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July 5th, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

Yesterday, I said goodbye to the School of Unified Healing with one final hands-on energy transmission session.  I love sharing gentle touch this way.  When I lay my hands upon the frame of a recipient, breathing deeply into my palms and fingertips, I imagine that I possess two fleshy defibrillators at the tips of my wrists, softly pumping golden light into the auric field of another.  Yet, administering this act of service symbiotically empowers me, too.  I seize every opportunity to interpret patients’ ailments as unique lessons, offering energetic remedies in return, which, every time, increase my capacity for intuition.  

When intuition is at its strongest, physical contact may not even be necessary.  During her lecture, Alina, my reiki master, explained, “Before placing your hands on someone’s body, let your skin hover a few inches above theirs.  You’ll feel the intensity of their energy field as it vibrates the air around them.  Sometimes, you don’t even need to touch them at all.  Simply letting your orbits intersect will lead to a profoundly reciprocal exchange.  Experienced practitioners can even transfer reiki simply through eye contact.”

The word “touch” has inspired one of the most verbosely extensive entries in the English dictionary.  The noun form of the word can evoke dozens of meanings, including the maximal proximity between two entities, the ability to physically feel a tangible object, a quick movement, a small amount, an effort at communication, an ability to execute acts proficiently, and an athlete’s ball-handling ability.  The verb can denote the act of resting hands upon a surface, the expression of sympathetic gratitude, and manipulative tampering, among several other interpretations.  While hearing Alina describe the incredible subtlety of reiki touch, nearly all of these definitions flashed through my mind’s eye.  It dawned on me how limitless and inescapable the presence of universal energy truly is.  Touching every corner of the globe at once suddenly seemed effortless.  

After the conclusion of Alina’s introductory spiel, my classmates and I, one by one, laid on the ground, while everybody else in the room offered their touch.  Alina commended my intuitive hand placements on foreheads, throats, ears, and shoulders.  When the time came for me to lay down, surrender, and receive, I tucked my willpower into its holster and allowed collective consciousness to take the wheel.  The energy I received, through ten hands at once, was medicinal.  

Alina polled the room: “What do we notice about Etai’s energy field?”  Answering her own question, she observed, “It’s very strong.  He has a lot to give.  His energy centers are wide open.  I can especially feel the blue light of his throat chakra.  That’s where all of our creative and communicative power comes from.”

My master’s validating words rang around my room as I tucked into bed last night.  I’m so grateful for my ability to communicate through speech, prose, and music.  The robust collection of holistic healing exercises that I’ve picked up during this week at the School of Unified Healing have only fueled my determination to continue soaking up as many spiritual perspectives as I can while here in Asia.  

Upon my return to New York City, I’ll be sharing these life-saving tools with the people who need it most: the dastardly-inflamed and technology-addicted constituents of my generation.  When we all bear this knowledge, we will cease to perceive ourselves as victims of a crumbling society.  We are creators of our own reality.  No institution or government has as much power over us as we have over ourselves.  If “the powers that be” insist on suppressing the ancient, un-monetizable, therapeutic wisdom that I pursue, then it’s up to us, the young adults who’ll soon inherit this planet, to germinate seeds of healing.  

July 6th, 2024

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

Driven by the aim to root prose meditations in presence with my Indonesian surroundings, I’ve avoided writing about the thrilling bloom that my social media account has enjoyed since my arrival abroad.  Now, as my page welcomes its one-hundred-thousandth follower, I feel called to reflect on the journey that has led my digital footprint to this position of influence.  

This past January, as I was making the emotional decision to part from my band of seven years in order to embark on this indefinite solo-travel voyage, our brand was experiencing unprecedented heights of internet virality.  I’d cited frustration with the band’s insistent pursuit of fame and commercial success as an integral reason for my exit, so, seeing our numbers dramatically shoot up, while I was turning my back, felt like a message from God, a test verifying that I’d truly meant what I said.  Either stubborn pride, disciplined foresight, or a combination of both strapped me to my word of withdrawal.  As difficult as it was to know that my band mates were achieving the Hollywood dreams that we’d been manifesting since the age of fourteen, while I spectated from the sidelines, unable to participate in the fruits of my hard work, an optimistic delusion assured me that I was making the right decision.  

