bali to the berkshires

The Road to the Berkshires

Fri, 17 Oct 2008 12:27:05 +0800

Life has slowed down a bit, as my surroundings settle in for the cooler weather edging ever so closely. Actually, slowing down isn't exactly the right word. Rather, I've caught up with my surroundings and have become accustomed to them, both in mind and body. The Berkshires has a unique character that's hard to put my finger on. It's the everyday that I find uniqueness. The people here aren't concerned about what others think, and instead are consumed by creating their own niche that doesn't necessarily follow the norm, whatever that might be. Take something simple like getting my chimney swept. I had no idea what condition the chimney was in, but the weather was getting cooler and I was itching to light a fire. So, like others like me in the Berkshires, I asked around and found the name of the neighborhood chimney sweep. He was as popular as the homecoming king in a high school dance, with his list of suitors keeping him busy for weeks. He said the soonest he could come was in a month. So I marked my calendar and eventually forgot about it. On that fateful day, with a chill in the air as I wrapped myself tightly in a thick sweater, I heard a strong rapping at my front door just before 9 a.m. I welcomed a person who transformed my home momentarily back in time to when it was built in the mid-1800s. He looked like he stepped out of a scene from Mary Poppins, with his frayed black top hat, black T-shirt, pants and vest, long gray beard, dingy hands and sparkle in his eye. I knew he loved what he did and lived it, breathed it, savored it, as he set to the task of disemboweling my chimney. And there's more like him around these parts, like my friendly neighbor, Dick, who is now building the other half of his house and is the caretaker of our stables where he boards his arthritic old horse, Jimmy. Dick is the nicest guy you'd ever want as your neighbor, along with his newly wedded wife, Martha, with a shock of wavy gray hair that sends my 1-year-old daughter crying at the sight of her. I cringe when I think about it, because the little pumpkin has such a pleasant disposition, and Martha has never done anything wrong to her. In fact, Martha brings by fresh eggs every week and fills me in on the neighbors and the bad boys around town that I don't want working on my land. She and her husband raise pigs for slaughter, and I've got my family down for half a swine the next time the swines meet their maker. Although, come to think about it, I don't know where I'm going to put all that flesh. Then there's Dick's friend, Dana, a 40-something-year-old logger who painstakingly painted the inside of our barn late into the nights to make it ready for a studio. And there's the high school French teacher across the street who popped over the other day and invited herself into our home, sitting and chatting with me for almost an hour over Diet Cokes. Her husband used to drive to work in town every day but got smart and built a barn where he set up his architectural work and hangs a sign at the front of his home notifying passers by of such. And Jaya, my newfound friend who feels like a longtime confidante, who taught yoga, was a breathing instructor and was a skin specialist and knows just about everyone in the Berkshires it seems. Now she wears the hat of an eco-realtor and introduced the Otis farm to us. So my life is settling in a bit more, and instead of driving my husband to the airport in Bali, where we once lived, I find myself taking him across the border into Connecticut to catch a flight to one of a myriad of locations that he will photograph. And of all places, I stopped at the mall on my way home to get some thick socks for the kids before the cold settles in. Socks. The mall. How unexciting yet unavoidable. Then, before me, as I walked into this shopping edifice, I felt a sense of familiarity. The movie theater was playing classics, and today's marquee featured Bob Hope and Bing Crosby in The Road to Bali. The slapstick humor. The volcano. The rice fields. The princess. The tropics. The ocean. The Balinese people. I was transported momentarily to the other side of the earth and savored the warmth of the island’s simplicity and natural beauty. Then I woke up and got the heck out of this mall and back on The Road to the Berkshires, my new paradise. I'll get the socks another day.

