Falling Silent with Grace & Gratitude

Our Balinese family’s persistent invitations to experience Nyepi, their day of silence, finally came to fruition on our fourth Bali adventure. Nyepi, the Balinese lunar new year, is marked by a complete island-wide stillness. I’d heard about it, but experiencing it is something else entirely. The airport is closed down for a full twenty-four hours. Every business closes, with no exceptions. Everyone is confined to their homes and tourists to their hotels. Special Nyepi police – Pecalang – walk the neighborhoods, ensuring no one ventures out or breaks the quiet. As night falls, lights are dimmed or hidden, creating an atmosphere of profound tranquility. I woke up twice during the night and went out onto the porch to see the stars, but rainy weather had the clouds blocking the stars.

I’d previously posted in this blog and the metaverse, an open invitation for anyone seeking a unique experience. Laurie and I would act as unofficial guides, having been to Bali three times before. Penestanan Kaja, a tranquil haven near Ubud, is our chosen slice of Bali. Maybe a dozen folks expressed interest, but as the date neared, only two friends decided to take the leap. Their availability aligned with our travel plans. It wasn’t until the profound silence on the day of Nyepi, as I sat in quiet contemplation, that the significance of having those two friends here struck me. My mind drifted back four years, to the day I received my terminal cancer diagnosis. I remember leaving the doctor’s office, in a daze, heading to the pharmacy. Picking up the prescription, I turned to leave Hannaford’s, running into a friend, a fellow business owner. I shared the stark news, the weeks of tests culminating in that devastating diagnosis. Without hesitation, she offered a beacon of hope, a story of a relative defying the odds. We parted, and I continued home, stopping at another friend’s house to discuss a painting project. The moment he asked how I was, the dam broke. Tears streamed down my face as I tried to articulate the shock, the fear. We embraced, and words failed us. And here, in the stillness of Nyepi, it dawned on me. And it was powerful. These two friends, the ones who stood with me in those raw, vulnerable moments – the first two people to hear my diagnosis – were here, now, in Bali with me, for Nyepi. They’d journeyed halfway across the world, enduring a twenty-four-hour flight, to share this day of profound introspection. The gravity of their presence settled over me, a powerful, undeniable truth. Three days later, over dinner, I shared my realization, expressing the deep, almost sacred, significance of their presence. I wanted them to know how profoundly their journey, their presence, touched me.

The guesthouse we call home here in Bali, run by our local family, offers simple accommodations, none with air conditioning. One of the units, particularly vulnerable to the island’s intense humidity, suffered from peeling paint. Last year, I offered to cover the cost of installing AC in that unit—a relatively small sum, less than four hundred dollars. It allowed them to charge a bit more, a meaningful increase in their income. Over the years, we’ve come to know many here, and their lives are often a stark contrast to the relative affluence of our lives back home. Since 2010, we’ve been supporting a young man’s education at a private school in India, a modest commitment of one hundred and twenty dollars a year. More recently, we’ve extended that support to another bright young man in India, now in college, whose education costs us three hundred dollars annually. During the pandemic, when work dried up, we helped two Indian families weather the storm. And last year, we took on the financial support of a first-year nursing student in Bangkok, a young woman with a perfect 4.0 GPA. Now, here in Bali, we’re finding ourselves investing in air conditioners, small upgrades that make a real difference in the lives of the family we’ve come to know. Last year, I asked our host family if I could also cover the cost of AC for their second rental unit, the one we are in. They expressed their gratitude, promising to let me know when the time was right. I never heard back. It’s not about grand gestures; it’s about the small, tangible ways we can offer a helping hand, weaving our lives a little closer with theirs, and making a positive change.

Last week, we arrived back in our little slice of Bali, our familiar bungalow awaiting us. As always, a vibrant display of fruit and fragrant flowers adorned the table outside, a welcoming gesture that never fails to warm my heart. Our hosts greeted us with open arms, and we fell into easy conversation, catching up on the months that had passed. We shared gifts from home, simple things like t-shirts and dresses, tokens of our affection. After a few minutes, one of them, in kind of a mischievous way, insisted I go inside the bungalow, right then and there. I didn’t quite grasp the urgency, but he gently steered me towards the door, unlocked it, and ushered me in. The room, our room, was ice cold. A wave of emotion washed over me, and my eyes welled up. They stood there, beaming, so proud and so happy to have surprised us. It wasn’t just the air conditioning; it was the thoughtfulness, the care, the tangible expression of their affection. It felt like a warm hug, a silent acknowledgment of the connection we’d built over the years. That cold air was more than just a temperature change; it was a symbol of their love.