The cavern that my band’s absence opened in my soul was quickly filled by a community that formed around the weekly yoga classes that I began teaching at a Bed-Stuy Latinx cultural center.  However, the subsequent fullness of my heart bore an inescapable caveat: I’d need to give up these gatherings in order to commence my solo-travel.  Every session that I led showed me, again and again, how unique and necessary these free New York City yoga workshops, dominated by Gen-Z kids determined to raise their collective vibration, were.  I lamented leaving the ritual behind, for it awakened my true calling to unite my generation around yogic wisdom, and I couldn’t help but see my hunger to roam as a distraction from my mission.  

It soon dawned on me that, in order to continue strengthening this budding community while traipsing faraway lands, I’d unavoidably need to employ social media as a vehicle of communication and education.  Yet, my itch to immediately pour out posts sharing yogic tools and resources was obstructed by deep fears of embarrassment and failure.  My anxiety projections fabricated dramatic worst-case-scenarios of subjecting my vulnerable expression to the endlessly convoluted gaze of the anonymous internet.  These preconceptions paralyzed me, dissuading me from undertaking the necessary discomfort of fumbling to find my voice of eventual confidence.  By the time I boarded my flight to Indonesia, I still hadn’t made any attempts at breaking through this stiffness.  

Thankfully, after a few weeks in Canggu with Raja, Diane, and Jenna, I was struck by the epiphany that, no matter what outcome my attempts at online yoga-posting might beget, I’d always be able to simply turn off my phone, quiet the digital noise, and reground in the stability of three-dimensional matter.  After all, I was halfway across the world from my five-thousand followers.  There was absolutely no risk that I’d run into any of them in Bali; I’d never have to face the judgmental eye of social media in my real life, only when I peered into my personal LED screen.  I began to see my phone as a portal to another dimension, one that I could readily retreat from at any moment.  The task I was dreaming of suddenly felt far more approachable, its consequences miniscule and irrelevant.  

Thereby, towards the end of May, I began filming myself speaking to my device’s front-facing camera.  As I enthusiastically shared techniques for strengthening the body, calming the mind, and energizing the soul, I released all my expectations about the videos’ hopefully widespread dispersal, for the mere act of hearing the solitary monologue-verbalization of my inner thoughts became a therapeutic channel of self-love.  If nobody else ever saw the videos, I’d still have succeeded at using speech to solidify the fluidity of my inner musings and beliefs.  

From the standpoint of external validation, however, the first few weeks of this experiment were abysmal.  I lost hundreds of followers every day.  The only people seeing these yoga instructionals had been driven to my page by a love for my band, and, therefore, they had no interest in my yoga videos.  Admittedly, the dwindling count was momentarily discouraging, but, whenever I shut off my phone, I remembered my unfettered ability to regulate the internet’s power over my life.  Even if my follower count reduced to zero, I’d still feel blessed to be experiencing the enriching wonders of Indonesia that lay beyond my phone screen.  Deciding that I had nothing to lose, I swatted all my fear-fueled intrusive thoughts and continued posting.  

The tide gradually turned as algorithms led new users to my page.  Comments that thanked me for sharing such healing tools started appearing.  This validating feedback magnified my motivation and informed the increased precision of my offerings’ content.  One day in early June, during my tenure at Ubud’s Sunshine Vintage Guest House, a flash of my notifications revealed that one video I’d posted, aimed at teaching a pranayama technique called The Breath of Joy, was skyrocketing.  It had over a million views!  The comment section was flooded with curious novices, thankful to have encountered such an accessible entry point into yoga.  Even my favorite singer, SZA, gave the post a like.  Several new followers were finding my page every minute.  I’m endlessly grateful that this perpetual rate has not slowed, even for a moment, during the entire month since my initial surge.  

The responsibility of holding this newfound platform is not lost on me.  One hundred thousand impressionable yogis are looking to me for guidance; I will not lead them astray.  I vow to produce these videos with as much honor and intention as I employ to execute my personal yoga practice.  My focus is not on money or fame, but on infinitely expanding reach.  I intend to unite my entire generation around these uplifting values; the internet has amplified my measly ripples in the gargantuan pool of humanity, and it’s only a matter of time until the liberating power of yoga has reached us all.  It’s inevitable, prophesied.  Although I’m being used by the supreme soul as a channel to spread love, this movement is way bigger than me.  In fact, we’re all channels, whether we see it or not.  I believe that, no matter what we do, the universe is moving in the direction of expanding unbridled love achieved through mindful inner-work.  

