Gifts in plain sight & meeting the peacekeeper of Brahmavihara

An excerpt from my travel log on the island of Bali, while in the region of Lovina, not doing any of the things you’re supposed to do when in Lovina.

Lovina has been a simple and sweet immersion into living in the suburbs with Balinese locals. We’re nowhere near a beach lodge, spa or villa, or even a vaguely picturesque hotel. It’s my second time on this tiny Indonesian island, with mother and husband in tow. 

With every morning’s pastel sunrise the air swells with children laughing. Nearby a rooster makes his proud presence known while the cacophony of tiny birds twitter away among the wafting canopy of frangipanis overhead. 

Kretek, like many words in bahasa, is onomatopaic in origin. ‘Kre-tek’ resembles the sound of burning cloves.

The house we’re staying in is a Dutch lady’s home – the inside walls are painted in bright yellows and sky blue. The furniture is decorative first, practical second – all authentic Balinese wood carving. Even the door to the outside bathroom is ornately adorned with a detailed, carved frame. Above it hangs the skull of a Menjangan deer and throughout the garden, a myriad Buddha sculptures hold watch. 

Large wooden geckos – or cecaks as they’re known here –  hang on the walls. Cecaks come in two sizes here, as in much of Asia. Regular size (these are the cecaks) and then, as my friend likes to say, baby-godzillas. These are known as Tokes (pronouced ‘tokeh’) An adult female of the latter variety can be as large as elbow to wrist from head to tail. And true to their name, they make a delightful ‘tok-keeeeeh‘ sound, preferring to take up residence in the bamboo and palm leaf rafters of most homes. I always thought the wooden gecko sculptures in my grandpa’s house were grossly exaggerated in size but it turns out the Balinese don’t dramatise much in their art. Perhaps Ganesha does indeed have 4 arms? How else would you remove all those obstacles?

Yesterday, after an extended morning of breakfast and pool play, we headed into the hills for a visit to Brahmavihara-Arama, the site of a lesser known Buddhist monastery. After ensuring we were all sufficiently saronged and covered, we ascended the steps to peaceable living and learning. The monastary is open for lengthier stays and meditation retreats so some rooms remain closed to day visitors.

Time became a non-concern as we explored the compound, the grounds and the meditation rooms and yoga halls. Every direction offered tantalising details for the eyes to rest on.

Incense offerings swirled from bowls of sand at the foot of statues and sculptures. Some were carved from wood, others painted yellow-gold and others – a pristine, pearlecent white.

The garden grounds of the temple were possibly even more breath-taking than the chambers for sitting in stillness. Below the arcs of pink, yellow and white frangipani trees, oleander boughs and marigold-like blooms stood an endless gathering of Impala Lily bonsai trees. They’re not called that there though, since they have no Impalas. In Bali they’re known as Adeniums. Yet, a bonsai by any other name doth bloom as sweetly. Those not growing from pots stand with stretched necks from between the crevices of Brahmavihara’s rocks. “Here I am”, they all seem to say. “Watch me be.”

Every body of water holds a dreamscape of blooming nymphaeas. Waterlillies in every shade of woman. And among them stands the ever graceful lotus flowers, unfurling her pink, cupped petals like upturned palms, grateful for the rain.

Vic and I sat for a long, still pocket of time without bookends on the moss-terraced steps. They faced the homage monument to Borobudur temple – an impressive, dark stone-grey likeness of the original Mahayana Buddhist temple on Java – complete with iconic bell shaped turrets or stupas.

The wind blew in sweeps and waves, warblers swooping and singing in response. The sunlit backdrop gently faded to a kinder, late afternoon glow. That one space could hold so much serenity marvels the mind. Imagine if all the world lived in such stillness? A dream that starts with one.

Strangely, or perhaps not so much, everywhere I walked and paused to look, a this little old lady appeared, a waif of a woman, sweeping the grounds clean of fallen blooms.

Her figure may have been elderly, but she held her form with strength and agility. A folded, damp towel lay perched a-top her head, probably serving to cool her down. As though it was a permanent fixture of her form, she would drop to her haunches – an effortless Malasana, or what some know as ‘Goddess Squat’ – to gather up the withering buds and petals.

She seemed as much a part of the walls of Brahmavihara as the gnarled roots of the fig tree and moss-covered, cobbled pavers – an integral part of the peacekeeping. 

I found myself wondering if everyone could see her. Not in that she was a figment of my imagination, but in the sense of really seeing her, seeing what she was doing here, how she was serving us all.

We left the monestary as dusk set on, feeling that we really ought to find somewhere worthy to watch the sunset. Lovina is known for two things – dolphin tours and iconic sunsets. Urgency told us we should head down to the beach bars where we’re guarenteed to catch the seeping colours of sunset. But also the hordes. Impetus guided us in the opposite direction and with my spontenaity-loving husband at the helm, we were curving up into the winding neighbourhood streets before consensus could be agreed on. Higher and higher we went, the nectarine tinged clouds slipping further and further from view.

After much winding into the dense jungle thicket sloping up the backs of the Lovina mountains, we let go of a sunset vista that evening and embraced the adventure of a new landscape. Just as quickly as we’d settled into acceptance, the road we were on turned a sharp hairpin bend over a crooked, low-lying bridge and began snaking its way down the other side of the valley. Down down we looped and curved. The sky stained ever deeper orange. Without much warning, out of the thicket a structure emerged off the side of the road.

“What is this?”

“Is this a restaurant?”

“It looks like a house.”

“Shall we do it?” 

“I don’t know?”

“Are we getting out here?”

All dialogue unfolded into a flurry of excitement and confusion. In the background, clock ticking, the sky pigments saturated a burning hue into the horizon.

A mother dog and her puppy appeared out of nowhere, yapping urgency and excitement at our feet.

As it turned out, the wooden house on stilts was in fact a new warung recently opened. The timing of travel is like that. One moment, you feel the furthest from any cohesive plans. The next you feel as if the universe curated your heart’s most unrealistic desires. There we were – the only three people sitting on an expansive wooden deck, cold-enough beers in hand with grins like grapefruit wedges plastered on our faces as the sky god swept her bold brush of honey dipped hues across the washed out blues of her canvas. Java’s dusky, purple volcanos stood, ever silent, silhouetted in the far off distance. We had caught the sunset. Or perhaps she caught us?

My thoughts drifted back to the old lady of Brahmavihara sweeping up her own carpets of coral-coloured petals.

In the end you can build the monestary of the mind as beautiful as you like and sit in stillness at the base of your Borobudur as often as you care to practice. But peacefulness is not a state of blissful non-doing. If we don’t also invite the notion of sweeping together our wilting ideologies and fallen intentions as part of our daily practice, then impurities of the mind will always tarnish our inner temple.

Contentment is not so illusive if we allow the chores before us now – gifts of comforts gone by – to be a constant loving labour.

Sweep, sweep, sweep – 
even the scent of fallen flowers is
sweet, sweet, sweet.