balanced on bali

The journey was inspired by a life flood—a financial, emotional, and circumstantial torrent that destroyed everything stable in my world. My engagement was broken, the house I was renting sold and I had to move. Work dried up. I was irritable, reclusive, sad. Even my yoga practice, for seven years a daily antidote for existential malaise, had no effect. And it was my fault. I was the one who got the shakes anytime someone asked, “When are you two going to tie the knot?” I postponed the date then unconsciously pushed my fiance further and further away until she left, and I failed to save even a penny for the move I’d seen coming for months. But at the time it didn’t feel like my fault. In fact, it didn’t feel at all. There were moments when all this rubble seemed to belong to someone else. I was completely checked out.

Then at a Bat Mitzvah in Boulder, Colorado, I met a fellow who lived and worked in Bali, the only Hindu island in the world’s most populous Muslim nation and a growing Mecca for Western yogis. Yoga in paradise sounded like good medicine, so I ran a Google search and found 15 Bali yoga retreats and trainings in the months of June and July alone. Annually there are more than 50. Even as terror alerts threaten and bloody memories of the 2002 bombing linger, the yoga students come. The numbers contradict the condition of Bali ’s sluggish tourist industry and suggest that the island has something special that sparks revelation, realization, and connectedness in the Western seeker. I needed to find it. So I shoved my material possessions into a storage cave beneath a freeway overpass, and got out of town.

Bali wowed me in less than ten minutes. The taxi I hailed at the airport sped past fresh fruit stands, an old woman with an offering of flowers and incense on her head, a family of five crammed on a Yamaha motor scooter’s banana seat, a laughing saint immortalized in stone. There was The Hare Krishna Diner, The Maya Art Shop, and Bhakti Furniture. And there were wonderfully ornate and antiquated temples, scores of them. Bali was a different world.

Traditionally, Bali ’s surf and sun have lured the masses, but the inland is what makes the island really special. That’s where the culture still thrives, and that’s where the yogis bring their students. Ann Barros led the first Western yoga retreat on Bali in 1984, but yoga became a tourist-industry staple only recently. Seattle yoga instructor Bob Smith fell in love with the island on his first trip 20 years ago and has been teaching there since 1989. Today, he and Ki McGraw offer a 30-day yoga retreat followed by a 30-day teacher training annually in Bali ’s cultural heart, Ubud, a town that pulses with ritual, music, and spirit. Surrounded by terraced rice paddies and freckled with top-notch restaurants and art galleries, nature and humanity intermingle gorgeously here.

“Bali is outstanding for yoga” Bob said. “The astral energy is carefully tended to by ritual, so it is actually easier to meditate here. And the people are extraordinary.” After only a few days I had to agree that most Balinese are exceedingly charming, relaxed, and warm, and that the verdant island vibrates with a sweet, calm, open energy. Then one night I found the source of it all. The blissful something that fills Bali is harmony.

If Balinese days burst with life and color—which they do—then the nights simmer with a subtle and deep energy. The sounds alone transport you. Water flows over stone in irrigation canals, frogs croak, and children laugh in the distance. And there’s the traditional Balinese music, or gamelan, a tapestry of gongs, drums, and flute that always signal a nearby ceremony. No matter where you are on the island, you can hear the haunting syncopation rise from ancient stone temples that are literally everywhere (there are 4,800 temples on the small island), the harmonies echoing in the mind like a ripple in still water. The buzz of Bali nights is the subtly layered din of life. Everything is more vivid in these dark hours–it seems that even the moon glows a bit brighter, a shade deeper.

One misty night, I turned a corner on my motorbike in Penestanan, a village near Ubud, when a crowd of people in ceremonial dress materialized from the fog on the unlit streets and drifted into an open-air temple. Women were carrying offerings of fruit, flowers, and incense in baskets on their heads. Men lugged musical instruments and wooden masks. Within seconds gamelan music burst forth. I wandered up to the gate cautiously, and the gregarious crowd welcomed me inside.