I pledge allegiance

Fri, 5 Sep 2008 10:01:46 +0800

In my little pinhole of a universe, I have been turning over and over in my mind how I have been feeling, how I can get better, why I'm still not feeling totally well, why my energy level dips way down in the afternoon. Then I look at our barn, and how much work is still ahead of us, with the myriad of boxes to unpack, the furniture to unwrap, the painting and the cleaning and the organizing. Within the dusty darkness of the barn that one day will be transformed into a studio and gallery, I hear the rain start to tap-dance on the roof, and I see dark, moody clouds quickly moving in. So I call my sons, who are barreling down our dirt driveway on their bicycles, and we hurry into the house to wait out the brief thunderstorm, then we walk outside again. I see perched on one of our broken fences that need mending, the biggest, most intense bird I've ever seen. It let me approach it within feet as it stood proudly while we all looked at it in wonder and amazement. I quickly placed my life in perspective again, and realized how blessed we are. Sure, I'll be going through ups and down and some physically draining times. But I realize that this is more than an adjustment that I'm going through. It's a change in life, both external and internal, and I need to go with it and grow with it. I've been thinking a lot about my time in Haiti years ago, writing stories and spending time with a humanitarian group led by Don DeHart, who tirelessly helped the people in and around Cap Haitien by providing food, medical service, homes and schooling. He died a few years ago, and his wife, Eva, and adopted daughter, Roseline, are now pushing forward alone. So much attention has been given to a hurricane heading towards New Orleans, how that whole area was evacuated, and, thankfully, how the damage wasn't as severe as it could have been. Then I hear about the flooding in Haiti from the same hurricane. I read about the people who have so little and now have less than nothing. And how help is coming but cannot reach them, with orphanages in Gonaives filled with dozens of children without food. Haiti is still in the same state, even worse, than when I first visited it. It's a horrible injustice that is crying for us all to help. I come around full circle again and put things in perspective of what I have, and what they don't have, and my desire to one day go back and help. It doesn't change what I'm going through now, because I am still somewhat stuck within my new little world. Stuck isn’t the right word because it connotes a negative place. And it’s not. It’s just that I’m having a bit if a struggle breaking free of what is holding me back, whether it be my body still recuperating from dengue fever or the big life changes that have affected my psyche. I know I will move beyond it all. When we saw the bird after the storm, Richard quickly said it was an eagle, "the symbol of America," and stared at it in awe. Talking to him in bed later that evening, he opens up a bit and tells me how he feels embarrassed and nervous every day after the lunch break, when his class says the Pledge of Allegiance. Although my son is an American passport holder, this is his first time living in the States, and this daily recital as everyone stands to attention to a flag with hand on breast is quite foreign to him. Everyone else belts out the words, and my son mouths along with them, not knowing what to say but pretending. Except the last part, he tells me, then, with a yawn, he recites, "and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil...."

Firsts and new beginnings

Tue, 2 Sep 2008 09:19:13 +0800

My younger son says school is boring. He says nobody want to play with him on the playground; he's the only one who goes on the blue slide. My other son doesn't want to talk much about school, except for the cafeteria lunches, which are a new thing for him after the small Montessori school in Bali where he brought his own lunch. Now he never fails to let me know what's on the school menu for the next day. He's excited because today is grilled cheese; I wonder how long it will take for this sort of excitement to wear off and him to realize that it's pretty much just bland school food with a lot of the selection coming out of cans. Nevertheless, I'm happy to at least get a brief reprieve from making lunch in the mornings. And, to make my life a little bit easier, the boys started taking the school bus for the first time this morning. Claire the driver of the yellow bus, picked them up right in front of our home. That sure beats packing up everyone in the car and rushing to the school, always just a few minutes late. My older son, Richard, was worried about whether there will be any seats on the school bus, or if there will be two together for him and his brother. He was concerned that he'd have to stand in the aisle and hold a strap hanging from the ceiling. This isn't Hong Kong's subway or public bus system, where he used to do that sort of thing. My two little guys boarded a nearly empty bus and seemed so tiny as they sat together in the middle of the long stretch of rows. I know that they’re content with their new school, despite the change in friends and learning style. Although children are easily adaptable to life's changes, I see little hints of adjustments that they've had to make. Richard is so eager to show his Indonesian coins and other pieces of his life back in Bali to his new classmates, and keeps asking me when he can do that. But the teacher hasn't mentioned anything about "show and tell," so I'm supposed to call the school and ask. The school days are long for my little guy, Konstantin, who is used to going to preschool for three hours a day. Now he has to stay in school for a six-hour stretch. I must say that it's a relief to have the two boys at school, and I'm solo with the baby and left to catch up on my writing, my housework, my unloading boxes, myself. This is the new rhythm that I am getting used to. I received an email from an old friend in Bali and I realized that I miss the closeness of that small community, and the familiarity of life there. It seems like another life already, even though it's only been a few months since we made this dramatic move. My brother and his family visited me yesterday for the first time, and they asked me how I have adjusted to life in America. It's not the cultural change that has been the adjustment; it has been the change in my daily life that has been the biggest change. And I walk around our land with my brother and his wife, who is holding a big stick to scare away whatever creature might lurk in the bushes, I realize that this is definitely a different way of life. I've been hearing stories about a big cat who ate all the chickens in the coup that the previous owner kept next to our barn. I heard about the wolf that gobbled up our neighbor's little chiwawa. I heard about the 9-year-old girl who died in our home of cancer, thus the reason for the family who owned this home for generations to finally sell. And I heard about the winters here with 100 mph winds whipping across our land, causing tremendous snow drifts. I realize that I need to listen to what the home tells me, what my neighbors have to say, what the land has to show, to really understand my new home and the layers of life that it has to offer.