I’m endlessly enjoying riding the cosmic wave.  Every yoga class I’ve taken here in Bali, whether at the School of Unified Healing or any of the other shalas I’ve attended, leaves me bubbling with video ideas.  I travel the world as a humble forager, picking berries of wisdom, translating their natural perfection into modern recipes that will feed my species.  

You may think that my mission is naively idealist, futile against this bleak and eroding world, but, I’d rather be delusional than depressed.  

July 7th, 2024

Kuta, Bali, Indonesia

It’s my last day in Indonesia.  I’m spending it on Kuta Beach, because, strategically, it’s the closest beach to the airport, but also, nostalgically, it’s the site at which Raja, Diane, and I flew kites with Balinese pre-teens back in May.  I’m retracing the steps we took on that day, meditating on how much Indonesia has shaped me.  I’ve never spent sixty consecutive days anywhere besides New York, and I can feel how this nation’s ether has consequently seeped into my every cell.  Such osmosis is impossible to avoid.  Bali’s every visitor has been touched by its gentle, invisible magic.  

It’s a magic that can be found anywhere across the archipelago.  I see it in the white-sand beaches and the jungly highlands alike.  I see it in the infinitely versatile functionality that this culture has given a simple banana leaf.  I see it in each hungry monkey, stray dog, wandering rooster, nimble cat, flapping bat, prancing crab, frantic gecko, weightless butterfly, perched mantis, buzzing bee, and pesky mosquito.  I taste it in mango, pineapple, papaya, snakefruit, starfruit, dragonfruit, jackfruit, watermelon, banana, durian, pomelo, mangosteen, lychee, and coconut.  I taste it in mie goreng, soto ayam, bakso, kangkung, nasi campur, gado gado, fish satay, and sambal.  I hear it in gamelan bells and mosque hymns alike.  I feel it wafting off the ubiquitous Sesajen offerings upon every doorstep.  

The Indonesian citizenry that’s been steeping in this magic for their entire lives sets a golden standard for the rest of the globe’s population to strive towards.  Never once during the entirety of my two-month stay in this country have I seen a local act out in anger, disgust, frustration, or hate.  I’m sure the occasional anomaly subverts this trend, but, where I’m from, getting caught in the crossfire of explosive negativity is nearly impossible to avoid.  Indonesians intrinsically experience these difficult emotions at the same rate as New Yorkers, but their capacity to honor these feelings safely, without subjecting others to share their turmoil, speaks to a deeply entrenched mindfulness that characterizes this society.  I’m grateful to have soaked up even a drop of that spirit.  

Beyond that, I’m grateful for all that I’ve experienced here.  The jubilant and torturous moments alike have been endlessly formative.  I look back fondly on my traumatic motorbike crash, my serendipitous reunion with Sid, my unlucky encounter with ringworm, my first taste of durian, my persistent week-long sinus congestion, my snorkel with sea turtles, my bruise from Akira’s slap, my joyous introduction to Zoe, my Ashtanga-battered muscle soreness, my tranquil wades in the ocean, my debilitating diarrhea, my euphoric waterfall plunges, my dehydration headaches, my primal tree-climbs, my feral dog-chase scares, my enlightening School of Unified Healing curriculum, my omnipresent mosquito bites, my inclusion in Raja’s family outings, my submission to inflated Westerner prices, and my endless moon-gazing.  

Now, I’m at Kuta Beach.  Locals are digging in the low-tide sand for clams.  I’m eating Gorengan out of a paper cone.  Humid, salty sea breeze is making my long curly hair flap like a flag.  The Balinese sun, a glowing red semicircle kissing the oceanic horizon, is saying goodbye to me.  I wouldn’t mind staying frozen in this moment forever.  

From the bottom of my heart, I lament leaving this paradise.  How lucky is that?  I’m blessed to be feeling such conclusive melancholy, an exact reciprocal of the unconditional love I have for Bali.  

That love isn’t going anywhere.  It’ll just keep shape-shifting.  

Before I know it, I’ll be back on this shore.  I’d love to bring my mom here one day.  

Love,

Etai