The congregation, dressed in colorful sarongs and sashes, spanned four generations. Shrines to Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, Bali ’s holy trinity, were loaded with offerings of mangoes, bananas, pineapples, and papaya. A priest’s chant warbled over an antiquated PA system while a masked dancer slapped his feet, cocked his head, and twisted his arms to tell a story. Aromatic incense smoke wafted through the crowd. Children and dogs roamed the grounds. There was a strong sense of reverence—but also of freedom. Before long we all sat, knee-to-knee, in meditation and prayer together, and prayed for harmony—harmony with God, harmony with our community, and harmony with nature—as the priest doused us with holy water. Then as a symbol of prosperity we placed a fingernail of rice on our third eye and throat.

To say I was moved is an understatement. My third eye buzzed, my mind seemed to expand, and waves of calm washed over me. There were friendly faces in all directions, a glint of love in hospitable eyes. My months of struggle vanished, and for a few precious, fleeting moments I felt right again, in harmony with life.

Harmony is integral to the Balinese Hindu worldview. “There are three ways to happiness and prosperity,” said Darta, a lawyer and community leader who gave me a rice paddy tour outside Ubud. “We call this concept tri hita krana—harmony between individuals, harmony between the individual and the environment, and harmony between the individual and the Gods.”

To the Balinese, harmony in all its forms requires a sense of balance. In place of the stark thread of duality, (good or evil, heaven or hell, light or dark) that has been mainlined from the Bible into our Westernized brains, Balinese strive to find a third position—the center. They believe that the universe is forever a play of opposing forces of dark and light, and that creative tension is palpable in Balinese music and dance. Their culture teaches that the key to harmony, to feeling good and happy and peaceful, is to balance these forces within the self, the community, and the world at large—just as Vishnu maintains and protects the universe and buffers the creative power of Brahma and the death and rebirth of Shiva.

“Black and white, good and bad must be balanced. Balance brings harmony and harmony brings happiness,” Darta explained But he stressed that mankind’s job is not to destroy evil. “What is gold if there is no stone?” he asked. Raka Tjorda, a member of the Ubud royal family and head of the Bali Heritage Trust agrees. “You cannot eliminate the dark thing because it’s part of you, part of nature. Darkness is around every day, every moment. It is in your mind all the time.”

Most Balinese walk a bhakti or devotional path, and they achieve balance through highly detailed Hindu rituals. In the Bhagavad Gita Krishna says, “If one disciplined soul proffers to me with love a leaf, a flower, fruit, or water, I accept this offering of love from him.” This statement is the cornerstone of Bali ’s spiritual life.

“It’s fascinating how well the Balinese have preserved the Hindu rituals,” said Emil Wendel, a yoga philosophy teacher with Yoga Arts who has lived and studied in India and Nepal for 30 years and who teaches once a year in Bali. “In India, rituals are there, but they’re more haphazard. What is well preserved in India is the knowledge, usually handed down by gurus through lineages. Here the people are so deeply into ritual that knowledge is not necessary. They can eventually reach the same space that a wise yogi would reach—moksha or liberation—because they are doing deeply felt ritual meditations daily.” Tjorda is also learned, but less esoteric and analytical. He simply said, “When we do ritual we are transformed so we can feel and see the good.” This seems a basic concept, but it’s difficult to live.

Balinese put wellbeing above consumption, spirit over ego. “For me I must first make offerings, then eat,” said Nyoman Budi, a wife, mother, and business owner. Her commitment is echoed everywhere. Wayan Nuyadi, a former banjar or village chief in the Ubud area explained, “I must pray and go to temple, if not, my feelings not so good, my energy not so good. When you pray and meditate your energy is better. In my village all do that.” Wayan Astra, a Denpasar photographer and good friend said, “It’s a call. A connection.”

That’s why Balinese make simple ritual offerings every day—in family shrines, at village temples, and on the streets. Canangs, an arrangement of flowers, fruit, and rice placed in a delicate banana leaf tray, are the most common and are seen everywhere. The women make these offerings, and thus facilitate the flow of spiritual energy.

