All Dogs Freed From Their Leashes

May 18th, 2024

Renon, Bali, Indonesia

Despite being ten thousand miles from the United States, I had a day full of quintessentially suburban activities that conjured my tapestry of memories from across middle-America.  Being from New York City, my experiences in small towns have been few and romantic.  I’ve never spent enough time in these environments to germinate boredom or distaste towards their pedestrian lifestyle.  For me, each spell in suburbia is a fleeting and non-committal cosplay of gilded recreation.  I reflect fondly on my infrequent days spent there.  

But, I never expected to have such a yankee day in Bali.  This afternoon, while Diane recovered from food poisoning, I drove across Denpasar with Raja and Jenna to meet Raja’s parents for the first time.  Driving down the street that Raja and his siblings grew up on, I was struck by the quiet, residential atmosphere’s resemblance to American suburbia.  His family home, with its driveway, backyard, and two bernedoodles, would fit perfectly in the domestic outskirts of Los Angeles, Berkeley, or Atlanta.  I was soothed by this familiarity and consequently predisposed to a lovely first impression of Raja’s parents: their graceful hospitality struck me profoundly and surmounted our language barrier.  They brought us cool beverages and eagerly took selfies with us to commemorate the moment; I felt at home. 

After saying goodbye to Raja’s parents and dogs, the three of us drove to a shopping mall, hoping to take a few laps around its go-kart track.  Tragically, we arrived too late to race, so we settled for wandering the mall’s grounds.  Consumerism carries a unique flavor in Asia, and I got a considerable kick out of this culture shock as I gawked at the stores and products I’d never seen before.  However, these specifics aside, it was just like any mall I’d ever been in.  I felt phantom nostalgia overcome me as I walked past its food courts and arcade games with my friends, imagining us joining the ranks of the countless friend groups back in my homeland who’ve made this meandering activity a frequent excursion.  

As our fascination with the mall dwindled, our stomachs grumbled.  We discussed our dinner options.  Sushi?  Nasi Goreng?  Seafood?  Ultimately, we settled on a culinary destination that would appal any foodie or travel guide: Ikea, the franchised home-furnishing store, was our choice.  Neither Raja nor Jenna had ever been to Ikea, but they’d caught wind of the massive reputation held by the store’s Swedish meatballs.  I, as a veteran Ikea shopper, assured them that the signature dish was certainly worthy of the feral hype it received.  We routed the GPS and drove there swiftly.  

The meatballs, shipped in frozen packages to every Ikea franchise on the globe, were concerningly consistent in quality and taste with the ones I’ve had at their Brooklyn store.  The rest of the plate — mashed potatoes, carrots, and baby corn — was disgusting, but I couldn’t complain.  Tonight’s dinner didn’t come close to ranking among the other delicious meals I’ve had since coming to Bali, but even though it disagreed with my tongue, it managed to awaken my heart.  Since before I can remember, I’ve periodically gone to Ikea with my dad and eaten this same dish; I felt his presence as I dipped each meatball in gravy and lingonberry jam.  After we licked our plates clean, we left the cafeteria and sauntered through the showroom.  I caught glimpses of dozens of Ikea products that lined my Brooklyn apartment, and I felt closer to home.  Beyond that, I felt that home had followed me halfway across the world.  

I’m certain that the familiarity of home will continue revealing itself everywhere I go on this adventure.  Isn’t it funny that the archetype of quotidian life in America which I once loathed, now that it’s displaced from its original context, has become endearing?  Isn’t it funny that today became a distorted caricature of my American life that — despite its dishonesty — feels like home?  

I can never predict what stimuli will remind me of my roots.  Home is within my body.  The spaces I move through and the experiences I live through are decorations in my home, trinkets and memorabilia.  These objects that fill the shelves of my mind are not the clutter of a hoarder. They are my divine interior design.  

