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July 1st, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

To most, “meditation” evokes the image of a solemnly serious monk, sitting, statically poised, with eyes closed.  This archetype tends to dissuade more curious pupils than it attracts, due to its connotations of rigidly disciplined aloofness.  The boring, frozen, poker-faced facade of the seated practitioner is like the brutalist, soundproof, sealed steel door that guards an exclusive nightclub’s vivacious activities from curious partygoers standing outside in the cold, pontificating on whether it’s worth their while to queue up behind the patience-puncturing velvet rope that leads inside.  Neither the novice mediators, squirming in sukhasana, nor the newbie club rats, shivering in their promiscuous rave attire, have experienced the virtues of the pastimes they pursue, yet assurance of evident precedent and undeterred hope for salvation fuels their tenacious marathon towards ideal embodiment.  Those unflappably delusional enough to thug it out and twiddle their thumbs while waiting to be touched by God’s light will eventually feel its warmth.  But, the bliss of arrival must be preceded by the stubbornly inquisitive yearning to witness treasures shrouded behind opaque veils.  

Such was my perception of meditation until, this week at the School of Unified Healing, I was taught that the mysteriously earthy passivity of seated dhyana must be complimented by its transparently fiery counterpart: active meditation.  This practice introduced itself to me as a sixty-minute session of free-flow dance.  My closed eyes directed my awareness inward and shielded me from the piercing perceptions of my classmates as I surrendered my body to flail frantically, at the mercy of my teacher’s energizing playlist.  Before that moment, my entire backlog of dance memories was set at densely-populated social events; the moves my body produced were inescapably informed by a need to be seen favorably.  I was shocked at the unexpectedly animated cyclones of spontaneity that my figure took on.  The movement was beyond my control.  No part of my analytical intellect could have premeditated those profuse gyrations.  

I thought back to my flower-moon rave at Potato Head in Canggu this past May, remembering how the introspective privacy I’d found on that dancefloor rubbed, with loud friction, against an entire culture of posturing and flexing that is nearly inseparable from the inherent act of clubbing.  My resistant rebellion of apathy for rave rules felt like a feverish sprint in the opposite direction of billowing tornado winds.  Any nurturing or empowering effects that the joyous movement had on my spirit were mercilessly nullified by the cognitive dissonance required to oppose the thick air of drugs, sex, and vanity around me.  

My only mistake was the frivolous belief that nightclubs were the only places I could express myself through rhythmic movement.  Ever since my transformative introduction to active meditation at the School this week, I must quiet the urge to kick myself for failing to dance in solitude before now.  This morning, I felt lucky that I possessed the ability to remedy my fatigued muscles and foggy brain, at levels of suboptimal performance due to yesterday’s packed itinerary of engaging classes, by blasting “Birds of a Feather'' by Billie Eilish out of my speaker and granting my skeleton the freedom to sway and spin heartily in the safety of my private bedroom.  As the song’s final note faded out, I stood in still samasthiti, softened my breaths, and observed the bountiful energy pouring through my meridians.  My every cell had clearly forgotten the groggy slowness with which I’d emerged from bed.  I’m so excited to be initiating this fruitful practice into my growing arsenal of intangible medicines.  

I also hope that my expanding comfort with the act of movement will see me embracing its beauty as an expressive artform.  One Sunday afternoon back in April, I accompanied a dear friend to an open-level dance class in Brooklyn.  It was my first time in such an environment.  As my fellow participants and I drilled choreography and freestyled intuitive movements, I noticed my creativity and vulnerability stifled by my lack of experience with dance.  The corrosive gaze of the talented veterans around me only froze my fluidity further.  For me, the class was more of an educational spectacle than a soulful release.  I would love to, one day, after increasing my familiarity with active meditation, return to that weekend class in Brooklyn as a fearless and uninhibited mover, capable of conveying nuanced emotions and ideas through flowing postures.  