Sacred days are honored in temple. Holy water, an agent of purification believed to drive negative thoughts away, is an ever-present element in Balinese ceremony. Collected from a sacred spring, it is charged with energy by a Hindu priest, or mangku, who chants over it then briefly steeps flowers in it. Priests then splash the sweet, aromatic water on revelers who drink from their outstretched palms.

Dark and full moon ceremonies, a nod toward Bali ’s animist tradition, are also conducted every moon cycle in village temples. On the eve of July’s full moon, Budi planned a 24-hour pilgrimage for the whole family, by car and on foot, to two ancient temples in North Bali. In preparation, she turned her kitchen into a ritual workshop. Baskets were piled on the stove and filled with flowers and fruit. “There is good feeling in my family if we do offerings at Pulaki Temple,” she said. “It’s nice for meditation because it’s so quiet, and when I come back I’m very, very happy and have good spirit.”

In addition to daily and monthly ritual, Balinese experience 14 rites of passage from birth to death; all include ceremonial dress, abundant offerings, contributions from the village community, and specific mantras. Usually dances are performed and a gamelan orchestra is summoned. These rites can take all day, and don’t feel rote or tired though they’re centuries old.

Perhaps the most colorful rite of passage is the cremation ceremony—an ode to impermanence. Villagers build beautiful, intricately designed floats, then parade them through the streets, serenaded by the lively gamelan orchestra, and when they reach the cemetery they put the body of their loved one, that has been temporarily buried or otherwise preserved in the family compound until cremation day, in the float and burn it. The ashes are then carefully placed in a bamboo tray, covered in flowers, and released into the ocean.

Unlike Indian Hindus, Balinese also have animist, shamanic roots. They believe spirits lurk everywhere and must be acknowledged lest they grow wicked. That’s why so many offerings are left in odd places—on automobiles, musical instruments, or a street corner, and it’s why ceremonies are held to open a new office or even to build a toilet. On Balinese New Year’s Eve, known as Ogho Ogho, villages erupt in raucous celebration that includes, food, music, fireworks, and archetypal paper machie floats. Parades of youth take to the street and let loose to rouse the dark spirits from their slumber. New Year’s Day, or Nyepi, is a day of silence and fasting so the newly-awakened dark forces pass by and leave the villagers in peace.

The Balinese culture is boundless. There is no separation between the secular, religious, and supernatural. That’s why noted Balinese scholar, and longtime Bali resident Fred Eismen, writes in Sekala Niskala, “There are no distinctions between self and other or self and object, and no clear distinction between what has happened, what is happening right now and what will happen.” Such a fluid culture provides the individual with the spiritual energy she needs to live and die peacefully, productively, and healthfully in a dangerous world.

In 2002, a van wired with c4 exploded outside the Sari Club, a popular nightspot, destroying two city blocks in Kuta, Bali ’s trashy, surf-party magnet. It incinerated the tourist economy overnight and ripped a gaping hole in Bali ’s open heart. As the weeks passed there were tears of anger and sadness, and the people were eager for justice—but there was no “us against them” war cry. Many Balinese actually believed that their karma caused this incident, and felt their people had become too greedy and lost touch with spirit. There were public apologies to the families of foreigners who perished, an island-wide resolve to look inward, and purification ceremonies at the blast site and in nearly every temple. Without work, cabbies, restaurant, and hotel employees returned to their villages where there is always abundant food. They spent time with their families, worked the fields, and prayed every day.

“In our culture we contemplate ourselves,” said Made Surya co-owner of Danu Tours, one of Bali ’s leading yoga retreat operators. “This bomb happened and it has pushed us further. There is an expression, ‘Balinese are like fish,’ and we scaled ourselves to try and understand why this happened. Then we could act more rationally, become more aware, and not be dragged down by this evil and our own anger.”

Along with prayer and hard work there was justice. It took just seven months to capture and convict all 32 terrorists, and four now await death. Two years later life has moved on in Bali. Even the tourists have slowly returned (the economy is back to 50 percent capacity), and there is little or no residual anger, fear or conflict.