May 19th, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

The centerpiece of today’s itinerary was the rafting trip that my friends and I took down the whitewater rapids of Ayung River.  Flanked on either side by towering stone cliffs that harbored an endless variety of greenery, our inflatable boat was thrashed around by the current as it barreled through the river canyon.  Amid the bamboo shoots, banana trees, and black sand beaches that colored both riverbanks, local villagers sat underneath beach umbrellas with beverage coolers and fresh coconuts, eagerly encouraging rafters to moor and enjoy some restful refreshments.  

There was an effortless camaraderie among the occupants of each raft.  We encountered dozens of vessels during our voyage, and our interactions with them escalated from extending polite waves to blowing impassioned kisses, then shouting gregarious greetings and ultimately splashing across the water with our oars.  A few times, these playful splashes aimed at rival rafts were reciprocated with virility.  This devolved our innocent fun into a water war of merciless carnage, causing me to duck my head between my knees and plead for ceasefire.  But, seeing as we’d all traveled great distances to enjoy the Ayung River, nobody actually minded getting wet, and no hard feelings lingered after the ripples we made faded back into the fractal pattern of the rapids’ current.  

The river continued to carry us downstream, eventually away from other rafts and into scenes of solitude, where the supreme authority of nature took over.  Barring the chatter within our raft, my ears were engulfed by rainforest music.  Staccato bird chirps and frog croaks were underscored by the buzz of insects and the burble of flowing water.  As the raft sauntered on, the green fuzz entering my nearsighted eyes from downstream gradually clarified into organisms of algae, shrubbery, and leafy trees.  The rocks that jutted out from the riverbed and directed the churning current – smoothed from lifetimes of water erosion – contrasted the jagged sediment of the canyon’s cliff walls.  I longed to outstretch my arms and embrace the entire landscape at once.  I pined to swallow it, decompose into it, and do whatever necessary to eternally entrench its memory in my mind.  The biome fit my archetype of eden, the faultless trope of paradise.  I felt so safe, held maternally by the ecosystem, that I may as well have been tucked into warm linen sheets or swimming in the womb.  

My friend and raftmate Raja, on the other hand, shrieked in fear when a pebble grazed his foot, for he thought it was an insect trying to bite or sting him.  Earlier, we descended a wild and overgrown staircase leading to the riverbank, and his discomfort and paranoia was palpable as he hurried down the slimy steps in escape of imaginary predators and poisons.  I empathize terribly with his squeamishness, for rugged nature used to intensely trigger my anxiety, too.  Once, during an overnight campout on Catalina Island’s wilderness, I fixated my fear on the improbable risk of being gored by a loose bison.  This delusion of horror kept me from finding stillness for the entire trip, as I was perpetually convinced that an evil bison was looming, waiting to charge at me.  My fear was ludicrous and unfounded, but I can now understand why it formed in the first place: a common antidote for anxiety is control – or the illusion of it – but natural landscapes force mortals to confront their lack of power over the forces of the Earth.  

We can drown, we can get stung by poisonous scorpions, we can get stalked by panthers, and we can even get struck by lightning.  Practicing mindfulness can beget healthier judgment towards risk-taking, but outdoor adventuring inevitably implies human vulnerability and surrender.  This is no encouragement of recklessness, just an invitation to remember our place in the world.  Our primal and intrinsic fear of death protected us during paleolithic times, but it has been distorted and abused in our plushy modern era.  It confines us to controlled incubators of comfortable sterility, shielding us from untamable ecosystems that bolster our humility and presence.  

Today, rather than obsessing over every danger of the jungle, I dismissed my fearful thoughts, claiming mental space for gratitude and wonder.  I was certainly aware of the perils abound, but I didn’t let them wreck my mood.  The Ayung River, with its tightly winding path, prevents its rafters from seeing more than a hundred feet down their route.  A beautiful metaphor is held in this omission of the future: blindness to faraway destinations grounds me in this moment.  Perceiving current actions through the lens of future consequences leads down a slippery slope of contorted intentions.  