Throughout all this, I’m contemplating the true definition of active meditation.  If we don’t have to be unmovingly seated to heighten our mindfulness, then the potential manifestations of this practice are limitless!  When I walk silently and observantly through the rice fields, when I thoughtfully and thankfully eat my dinner, and when I patiently and meticulously write this journal, is that not meditation?  Is it possible to perpetually meditate during every single waking moment?  Perhaps we already are.  I believe the intrinsic traits of meditation to be awareness and intention.  As long as we bring these two characteristics to our participation in any act, purposefully interpreting all observations as information from the supreme soul, we are walking in God’s divine image.

July 2nd, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

“This is the single most important exercise you can include in your day,” Patrick, the teacher of the School of Unified Healing’s “Becoming Love” class, assertively proclaimed.  “Today we will be dealing with self-love.”  Revealing a wooden bowl filled with unsoaked garbanzo beans, his demonstratively metaphorical prop of choice, he continued, “Our brain hoards so many cringe-worthy memories that make us think that we’re not enough.  I believe this to be a fault, a bug, in our evolution, yet it’s also the reason why our species is so advanced.  

“We cannot simply accept contentment in eating, sleeping, and reproducing like the other animals around us.  Our ambition has led us here, but it also decays our self-esteem.  This is why we’re always yearning to be more wealthy, more kind, more loving, or more anything before we express gratitude for our current perfection.”

Lifting his heavy bean bowl into the sky, Patrick instructed, “Look at all this overwhelming evidence defending our insufficiency!”  He then whipped another wooden bowl, this one empty, out from inside his bag, and raised it beside the other.  “These two bowls, one filled with reasons supporting our mediocrity, the other devoid of reasons supporting our amazingness, lie on opposite sides of a scale.  Which do you think is projected to prevail?  And what kind of horrible effects will that have on our self-perception?

“We must consciously work, on a daily basis, to offset these negative memories with positive ones.  Merely putting one bean into this bowl of love is not enough.  Comparing it with the disgustingly enormous pile of self-hatred that we thoughtlessly store, our brains will reject it for its minuscule impact.  

“Now, we will list as much affirming evidence as we can.  Every memory you have of a compliment you were given, every interaction that assured you that you’re doing something right, every gift that’s ever touched your soul, every hug that’s ever made your day… Write it down on the paper in front of you.  Scan your mind from your earliest memories until now.  Identify all the moments that made you feel like your highest self.”

Patrick’s instructions were clear and compelling.  A shy smile crept across my face as I scrawled into my notebook all the moments when I’d received undeniable love.  I recalled all the thoughtful gifts of appreciation I accepted from frequent students of my free yoga classes, all the words of encouragement I’ve heard from my middle-aged role models, all the gregarious compliments I’ve received from kind strangers touched by my aura, and all the times friends actively chose to spend more time with me than my foolish doubt of their adoration could endure.  The simple exercise made me feel extremely comfortable in my own skin, like a valid and successful citizen of the world.  My hateful and intrusive thoughts, telling me that the list I was writing was rooted in demonic vanity and egoism, were being suffocated by love.  I saw the self-admiration that was growing within me actively trickle down and transform into unconditional acceptance and reverence for all the people I’ve ever met.  

After ten minutes during which our shala’s heavy silence was tainted only by scribbling scratches of lead pencils and ubiquitous rustlings of rice-field fauna outside our windows, Patrick ordered the cessation of our writing.  Before moving onto the next phase of his lesson, he inquired, “Does everybody have at least three things on their list?”

One student, a feminine, millennial spirit cowering inside her own skeleton, her frail body hidden behind tattoo sleeves and all-black apparel, bashfully raised her hand.  Upon acknowledgement from Patrick, she nearly whispered, “I’m afraid I haven’t done the exercise right.  I listed three things, but they’re all affirmations that I gave myself.  I can’t think of a single time when anybody else gave that to me.”  She fought back tears.  Her classmates immediately erupted in compliments expressing her beauty, bravery, and kindness.  The chaotic validation caused her to break down, bawling throbbingly.  