Dr. LK Suryani, a psychiatrist, television personality, and meditation teacher treated and taught over 100 grief-stricken survivors and rescue workers for free in 2002. She exudes strength and wisdom, and was outspoken in local media about the karmic implications of the bomb. “If you do not accept your karma,” she said, “you will always have conflict and remain suspicious. This is not a healthy way to be.” Surya agrees. “If you fight terrorism with terrorizing people you’re not going to solve it.”

Lance Schuller, a Yoga Arts instructor from Byron Bay, Australia, has visited Bali more than 20 times and co-leads a month-long teacher training annually in Bali. He and 60 of his students were there when the bomb went off, and he lost two new surf buddies in the blast. “There was a mass exodus at the airport,” he said. “It was total panic.” The next year Bali was a tourist ghost town, but Yoga Arts, like so many Western yoga instructors and students, returned anyway. In July 2004, Schuller taught an eclectic mix of Europeans, Asians, North Americans, and Australians in Ubud. Like his Seattle counterparts, he sees Bali as a perfect place to train teachers.

“ Bali catalyzes the whole teacher training process,” Schuller says. “The students live in the village and walk to class through paddies where they see village life and can feel the spiritual commitment of the people who are in harmony with nature and themselves. And yoga helps us get rid of our layers created by outside influences, so we can discover who we really are—a continuum of opposites—ha-tha, yin-yang, sun-moon, light-dark. Many of our students have a personal transformation in Bali.”

Bob Smith and Ki McGraw’s teacher trainees were also touched deeply. Rob Hansen, an ER doc from British Columbia, said, “It’s so completely different here. Wherever you come from recedes into the distant mind, and you are pulled into the present. The people greet you with an open heart and without boundaries, and that allows you to drop your own boundaries. And if you’re going on a journey of self discovery–like yoga training–that’s going to be useful.” McGraw adds, “Yoga has a goal of oneness, and Balinese people seem to be living that more than anyone on the planet.”

I spent six potent weeks in Bali. I took yoga classes, meditated with Hindu priests, sipped tea with a Buddhist monk, traveled by motorbike in thick, treacherous Denpasar traffic, dove into pristine coral reefs, joined boisterous cremation parades, heard Hindu chants for the dead, and participated in several temple rituals. Over time I came to understand that the Balinese live life in little moments of surrender and praise that add up to one contagious life statement. They may not do much asana, but they live yoga.

If you are open to it, you can’t miss the harmony of this land, this culture–these incredibly warm people. It’s around every wrong turn, tucked into each dusty sculpture shop and art gallery. It bobs on every fishing boat, and fills every temple. It courses through the air like a pranic superhighway. When you breathe, it encompasses you, and it is a foundation from which you can dive deep, develop your yoga practice, and realize your own connection to all life.

Just before I left, my friend, Wayan, and I did a pilgrimage. We climbed Mt. Agung, a 10,000-foot volcano and Bali ’s most sacred geographic point. Legend has it that if you ascend the mountain you will realize your true self. The trail begins at Bali ’s mother temple complex, Pura Besakih, where hoards come daily to make offerings and pray in the dozens of ancient temples scattered in the shadow of the jungled volcano. A few decades back they made the journey on foot, and the intrepid ones climbed the peak in sandals and sarong. Today they arrive by public bus, chartered mini vans, motorbike and commercial trucks where it is standing room only in the open beds. Wayan and I made our offerings in the temple then hit the trail.

We summited the next day as the first red rays of the sun spread from the Bali Sea. The crater rim’s volcanic sand was strewn with banana leaf prayer baskets, withering flowers, and coins. More offerings. We barely shared a word, but were united and charged with energy. In the thin, pink atmosphere I bowed my head and finally fully surrendered to the love profusion, that changeless aspect of self, God, and the universe that saturates Bali. It was pure harmony.

Adam Skolnick is a freelance journalist and screenwriter based in LA. His work has appeared in Wired, Spa, and Islands and his website is www.adamskolnick.com.

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