If I’d worried about getting impaled by a rock or bitten by an anaconda, I might not have jumped off my raft to swim in the river.  But I did jump off, giggling and beaming as I buoyantly cascaded downstream.  The river cradled me.  It was a true homecoming.  Floating on my back, looking up at the clouds and palm leaves soaring past, I knew I was safe.  

May 20th, 2024

Seminyak, Bali, Indonesia

This afternoon, I returned to Snana Yoga Shala in Seminyak and practiced the Ashtanga Primary Series for the first time since January.  This asana flow is a strict and rigid ninety-minute procedure focused on synchronizing breath with movement.  I’ve been told that the sequence originated in the ancient palaces of Indian royalty: the yoga teachers of kings and queens developed the Primary Series so that adequate meditation, breath work, and exercise could be fit into a trim routine to be practiced at sunrise.  Upon completion of the class, the royal family would be primed for the day ahead, radiating with mindfulness and mobility.  

The term Ashtanga, on the other hand, refers to the teachings of the even-more-ancient yogic sage Patanjali.  In Sanskrit, the world’s oldest language (and the language of yoga), Ashtanga means “eight limbs”.  Patanjali defined yoga as the pursuit of exercising and mastering these eight limbs of discipline, which progress from moral guidelines of social conduct to techniques of exercise, methods of breathwork and meditation, and, ultimately, union with the “supreme soul”.  Asana, the third limb which refers to physical-exercise postures, is far too often erroneously conflated with the broad and nuanced umbrella of yoga.  Mastering these poses is but a checkpoint on the long path towards spiritual stillness.  

In practice, the Primary Series is highly demanding of one’s body and mind.  During my yoga teacher training in Nepal last winter, where I was first introduced to Ashtanga and practiced this sequence daily, I consistently woke up horribly sore and fatigued from wrangling my scattered consciousness and overworked muscles.  However, I welcomed the strife, for pressure makes diamonds.  I looked upon my extreme exertion with peace and neutrality, banishing any resistance that my mind created.  In this surrender, I felt my body change and my spirit strengthen.  I got more flexible and strong, but also more empathetic and observant.  To this day, that was the most challenging and rewarding experience I’ve had practicing yoga.  

I still haven’t found a studio that leads the Primary Series in New York, so I jumped at the opportunity to take today’s class at Snana.  The flow was led by the shala’s matriarch, Bu Nengah.  Although I was quite rusty, her verbal cues and physical adjustments carried me through the sequence, and I landed in my final savasana feeling elated.  

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The grand home which hosts the Snana shala in its rear is owned and inhabited by Bu Nengah.  Following traditional Balinese residential architecture, the property grounds consist of several small open-air pavilions on a spacious courtyard bordered by high walls.  The roofed pavilions include bedrooms, common spaces, and even a private temple.  I struggle to call the abode a “house”, for I associate that diction with the enclosed spaces that characterize the homes back where I’m from.  Bu Nengah’s dwelling is, from my frame of reference, more like a liveable garden.  She even has her own restaurant attached to the home’s facade, and after yoga she led me to one of its tables where we chatted over fresh-pressed banana-papaya juice.  

Bu Nengah and I solemnly discussed the rapid gentrification of her native island and heartily chuckled over the flatulent dangers of eating before practicing Ashtanga.  I was moved by her open presence and willingness to socialize with me.  Her actions lacked any premeditation of the future.  Our conversation was a true moment of stillness, for neither of us attempted to steer the dialogue towards its conclusion.  This is why I came to Bali.  I feel wholly aligned during these interactions, and I welcome Balinese spirit rubbing off on me.  A  speck of Bu Nengah’s cunning generosity was absorbed in the sponge of my heart.  I walked away with a piece of Bu Nengah as she kept a piece of me. 

I released and re-gifted this fragment of her spirit soon after getting home from class: Jenna, as she prepared for her departure to the airport, asked me to lead her in a guided meditation.  As I walked Jenna through her consciousness, Bu Nengah moved through me.  The ripple effect that Bu Nengah incited was moving through me and finding a new host in Jenna.  Saying goodbye to Jenna was melancholy, for she’s made my time on this island so special, but I am soothed knowing that the ripple effect lives on within her.  I may never know where the wave travels next, but I have no doubt that it will continue expanding outward as it travels from soul to soul.  