Patrick raised his hand to hush the room.  “These people love you.  Please write down everything they said.  I love you too.  I promise that there have been countless love-affirming moments in your past, but your brain has just buried them and shifted its spotlight onto insecurity and bitterness.  It’s okay, that’s exactly why we’re doing this.”

The woman, facing palpable inner turmoil, sobbed, “I know you’re right.  I know you’re all right!  But my brain keeps telling me that you’re wrong, that what you’re saying doesn’t matter, because I never heard these things from my mother.  It sounds so silly saying it out loud, but it’s true!”

Patrick interjected, “We can all see how this heaviness is weighing on you.”  He then dramatically poured the towering pile of garbanzo beans from his hate bowl into his love bowl.  “This is what we must do with the dead weight of your negativity!  We must transmute it!  Do this next exercise, and you will be on your way towards changing your reality! 

“Everybody, please read the very first memory on your list.  Now, close your eyes.  Take yourself back to that moment.  What were the smells, sounds, and surroundings?  Most importantly, what was the feeling in your heart?  Take that feeling and turn its dial up to eleven!  Turn it up more!  How would you feel if you lived that memory a thousand times?  Breathe and embody that love!  Get drunk on it!  

“Now, read the second memory on your list and do the same.  Let the love compound!  We will do this for every memory we wrote down, until we recognize ourselves as the best possible embodiment of our character, more perfectly lovable and wonderful than we ever previously imagined!  Turn yourself into a superhero!”

I sat in sukhasana, my vision turned inward, as Patrick’s motivational words washed over me.  I began to feel the magnetism of my auric field, the power of my heart, and the luckiness of my life.  Imagining myself as the mythical King Midas, I understood my power to transform any darkness into golden light through my touch of love.  I longed to embrace all of humanity in one universal hug.  I itched to shower all my classmates, especially the woman who fearlessly showed us all her deepest vulnerability, in verbal and physical affection.  

Ever since that moment, I’ve been coated in the figurative equivalent of magic fairy dust.  I accept my life’s mission to become a channel of Godly love.  I can’t help but smile beamingly at all the strangers I walk past.  I savor every hug I have the privilege to offer.  I know I’m perfect, but this perfection is not my doing, not my achievement to brag about.  A higher power has assembled me this way, and done the same for every organism on this planet.  It turns out that transforming dull matter to gold is quite an effortless task.  The secret behind this ease is that everything in this world was once born as shimmering gold.  All it takes to restore that purity is gentle dusting of a dirty veneer. 

July 3rd, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

I decided to take a day off from the School of Unified Healing.  The therapeutic work that the institution has engaged me in, involving opening, purging, and recultivating energy, leaves my spirit in a drained state of vulnerable fatigue; as grateful as I am to be going through this training, and to possess these intangible healing tools in perpetuity, the experience has, above all, taught me to honorably listen to my body, which is currently undergoing heightened sensitivity.  Despite the weary frailty of my present condition, I’m more in touch with the needs of my body, mind, and soul than ever.  Therefore, today, I faithfully imitated the lyrics of “The Lazy Song” by Bruno Mars.  

The only stanza of scripture that I discarded was “Don’t feel like picking up the phone”:  after taking my sweet time rolling out of bed, scribbling in my notebook, and dancing to my favorite music, I sunk into the wooden chair of the communal patio outside my private room in Ditha Guest House and spent over an hour on a video call with my father.  He affirmed my slothlike attitude, which aligned perfectly with the ritual we once coined during my early childhood and have repeatedly referenced ever since, aptly dubbed “Do Nothing Day.”

Looking through my phone screen at his transmission, capturing his calmly reclined physique on the living room sofa of our Bushwick family townhouse, I could tell that he was having a lazy day of his own.  A remote corner of my psyche pined to rest, alongside him, in the comfortable familiarity of my childhood dwelling.  Swallowing the faint hint of homesick longing, I expressed to my dad how thankful I was to belong to an abode so warm and nurturing.  I felt its embrace even from across the globe. 

