Ireland in the Sun is close to paradise. This is the first time in years that I have come home to weather that can only be described as divine. It reminds me of the long endless summers of my childhood, when staying indoors was a concept utterly absent from my mind. Summer holidays meant timelessness in the great adventure of exploring the countryside. It was no big thing to walk for miles to visit a favourite secret place, dropping in to see a friend or two on the way. The only rule was to be home before dark.

There were no computers, PlayStations or ‘absolutely must haves’ in order to feel happy or connected. There was no television to suck the sunlight from the desire to simply ‘be’. There were no fancy labels, that I knew of, to capture my self esteem with aspirations to possess a certain look. My mind was unfettered by any need to prove my individuality as a human being. There was such an abundance of living creatures, each with their own sense of self that such ambitions were not part of my reality.

I was fascinated by Nature and the mystery of ‘presence’. There was music and voices to be heard in the great silence of certain places. All I had to do was sit quietly for a while. There were birds and little animals that would come close when they recognised the absence of any threat. There was enchantment, ever changing colours and smells that filled my senses and took me to places beyond all imaginings.

The sunlight and warmth of these last few days coaxed the memories from behind the shadow of a clouded sky, bringing with them details that illuminate, with added dimensions, the present moment.

It’s one of those magical days in Ireland when the sun shines in a cloud free, luminous blue sky. A sense of peace and calm permeates the sounds of human activity. It’s as if Nature has opened to receive the longed for warmth after a cold and demanding winter. The freshness of renewal fills the air with promises of better days to come. Better in a way that testifies to the re-emergence of soul from beneath the shroud of forgetfulness… (formerly know as the epoch of the ‘Celtic Tiger’).

The rock-carrier ladies of these parts have my deepest respect. I have seen them carry everything needed to build the houses that have mushroomed in the rice paddies where I live. They climb impossible steps and walk along narrow paths, often muddy and slippery, with cement bags, gigantic rocks piled high on their heads, steel girders, and baskets of sodden sand. They work in teams, friends who support each other through the difficult task of earning enough to keep their families in what has become, for them, a very expensive way of life.

They laugh and joke, groan and gossip together like the warbling of birds and the cackle of geese, depending on the weather and the mood of the day.

The first time I saw women carrying rocks on their heads was over thirty years ago. They were bringing them up a steep cliff on narrow winding pathway. The grace of their movements, the surety of their steps held me in thrall and drew me to watch them day by day. I was determined that one day when there was no one around I would like to try, in order to learn, to feel, to understand their art of balance.

That day came. While everyone was busy in the Temple I decided to try with one rock and see if I could walk the precarious path to the top without mishap. With many stops and a few wobbles and heart thudding I actually managed to reach my destination unharmed, with the not-so very-large rock still perched on my head. ‘Twas for me a remarkable achievement and yes I did learn a thing or two, in the process. My respect for the ‘rock-ladies’ escalated. I didn’t have the courage to try another trip that day. However I determined that the next time the opportunity arose I would try with two rocks instead of one. Sure enough, that’s exactly what I did. This time I used a walking stick, as sometimes I’d noticed the women doing whenever the path was particularly slippery. There were moments when I simply had to hold on to the rocks when they teetered in a way that made me want to either let go or topple over the edge of that cliff, in the effort to follow their movements. After what seemed like an eternity I actually reached the top…. again with the rocks still on my head.

I have never forgotten the feeling of ‘entunement’ that came when those rocks actually felt light and easy to carry. ‘Tis a precise and much unappreciated science.

Many years later I discovered that word had circulated amongst some of the ladies who had by chance seen my second experiment.  I love to meet those wonderful women whenever we cross paths. There is always an explosion of light and warmth that needs few words to express our feelings.

True story from those ‘olden days’.