May 21st, 2024

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia

On Canggu’s sandy shores, the presence of beach dogs is as reliable as the ebb of the tide.  Usually, they lay in tranquil sleep atop the hot sand, but they’re liable to roam curiously amidst the sunbathers and surfers sprinkled along the coastline.  This afternoon, I crossed two mutts napping peacefully as I strolled down the beach.   

Witnessing their calming aura, I was left longing to pet my own mutt, Venus, across her back.   My family rescued her when she was the size of my fist.  As a helpless puppy, she had the beauty and fragility of an antique porcelain teacup.  I could have cradled her in my arms forever, calmed by her tiny heartbeat.  I couldn’t be mad when she teethed my fingers or peed in my lap.  Instead, I came to terms with my family’s responsibility to raise her and teach her the acceptable way to behave.  We’d saved her from the bleak incarceration of her dog pound cage and therefore owed her an education in polite domesticity.  

Over the past few years, my family and I have indeed trained her to the best of our imperfect ability: she’s grown up to be admirably respectful and polite, but her feral impulses invariably arise in times of stress.  Her generous affection has blossomed in proportion to her inflating physique, and she’s even learned to hold in her pee until she’s outside, but some of her habits remind me of her incompatibility with the standard lifestyle of a civilized human.  

For example, she instinctively hounds and berates every guest that enters our home, jumping all over them and humping their legs to assert her dominance.  Whenever the sounds of thunder, fireworks, or gunshots resound through our neighborhood, she suffers dire panic attacks, woofing uncontrollably and hiding under the bed.  Each time she walks past a chicken bone discarded on the sidewalk (of which there are many in Bushwick), she irresistibly darts to it and gobbles it up before I can pull her leash in restraint.  

But, despite all these reminders of her incongruence with life as a human’s pet, I still spent most of her life regarding her as a subservient being, incapable of independent survival.  Since I grew up in New York City, the creature that I associate with the word “dog” is a hypoallergenic poodle-mix that pees on indoor pads and eats stale kibble for every meal.  Dogs were a companion species to me, mere accessories to their owners.  Never did I consider or question my society’s tireless efforts to oppress canines by imprisoning strays in cages and funneling them towards assimilation.  

However, my perspective completely flipped this past December.  I was in Nepal studying yoga, and the administrators of my school decided to celebrate Christmas morning by taking all their students on a sunrise hike up the Himalayas.   At the peak, as all ten pupils and teachers stood to watch the red sun rise, I noticed that we were in the presence of a silent friend: a stray dog was sound asleep just a few feet from where we stood.  I gravitated towards the canine with my Ashtanga Primary Series teacher, Sid, and we watched the fur on his restful body glow, backlit by the ascending sun.  

“We’re in his home,” Sid announced to me.

Confused by my mentor’s remark, I asked him where the dog’s owners were.  Sid heaved a laugh and calmly illuminated to me that the dog had no owners.  It was an independent being, just as nearly all the dogs in Nepal were.  This concept was foreign and mind-blowing to me, but Sid grew up in a rural farming village in the South of India, where dogs are regarded as the ultimate symbol of stoicism and self-reliance.  Without help, they sustain their own shelter and food supply.  

Sensing my surprise and wonder, my teacher generously told countless tales of his inspiring interactions with canines during his youth.  Not only did the dogs in his village steer clear of human dependency, but they actually formed coalitions of allied canine gangs that physically fought each other.  Sid sought out the dogs when he craved being in the mix of their animated action.  Their confidence and poise informed his own maturation.  He never dreamed of putting a dog on a leash.  

Where I’m from, any dog that isn’t on a leash is gawked at, its owners judged.  How could it be that humanity is so polarized in regards to its treatment of this species?  