At that very moment, Victor, the host of Ditha Guest House, stumbled through his property’s front gates and onto the patio where I sat.  “Victor,” I called out, “Do you wanna say hi to my Dad?”  Given the deep well of benevolent dialogue that Victor and I have shared since my arrival at his homestay, I felt comfortable enough popping the innocent question.  

His eyes lit up and his smile glowed in excitement.  “Yes!”  Once his gaze fell onto the pixelated display of my cellular device, he gregariously paid my father a sweet greeting.  “Hi, sir!”  Noticing tasteful details of the well-kept living room in the background of my dad’s camera angle, Victor fawned, “Wow, you have such a beautiful home!”

Hours later, long after the termination of my homeward transmission, Victor once again strolled past the patio on which I still peacefully sat, existing outside of time. Jesting, he spewed, “Man, that house was nice!  Your parents must be loaded!”

I blushed with embarrassment.  Admitting my family’s privilege, while benefiting from this Indonesian economy of unfairly low wages, was a confrontation I wished to avoid on such a restful and relaxed day.  Defensively, I softly retorted, “Not really… They’re immigrants.  They worked really hard.”

“Really,” Victor curiously proved, “They’re immigrants?  Where are they from?”

“They’re from Israel.”

“Your parents are from Israel?! Show me your left palm!”  The connection between Victor’s sudden question and subsequent command, which seemed obvious to him, was horribly lost on me.  But, I obliged his request nonetheless.  I held out my left hand, which Victor gently took in his, tracing the lackluster lines in my palm’s skin with his right-hand fingertips.  

It immediately became clear that my host was using the sacred code of my epidermal markings to read the fortunes of my ancestors and I.  

“Your soul line is good, very strong,” Victor claimed as he pointed at the horizontally curved line that ran directly below the insides of my knuckles.  “Your body line is very interesting… I’ve never seen this before.  It’s broken, not continuous.  You must have some difficulties with your digestion.  But that didn’t start in your lifetime.  You inherited these stomach problems.  Generational trauma.”

He’d read me like a book.  “Wow, yeah, that’s actually true.  When I was younger, I used to vomit really easily.  Like, all the time.  It’s gotten much better, though.  And, I mean, my ancestors were all Jews in Eastern Europe.  Both of my great-grandfathers survived Nazi work camps.  So, yeah, generational trauma, I guess.”

Victor continued, “Your mind line is curved.  You tend to avoid conflict, don’t you?”

I shrugged, “I like peace, what can I say?”

“Okay, stand up,” Victor demanded, without hesitation.  

I rose to my feet. Victor leapt up, rushing into a power stance across the patio from me.  Before I could even wonder why my host, at least twenty years my senior, was assuming the exact posture of a track runner, crouched at the starting line of a race, he sprang up and began charging towards me!  Seeing Victor, a veteran Aikido practitioner with a burly body, barreling towards my skinny frame caused adrenaline to shoot through my veins. At the mercy of my fight-or-flight instinct, I hurriedly shuffled out of the way to avoid his impact.  

“No!” Grinning, Victor teased, “Why do you run from your problems?  Okay, now you run towards me.”

Surrendering to the earnestly symbolic demonstration, I backed up a few feet and began sprinting towards Victor with all the velocity I could muster.  By the time I was two paces away from inciting our collision, he still hadn’t moved.  I winced in preparation for injury.  At the last possible instant, without moving his planted feet, Victor suavely dodged my clash by simply shifting his torso and arms away from me.  As if repelled by an invisible magnetic field, compelled by forces beyond free will, my course slightly veered to the side in avoidance of being tripped by his rooted legs. 

Grabbing my shoulder, my unexpected mentor instructed, “Never run from your problems.  Look them in the face and smile.  Everything will work itself out.”

Love,

Etai