Entry Twelve: Whole

What makes one feel whole? 

What will so deeply satiate one, enough so that their soul hungers for nothing? 

Bali, or the Bali that I saw, Ubud and Canggu, is spilling over with tourists who are hungry. Hungry for spiritual awakening. Hungry for white water. Hungry for beauty, fitness, quiet, parties, sex, oblivion, organic vegan smoothie bowls. 

I travel to stimulate my mind, I think. I travel because I’m drugged with curiosity about the world and all the languages, mountain ranges, and food it carries. 

But to fill my soul? 

I think going home fills my soul.  

Home, of course, does not just exist in Denver, Colorado on the corner of 14th and Adams where I grew up. It exists in my pen scribbling over the pages of a journal. It exists in my mother’s voice over WeChat. It exists in the faces of the friends I’ve grown to trust here, it exists in live music (eyes closed), honest conversation – it exists in the glimmering stars over Bali as it exists in the crackling summer lightning in the Rockies, and it exists in Chinese dumplings as it does in New York Bagels. 

Is that familiarity? That sense of home that fills my soul? Is it love – that ephemeral, undefinable, movement – … ?

Moving across the world all by myself and traveling alone leaves a lot of space for exploring and defining what heals my soul. Bali was a gift of yoga, stories, sunsets, and yes, organic vegan smoothie bowls. I am still hungry. But, maybe, I’m getting closer to being at peace with the hunger. Today, I accept with effervescent compassion my broken human heart and my clumsy search for its repair. I cannot always be home in this life. But I can always be present in this life, hungry or not.

Bali poems below.

 – The third I wrote when I was hungover. Please take its cynicism with a grain of salt – I overall had an amazing, inspiring time! –

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Ubud.

Eating in the Quiet

Today I eat lunch in an Oasis and

The sound of

Calm

Gets thick in my skull

Chock-full of

Comfort

Universal comfort

 

I am not afraid anymore

 

Of life

Of writing badly

Of running out of love

 

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Canggu. A beach party behind me. In front of me: locals sit in a circle and have some sort of ritual, a woman pets a dog, another woman stares into the dark ocean

Beach Bodies

This smoothie tastes like crushed ice

I need calories

More than calories I need love

And love that is greater than just a quick smack of eyes on my body –

I need someone to see my insides

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Every time I visit the ocean, I marvel how I get by without seeing it every single day

 

Dying

In ocean

White

Trash at 4pm collects on the shore

A 28-year-old plastic water bottle

I get sick from swallowing the Indian ocean

Shreds my lungs, makes my arms spasm with pain

Laced around that skyrocketing surfboard

  “Go into the ocean to remember how powerless you are” and

We walk up the side of a black volcano,

Surrounded by lukewarm night, the sound would be silent except for

The long line of drunken American Fratboys, everyone’s butts,

Cigarettes

Heat waves the air from

Noon to Three everything feels

Heavy except

Tattoos & bare skin I

Wanted to say this place was

Beautiful but I

Got sick off the trash in the water

 

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Yours, truly
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