I associate my culture’s domestication of dogs with the western-world compulsion to dominate and subdue nature.  In the wild, animals of differing species leave each other alone unless in search of a meal; dogs are not our prey, so why must we control them?  Now that I’m in a society where dogs roam freely, living their own lives, I feel more connected with the ecosystem around me.  Staring nature in the face, with all its perpetuity and apathy, I cannot evade realizations of human mortality and powerlessness.  The conquest of dogs causes us to remain deluded, drunk on our imagined supremacy.  But prancing with a perfect pet is like reading a book inside a burning building: our escapist entertainment only postpones an inevitably fiery fate.  As much as I adore Venus, I know that my desire to possess and pamper her is reflective of the gluttony that afflicts much of my species.  

When did seeing a dog on a beach become a trigger for me to criticize my civilization?  I’ve been abroad for less than ten days and I’m already seeing the fabric of society, as I perceive it, unraveling.  I didn’t know exactly what I was searching for when I decided to come here, and I still don’t know what I’m searching for, but I do know that I’ll never be able to look at the world the same way again.  

May 22nd, 2024

South Kuta, Bali, Indonesia

Moments ago, I stood frozen on the grass of Bali’s largest sculpture garden, gazing at the luminous moon as it floated over the left shoulder of a gargantuan stone bust of Garuda, a Hindu deity.  Deep in my cosmic trance, I almost missed the prophetic apparition that called out to me from across the grass field.  The voice of a man with a New York accent inquired whether I’d witnessed the sunset Fire Ceremony that had recently occurred on the other side of the park.  Breaking eye contact with the moon, intrigued by the familiarity of the man’s dialect, I replied that I had seen it.  As I met my interrogator’s gaze, he introduced himself as Brian from Brooklyn.  

I felt safe in the presence of this fellow Brooklynite.  Being so far from home, reminders of my roots validate and recenter me.  I would have loved to reminisce about New York with Brian, but instead, our conversation became a fortuitous oracle of future manifestation.  He explained to me that he’s been nomadically traversing Asia for the past decade, regularly stopping in South Korea to take care of his parents and otherwise exploring the continent’s vast diversity.  This morsel of information alone brought me to regard him as a possible iteration of my future self.  I don’t know how long I’ll be staying in this part of the world, but Brian showed me that it’s possible to stick around, and thrive, for much longer than I’d ever conceived of.  

My eyes lit up as he mentioned his frequent visits to Seoul and Tokyo, two cities which I’ve dreamt about visiting.  I expressed to Brian that, as much as I’d love to explore Korea and Japan on this voyage, I planned on staying around Southeast Asia in order to accommodate my frugality.  He corrected my misconception, explaining that tourism in Korea and Japan, if executed properly, is much more affordable than most people think.  One specific gem of wisdom that he offered was his suggestion to seek overnight accommodation in the many bathhouses of Seoul, where visitors can sleep, eat, and bathe for around ten dollars a night.  As a lover of sweat, saunas, and steam, I grew goosebumps at the thought of such an opportunity.  

In the blink of an eye, Brian convinced me to pursue these fantasy travel destinations with tenacity.  Shifting my perspective on the cost was part of what swayed me, but more importantly, seeing an inhabitant of these beautiful lands give me a live testimonial charged my excitement immeasurably.  

Revealing his earnest desire to serve and educate me, Brian then asked what I most hoped to achieve or experience during my nomadic voyage.  I answered by divulging that I was determined to live and volunteer at a yoga ashram or Buddhist monastery.  

Immediately, he recommended Plum Village, a sangha in Thailand at which he’d thoroughly enjoyed his stay.  Serendipitously, I already knew a fair amount about Plum Village, for it was founded by my favorite author, Thich Nhat Hanh.  Thay (pronounced “tie” — eerily similar to my name), as he’s known by his supporters, was a revolutionary Buddhist monk from Vietnam.  During the Vietnam war and for decades after, Thay worked prolifically as a writer, publishing dozens and dozens of books on Buddhist dharma.  I’ve extensively read his writings about his time in Plum Village.  