After the timelessness of many months in The Australian Bush [forest], the return to Bali has been an experience that can best be described as suddenly landing in the middle of some huge energy vortex that contains the best and the worst of all that exists in our world of yesterday, today… and the pregnant potential of all that tomorrow may bring.
The raging inferno of the recent blazing forest remains deep in my soul, as one of deep cleansing and renewal. The miracle of how the sanctuary of Pedro’s house and studio survived is way beyond any rational explanation. For me it shows very clearly the truth and beauty of clear and positive intention. When free of any ulterior motives, conscious or unconscious, clear intention resonates with the energy that holds all that lives in a loving embrace, an embrace that transcends anything we can even begin to imagine. We have been gifted with an experience that can never be forgotten.
After the fires, came some days of balmy warm weather. Everything was black. The trees looked like the relics of some bygone age, stark and spectral. The ground was a bleak shadow, with not even a green stalk to be seen anywhere for miles. Yet the feeling was one of radiant silence.
Then the rains came, as if exactly on time. The quiet became a pulsating song of glorious renewal and joy. Dormant seeds literally burst into life and within hours green shoots danced from the darkness of the soil. Little beards of green, yellow and russet burst through the trunks of nearly all the trees and climbed their way to the top. Within a few days the whole forest became a Paradise. The brightly coloured birds flew with crazy abandon, for the usual obstacles to their free-flight were no longer present. The families of wallabies and kangaroos let their babes from the protection of their pouches and were friendly and approachable as they munched the abundant fresh delicious ‘bush tucker’.
We have never eaten so many juicy nettles, ferns and mushrooms as we did in those last few months in the bush.
Yes, there was much work to do. The water pipes that had been buried deep in the earth were molten bits of unidentifiable plastic and had to be dug up and taken to the local dump. The roof needed repair, so Pedro spent every moment, between the many downpours, making sure the rain stayed out of the house. The rest can be imagined…. perhaps!
This is but one small story which I tell in honour of the love and the gratitude we all need to feel for the privilege of being alive.

Language is very funny as certain words have such completely different meanings when used in different cultures.

For example, ‘blog’ in Indonesian means stupid.

When I first heard the word (which was not in the too distant past) I couldn’t believe it. For that is exactly how I feel when faced with the enormity of my technological illiteracy.

I shall endeavour to come across as not too much of a blog in the future!!

This year we were given an incredible gift.

Three weeks ago, we received a telephone call that the forests in which houses, that were built over 30 years ago by Pedro and his friends, were ablaze. Firefighters were, at great risk to themselves, trying to control what was truly a dangerous situation. We were told that no one would be allowed anywhere near the disaster.

Pedro and a friend went there anyway, and managed to gain access. The fires were still raging, the blackened earth and trees paying witness to the damage that had already been inflicted. They both expected the worst. As it happened, the firefighters knew nothing of Pedro’s house, and had been fighting to save the others, unfortunately without any success – they were all burnt to the ground.

With hearts in their boots, and spirits laden with doom, they climbed the hill that lead to Pedro’s house among the rocks. Everything was smouldering, and the smoke made the climb even more arduous.

Upon reaching the top, they were greeted by the miracle of all miracles… Despite the fact that the fire left scorch marks on the walls and the roof, the house still stood. Even when they went inside, the place had managed to remain in pristine condition, untouched by the inferno.

When the firefighters came to have a look, they could give no explanation for what had come to pass and indeed described it as “impossible”.

Seeing is truly believing! What gift could be better? We still reel with what, for us, was a miracle.

Pauline wishes everybody a belated Merry Christmas and a premature Happy New Year. She would also like to thanks everyone who visited the site since its recent inception.  At the moment I am dealing with the heat of an Australian summer, in an area with very limited internet access. Hence the sporadic contact. Thanks you, Pauline.

The sizzling Australian heat has finally been drenched with a deluge of such refreshing rain that I couldn’t resist the urge to leave the shelter of the house to stand under the downpour. What a relief! I felt as if I was standing under a massive waterfall far in the deepest jungle. I’ve always loved the rain.  Water has fascinated me, since earliest childhood, with a sense of something deeply sacred. Water has been both teacher and friend in ways that defy the accepted parameters of what is generally taught and understood to be the reality.