There’s a certain magic woven into the fabric of this place. And it’s happened a bunch of times. As I pause today from writing this, needing a moment to stretch and breathe, I wander out front to the fruit stand, run by our Balinese family. Settling onto a bench, I let the quiet vibe of the place wash over me. A woman, waiting for her freshly squeezed juice, strikes up a conversation, seeking a coffee recommendation from me. Without hesitation, I point her to Schauberger Coffee, a local gem we visit almost every morning. The conversation flows effortlessly. She’s a seasoned traveler from Germany, with many trips to Bali and India, her heart drawn to the spiritual energy of Rishikesh, India. I share my own connection to Germany, the story of my great-great-grandfather, Adolf Meister, who immigrated to Lawrence, MA. from Germany and stared a bakery. We delve into Ayurveda, yoga, the shared magic of India and Bali, and even touch upon the allure of New Zealand, before she continues on her journey with her juice in hand. As I turn back to my seat, a familiar face catches my eye. “Putu Budi!” I call out, reintroducing myself, a connection forged years ago. We share a brief, warm exchange. My mind drifts back to a particularly magical moment from our last visit. I’d brought an electric guitar on our extended journey, hoping to find it a new home in Bali. Just hours after meeting Budi at the nearby flower shop, I found myself playing the guitar at this very fruit stand. He arrived for a plate of mango, and our shared love of music ignited a spark. He took the guitar, his fingers strumming the strings, his voice filling the air. Knowing I was leaving soon, I offered to sell it to him. We struck a deal. And, as they say, the rest is history. It’s these unexpected encounters, threads of connection woven into everyday life, that make this place feel so profoundly magical for me. I decide to take a break from writing at a particular moment and all these cool things happen. If I went out front five minutes earlier or later none of it would have happened, right?

Once here we discovered that Nyepi is really so much more than the day of silence. On the eve of Nyepi, every village presents their Ogoh-Ogoh creations. These are giant towering sculpture art forms made from paper mache and bamboo. Each village spends weeks and sometimes months to make them. As we travelled the island we could see the different towns and villages working on their Ogoh-Ogoh’s before the parades. They are very detailed, very impressive. The Ogoh-Ogoh are mounted and carried on a bamboo platform carried by young men who learn to move up and down and around in order to make their creations dance. There were thousands of people in downtown Ubud waiting for the parade of Ogoh-Ogoh. When nightfall came the parade began. One by one the Ogoh-Ogoh were paraded around, dancing and spinning, moving up and down. The creations were amazing. The artist’s imagination and attention to detail was awe inspiring. The Oooh-Ogoh are symbols of evil and negativity, in human nature and in the universe. Along with the Ogoh-Ogoh’s there is loud traditional Gamelan music performed by local musicians. The crowd was wowed. Traditionally the Ogoh-Ogoh are burned in the cemetery fields after the ceremony is over, representing the burning of the evil and negativity embodied in the Ogoh-Ogoh.

A few days before the Ogoh-Ogoh parades, there is another ceremony called Melasti. People from different villages dress up in white and head to the water, either the ocean or a lake. Here they perform a purification ceremony and ritual where they cast their sins and bad things of the past into the water. We were invited to the ceremony. I had gone to the airport to pick up one of our friends who is here for Nyepi and we arrived back at our place at 1:20 AM. The family was all dressed in white and headed out to the beach, an hour’s drive away. I was exhausted already and had to pass.

The arrival of Nyepi felt like stepping into a dream, a hushed, almost otherworldly stillness. Even in Penestanan Kaja, our tranquil haven here, the silence deepened, becoming profound. Waking with the sunrise, we were met not by the usual hum of motorbikes, but by a symphony of birdsong. Freed from the noise of daily life, their melodies filled the air, a constant, beautiful chorus. We lingered, listening intently for a long time, distinguishing the calls of different birds and the subtle buzz of insects. And it didn’t seem to end. They went on and on for hours. Perhaps the birds and insect were wondering what the heck was going on since it was so quiet. Even the occasional bark of a dog seemed to punctuate the silence, rather than disrupt it. We were able to distinguish the different dog barks and could almost interpret their conversations. We’d thoughtfully prepared our meals the day before, respecting the Nyepi tradition of no cooking. The day unfolded in quiet contemplation. Our Meditation practice anchored us, grounding us in the present moment. We shut off our phones and computers for the full twenty-four hours and we survived. I found myself drawn to reading and outlining “Mindfully Facing Disease and Death,” its pages offering some profound insights. I spent considerable time reflecting on the chapter about mindfully facing pain, exploring its depths within the stillness here. My journal became a repository for my thoughts and a place for introspection about what I was reading and thinking about. We, like everyone else, remained within our Bali home, embracing the enforced quiet. It was a deeply moving experience, a privilege to witness and participate in this sacred day with everyone else on Bali. I feel honored to have been welcomed into the heart of Balinese culture, to share in the profound beauty of Nyepi. It’s a day etched in my memory, a reminder of the power of stillness and the depth of human connection to silence. Who knows, maybe if I’m still around next year I’ll be back for Nyepi.

Be well. Get in touch. Peace.