Brian irreversibly catalyzed my yearning to venture there.  I was floored by his ability to ask me such a poignant question and turn my answer into an energizing suggestion for my path forward.  I’m so grateful that I crossed his path tonight.  He has given me a sense of direction that’s strengthened my confidence and optimism.  

Wherever this journey takes me, I can only hope that I’ll have the privilege of interacting with many more kind and generous strangers like Brian.  These conversations are my enrichment, my university.  I’d be honored if given the opportunity to help somebody as Brian has helped me tonight.  I hope this journey sends me such an opportunity soon.  

May 23rd, 2024

Seminyak, Bali, Indonesia 

I’m struggling to let go of my past.  I woke up to the news that my band, LAUNDRY DAY, performed at Barclays Center last night as Ed Sheeran’s opening act.  Envy welled up inside me.  Watching my band mates achieve the dreams that we’d fantasized about for seven years — and not being able to participate in the fruits of our labor — is creating agonizing cognitive dissonance in my mind.  

I left the band so that I could embark on this nomadic voyage with complete freedom and regain expressive confidence in my individuality.  As I write this, I’m reclining before the lapping waves of Seminyak Beach, my toes in the sand, and I know that I’m living my purpose.  I am proud of the bravery that it took to forego my comfort zone in pursuit of burning passions.  

Still, over the past seven years I spent with LAUNDRY DAY, thought patterns that no longer serve me have been deeply entrenched in my brain.  My heart remains steady, indicative of my truth, but I’m exhausted by the conscious effort required to drop my consciousness down from my rampant cranium into my chest.  

I must remember that, by inciting this change in my life, I’ve initiated an arduous construction project for which I’ve barely begun setting the foundation.  LAUNDRY DAY has been building gradually over the past seven years; I tend to forget the laborious groundwork the band laid since it's now towering high, enjoying a ribbon-cutting celebration.  

My new path requires immense patience and visualization.  As such, I’ve been daydreaming about my future self.  He’s a prolific author, musician, and visual artist.  He’s formed a coalition of young yogis that are healing their generation through karma yoga and mindfulness education.  He’s grounded in New York City, but spends lots of time wandering and exploring new places.  He’s embarked on several tours around the world that combine live music and group meditation into one community celebration.  He’s still living close to his parents and sister.  He still frequently educates young children, teaching them how to play musical instruments and perform yogic techniques alike.  He’s been crowned the best-dressed in all the land.  His long, curly hair remains a ubiquitous symbol of his vibrant character.  He can brighten the mood of any room he walks into.    

After writing that list of accomplishments and traits, I feel like him.  By seeing him so clearly, it’s as if I’ve already arrived in the future.  I’m so thankful that my words have the power to cast such spells of manifestation.  

Natural emotions of self-doubt should be honored, not escaped, but I plan on supplementing mine with frequent affirmations of my righteousness and reminders of my mission.  

May 24th, 2024

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia

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I’ve attended two more of Bu Nengah’s yoga classes in the last twenty-four hours; during one of them, I practiced Tai Chi for the first time.  An entry point through which I could initiate my participation hadn’t revealed itself until now, but I’d admired the artform ever since I first came across it.  Tai Chi is an immovable fixture of summer days in New York City parks; many times, I’ve stumbled across it and been compelled to linger and spectate, transfixed by the movement.  So rarely do humans move as slowly, steadily, and smoothly as during Tai Chi.  Now that I’ve executed its movements, I certainly understand the devotion it’s inspired in so many practitioners.  As my open palms unhurriedly cut through the air atop my yoga mat, I channeled the subtle energies of metaphysical space.  

My favorite movement, which Nengah kept repeating, was the act of bending forward, scooping up the air directly above the floor, and raising my hands up slowly as I stood up straight, until the air which once drifted around my feet had risen above my head.  It was the anatomical embodiment of transmuting low vibrations into higher ones, willfully elevating the aura that orbits my flesh and bones.  Calling it magic might be hyperbole, but that’s precisely how it felt to practice Tai Chi.