When I was younger I remember wondering why water was never given much attention, why for example no-one seemed to notice the living presence of water.

My father often spoke of the importance of clean healthy living water and I am still grateful to him for that, as it gave me a sense that he too understood something that not too many people seemed to understand. My relationship with water has grown as has my realisation that humanity’s lack of understanding of water contributes to the sickness and violence that roams our world with an ever increasing voracious appetite.

I remember when I was little, trying to explain what water meant to me. I met with various reactions, none of which served to satisfy my desire to learn and communicate.  So, with my child logic, I came to the conclusion that for some reason, unknown to me at that time, people were not meant to talk about such matters. This served, in a round about way, to increase my sense of awe and reverence for what I felt to be the loving, friendly spirit of water.

It was many years before I met people who experienced water as an actual living entity, to be revered, honoured, and loved. It was with those people I felt free to share my experiences and as a consequence came to hear their stories.

At the moment I’m melting in the heat of the Australian Summer. Oh for a breath of the lovely cold air of an Irish Winter!

My brain seems to be reduced to some kind of jelly-like substance that makes me feel like one of those ‘swooning ladies’ of olden times. There is no doubt that this moment in time is meant for the kind of rest that has eluded me for many years. That fall down the stairs, while reducing me to the status of invalid, is quite interestingly appropriate. I can sit for longer periods, and can walk for a while without the feeling that my legs are not there. However, most of my time is still spent lying down and either sleeping or focusing on the injuries and observing as much as possible the many subtle changes that are taking place.

‘Six months at least until you can move normally again….. especially at your age’ is what I’ve been told by the various experts with the solemn certainty of ‘those who know best’. Of course, added to the rather ‘down drag’ diagnosis is the conviction that our ability to heal ourselves diminishes as we climb the years. Fortunately I don’t share this kind of thinking. I find it rather restricting, airless and lacking in the personal freedom to explore with an open mind and an unfettered curiousity.

So far so good, though perhaps not yet quite comfortable.

My sitting time has come to an end for the moment. Will write again soon.

Something that’s not mentioned in any of the brochures I’ve read about the ‘Paradise Island of the Gods’ that is Bali, concerns the ant population. These tiny creatures constitute, as far as I know, one of the largest communities in Bali.

I am often reminded of their presence, especially early in the morning, as I walk into the kitchen to prepare for the day ahead. In the dim light just before the sun’s glorious rising and if I am still not quite awake, and fail to check the floor, I will find myself immediately wide awake as I become their latest feast.

These tiny creatures descend, en masse within minutes to scavenge even the smallest traces of food. Flour, crumbs, oil, sugar are like magnets that draw them by the zillions, especially before it rains. Left to their own devices they are amazing garbage collectors.

However to walk into their midst in the early hours of the morning, is to become an irresistible delicacy, as they swarm, with lightening speed on any available part of one’s anatomy. Their consequent sampling of your flesh, has the power to set one hopping and slapping them off as they rush in all directions to taste the enormous food package that has arrived in their midst…. surely a gift from their gods!

Out comes the broom. Their orderly pathways are disrupted in what for them must be a cataclysmic event. However the speed with which they re-organise their marching columns is a miracle to observe. It doesn’t take long for them to come back, unless one uses some noxious substance, such as kerosene, to disguise their way.

There are so many different types of ants here. There are red ones, black ones, brown ones, big ones, small ones, each with a different Life’s Purpose. There are those who bite and those who don’t. There are the white ones that eat houses unless one takes the drastic measures of extermination. If you don’t, you may come crashing through the floor or alternatively have the house come crashing down on you.

The older Balinese people have a wealth of knowledge concerning each type of ant.  They have names to describe whatever attribute each species possess. They are more that happy to share their knowledge with anyone interested enough to ask.

Enough for now!