Yuletide in Bali

by Kayce Stevens Hughlett

My mind drifts in space and time. It’s morning in Penestanan where I rest on the balcony of my tiny apartment, curled up on the chaise lounge. I feel loneliness seep in. How can that be when I’m here in paradise? Loneliness is the bailiwick that follows me regardless of place or season. It is often a precursor to a lesson I need to explore. Such is the way of the pilgrim.

Today the weather is gray, gray, gray… and it is green, lush, beautiful in the countryside. I sit here writing and whining about the darkness and loneliness until I open an online lesson focusing on the season of Yule. I remember that this is the season of darkness. It is my own season of struggle that doesn’t change just because I’ve left the Pacific Northwest for a few weeks. Funny how I imagined I was heading toward the light.

A black ant journeys beside me on the balcony railing and disappears into a crack in the wood. Am I willing to disappear into the darkness and go deep? Am I avoiding my work here and blaming it on the weather? The Yule lesson asks how I will endure the darkness and then shows an image of a woman draped in fog, holding a bowl in her hand. My inner wisdom responds. Cup the darkness in your hands like a fragile gift. Sink into your feelings. Don’t try to turn them into something they’re not. Be okay with being alone. This is an inward time. This is why you’re here. There is a boat that holds your stories, turn it over and let them pour out like tears trailing down your face.

The follow-up question comes: What is the potential here? The corresponding image is of six women dancing around a fire. My internal response comes: 

Dance in this darkness. Awaken the fire in your belly. Dance as if no one is watching. Write as if no one is reading. Light your own fire in this darkness. That is why you are here!

Time melts. The stories of Tuscany beckon—maiden, mother, and, crone, the women who dance around me in the field, my tribe of ancestors and allies who call out in the darkness. I am led back to these stories that are not linear. May they dance in me until I feel the heat. It is safe here. 

A white flag blows in the open rice field outside my tiny apartment. “Surrender,” it waves. “Surrender.” Open field. Fronds blow. Women dance. Tuscany blends with Bali, dancing forward and backward in time. Surrender to the moment. Be who you are. Maiden. Mother. Crone. Princess. Crag. Frog. Ant. Bee. Butterfly. We are all one.

The banana leaves and palm fronds wave hallelujah. Yes. Yes. Yes. The flag floats higher. Rooster crows. Hens cackle. The Tuscan bridge story that begins my new book connects here. Yes, the wind answers. A crossing. A pasture. A rice field. They are the same. Open spaces made for open hearts. The sun peeks through the heavy clouds, reminiscent of a sun break at home in Seattle. Be here now. Black butterfly lands two-feet from me, then swoops away chased by a red dragonfly. Wings. Weight. Magic is stirring. Deep breaths. Hanging on and letting go. I stand at the threshold trembling. 

Comments

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