s breezy lattice awning.
It’s a good bargain. My friend cannot embrace the cold rain that tops my head at home. She will always laugh at my desperate worship of her reliable sun. Her baskets are full of different fruits and she seeks to fill the spaces between with her familiar exotic.