Speaking of magic, mysticism is overflowing out of the novel I began today, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  My sister, who recently fell in love with the book when she read it in her twelfth-grade English class, has been pleading with me to crack its spine for months.  I was charmed by her insistence, flattered that a creation which she held so dearly had brought my artistic taste to her mind.  Her intuition for my compatibility with the novel reflects how well she knows me.  Stories of magical realism have always intrigued me more than unbridled fantasy.  I perceive our reality with a similarly shy twinkle of occultism, so I’ve always preferred the paranormality of fiction served in moderation rather than excess.  Therefore, I sincerely wanted to pore over the book, but my chaotic rotation of current-reads had been keeping my plate full.  Plus, I didn’t have a copy.  

Miraculously, the book found me on Orchard Street a few days before my flight out of New York, catching my eye as soon as I peered into a cardboard box of free books on the sidewalk.  I interpreted this serendipity as an enchanted sign for me to bring Marquez’s words abroad with me.  

As my first moments in Bali erupted in a flurry of welcomed distractions, I procrastinated my gaze’s arrival on the novel’s first page.  But, all the while, it burned an unignorable hole in the back of my mind.  So, yesterday, I embarked on a dedicated reading-pilgrimage to Seminyak Beach.  I plopped down on a beanbag chair, set a timer for sixty minutes on my phone, and entered One Hundred Years of Solitude.  

Just as my sister had experienced, it was love at first sight.  Instantly, I was transported to the rural swampland of nineteenth-century Colombia.  In the first few chapters, Marquez masterfully balanced the mysterious allure of alchemy-heralding gypsies with the universally human desires of self-exploration, financial scarcity, and sexual curiosity that gripped his protagonists.  The way he described the wonder that overcame isolated villagers as they touched ice for the first time made the mundane substance seem as otherworldly as the fabled philosopher’s stone.  

The ring of my phone’s timer, arriving sooner than I expected, woke me up from my trance.  I lamented dog-earing the page I’d landed on and returning the volume to my backpack.  When I ultimately put the book down, I noticed that the gripping literature had completely distracted me from an urgent need to pee that had gradually crept up over the previous hour.  To me, that was a testament to the novel’s immersive power.

Also, over the past forty-eight hours, I have found true magic in the undeniable power of spoken and written affirmations.  Typically, I start each morning by crawling directly from my bed onto my yoga mat and engaging in seated meditation.  I’ve held this routine for over a year, but ever since my arrival in Bali, I’ve noticed slightly more stormy thoughts intruding on my morning practice.  I took these threats against my peace as an invitation to intervene by pivoting my routine: for the past few mornings, I’ve been scrawling a crude page of written musings in my private notebook before moving towards my yoga mat.  This has allowed me to iron out my early-dawn monkey-mind so that I can enter meditation with mental stillness, clarity, and space.  I found great merit in documenting my dreams, planning the day ahead, and listing objects of gratitude, but this morning I took the practice a step further by listing loving proclamations of my favorable self-image.  I even spoke these affirmations aloud after completing my humming pranayama on my mat.  

By concretely writing and speaking these words of self-praise, I design my own perception of reality.  For me, it’s insufficient to just silently believe in something.  Making a disciplined practice of positive pronouncements, however, primes me to live in creation rather than mere survival.  Constant verbal complaints will erode feelings of abundance and gratitude, while frequent constructive speech trumps and delegitimizes fear, worry, regret, hate, and ignorance.  Talking or writing about my love and thankfulness has never failed to lift me out of an anxiety spiral.  In that way, words really are sorcery.  

Between Tai Chi, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and practicing affirmations, I’m left feeling like a novice alchemist.

Am I deluding myself?  Is my head in the clouds?  Perhaps I could use a bit of grounding energy.  This morning, I obliviously walked right into a deceivingly transparent glass door.