Adjusting

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 00:00:00 +0800

Who says having three children, living on a farm and being husbandless for long periods of time isn't challenging? I'm finding this to be the hardest challenge yet, both physically and emotionally. En face, it seems very simple. Just take care of the three. But throw into the mix two boys and a baby girl, and a mom (me) who is still trying to get her footing, and it's a whole new ball game. My two sons, who are 5 and 8 years old, can't stop pouncing on each other and grabbing eat other's butt or chasing after one other. And it doesn't end once they get inside after playing out in the barn or in the grass. They are on each other in our home and, in the case of the other day, in the car dealership where we had to wait almost three hours for our car to get a simple oil change. You'd think the shop employees would want us out of there as quickly as possible. I even pointed out to the service man behind the counter that it's in his best interest to get us out fast. With my chunky baby hanging onto me, I had to hold myself back from yelling at my two boys, or threaten them with punishment, which I ended up doing anyway. Of course, it helped for a minute then they were back at it again. I know it's payback time for my mom who went through similar things with me and my three siblings. I'm not sure if it's the new contraception that I've started, or my husband being away for the first time since we've moved, or lack of a full night's rest. But all together, and come 4 p.m., I'm ready for a pot of coffee or a stiff screw driver. I met a woman the other day at my son's kindergarten orientation who said she's an old hand at the school thing. Well, I guess I am too, with my second one in school. But she said this was the last of her five boys starting school. My jaw dropped. She actually looked pretty switched on and sane. Maybe she had help, like I once did, with a cook and a cleaner and a gardener and a handyman. Or maybe not, and she just had family around, like her mom and a sister or two. OK, so it's an adjustment for me without the Balinese staff. A big adjustment after 12 years abroad. I've finally brought myself to do yoga to help me balance myself, which is something I've never done before. And it's helping. But, honesty, I'd rather have a full-time housekeeper any day and pitch the yoga. But such is life. Yes, my parents and siblings are in America. But they're a two-hour flight away. I've got good old mom coming today to help out for a while. But I've got to figure out a way to enjoy and function within my new life on my own. Maybe when school starts up on Wednesday it'll be different. I think the awesome responsibility of having three kids has finally struck me. I've put aside my thoughts of having a few dogs, some chickens, a horse and some cows. Maybe in a few years. Maybe. Jimmy the caretaker's horse who boards in our barn and has fields aplenty to graze upon is good enough for me. I'd rather stroke his forehead, throw him a carrot or two and continue my stroll with the kids down the pathway that leads to a painter's palate of wildflowers, blueberries and blackberries ripe for the picking, and unspoiled air to breath in. I'll take up my friend's offer of boarding two cats in our barn to catch the mice. And maybe come spring, I'll plant me a vegetable garden to get my feet wet and my hands dirty.

Farm life

Sat, 23 Aug 2008 12:08:32 +0800

So much has passed in these last few months. Leaving Bali, even the last hour before our final departure, was marred in ridiculous complications. It started as we were nearing the airport and my husband took an illegal turn right in front of an Indonesian police post. The officer immediately flagged us down, our car full of kids and suitcases, and another car tailing us packed with even more of our suitcases. The Balinese driver in the other car pleaded with the officer for a few long minutes as my husband stood there trying (unsuccessfully) to keep silent, and the officer amazingly let us go without requiring some sort of “bribe”, which is usually the case. We drove on to the international check-in area, our family and 11 pieces of luggage and six carry-on suitcases containing my husband’s original film. This was in addition to the two containers that we filled more than a month earlier. At check in, the smiling lady at the counter told us that the luggage weighed too much. So there was my husband, unloading underwears and shampoos and toys and backpacks and everything else private in our lives, baring it on the airport's floor for everyone to see. At the end of that nightmare, the airline clerk still told us that even though the suitcases were now the proper weight, we now had too many and had to pay US$700 in excess fees.

So here we are in the Berkshires, and I've been thinking about one of the first nights we stayed in our new home in Otis. My son rolled off of his blow-up mattress and nudged me from across the room, as I slept on another blow-up mattress with my baby girl. He asked me if I can turn off of air conditioner. "It's too cold," he said with a shiver in his voice. We don't have any air conditioners here. It's summertime here and we're seeking warmth under layers of comforters.

Life is definitely different. Every evening, I'm just exhausted as I finally go to sleep around 11 or 12. We started our first few weeks by eating on the floor in the kitchen, with a few Balinese batik sarongs spread out underneath us. And the living room was barren except for suitcases of camera and computer equipment. The two containers of all our personal belongings came soon enough, and that opened up a whole new list of challenges. The name of the game was to unload a 40-foot container with the help of the guys in the neighborhood, and get it done before sundown. Meanwhile, the truck driver was fast asleep in the front. I still can see my husband standing inside the opened truck and barking out orders of where this item went or that item. And we're talking about incredibly heavy Javanese furniture that sometimes required a forklift along with four muscly men. Most of that stuff was unloaded in our 6,000-square-foot barn, to be sorted out again later, and I was fielding the occasional box and furniture into the home, along with making sandwiches and drinks and minding the kids and trying to keep some order to the chaos. Which was pretty futile. And the prospect of having another container arrive the following day didn’t help with the mood. Still, everyone pitched in together, and, in a self-mutilating way, it was kind of fun.

There's no way around it. Life has been full-on. I'm ironing while watching the Olympics and wondering how important ironing is in the scheme of life. I'm aching to write more, although I'm finding it hard at times to even sit and take a rest. It's not a bad thing. I'm enjoying it, in a weird sort of way, and trying to find my rhythm in my new life. Last night, I looked outside our kitchen window and saw the barn lights still on from a distance. Reluctantly, I put on a light jacket and switched my slippers to rubber shoes, and walked out with my children tagging along. Within the darkness between our house and the barn, as I stepped on the damp grass that is already needing to be mowed again, I looked up and was met by a carpet of stars that seemed close enough to grab. We stopped and stood there for several minutes, taking in the smell of the sweet, moist grass, and I was brought back to the reason why we moved here. The utter beauty and simplicity of life here, with endless potentials. I took some deep breaths and centered myself again. I was ready for this new challenge of being without my husband for the next five weeks, and left to manage the kids and the farm on my own.

I’ve returned

Sat, 9 Aug 2008 22:35:29 +0800

It has been a long time since my last posting. Obviously. It has been upwards of a month — no, closer to two months since I have written. I would start, write a line or two, then wander off. Not that wandering is really the right word. I would be pulled in the direction of unloading boxes or the filling the dishwasher, sweeping the floor in the kitchen or feeding my bouncy 10 month old who has just discovered the relationship between gravity, her food and the floor. Or grocery shopping and cooking and then, before I know it, it's time to do it all again. I definitely underestimated how liberating having full-time help in Bali was. Without that help, I feel weighted down by menial tasks that must be done. Truthfully, it has been a tough ride these last several weeks. Even though it is not like I am living in a new country — it's my birth place for goodness sake — it's as if I entered a whole new world with the combination of three little kids, a real farm, the lingering effects of a depression, an overwhelmed husband who gets no relief from his wife who is going through a zero level of libido. I am now compelled to write. I must. I realize it is one of the few things that keeps me grounded. And there is not one better time to write than another. I say this as I peck with one thumb on my iPhone while popping blueberries in my baby girl's mouth as we fly from Florida back to Connecticut, the closest airport to our place in the Berkshires. I have a few moments to reflect on what has evolved as I return from a short trip to see my dad who had a brush with cancer and could potentially lose his kidneys. I wanted him to finally meet our baby and she him. And when I took photos of him with her, my dad asked me to talk to her about her grandfather when she is older and looks at the photos. Mortality is becoming more real to me as I sit with my 80-year-old dad and he starts talking that way. He shows me a worn, black and white photo of himself at age 8 with his sister, two brothers, mom and stepfather. My dad looked eager to jump out of the photo. He rambles on with stories that I never heard before, about his years in the Turkish military to earn money to finish school. He rose to the rank of captain as an interpreter for high-ranking officers at the border of Greece. And here he is now talking about life after he is gone. I make him promise to come visit me in a few weeks. I want to share my new home with him. Watch the purple-hued sunsets over the thickness of the trees and walk through the pastures filled with wild flowers. I have big plans: grow a vegetable garden, sell some antique furniture and recycled stationery. All that while still writing and raising my children. Step by step. Day by day. Don't forget to smell the roses. Those silly cliches have a lot of truth in my life these days.

Final hours

Tue, 24 Jun 2008 15:25:05 +0800

Quiet. Moments of silence between tearful good-byes to dear friends. My tears don't flow so easily somehow. I don't know why. This morning, I took a walk on Bali's beach with my two boys for the last time. We collected shells, a tiny sand dollar, and watched the surfers skirt across the waves, and walked over pieces of ceremonial offerings washed upon the shore. It has been a gentle but constantly flowing several days, these last days in Asia: from the children's final day of school, and saying goodbye to so many people, to taking a tumultuous winding road up and down an old volcano to the northern town of Singaraja, where we baptized our 8-month-old baby in a small Orthodox church filled with local. Our little Merapi won't remember any of these experiences, but she will always be linked to Bali in a spiritual way. Then we came back home again. The desire to move from Bali is still in me, but it is being pulled by so many attachments that I have to this island. And the wariness of what lies ahead. The unknown. And it's finally here. Tonight we fly out on a halfway around the world journey, through Singapore, Frankfurt then New York City. I get a bit breathless just thinking about it. Then I listen to the sounds of Bali, the dogs barking, the ceremonial chanting, the ringing of bells, the whirring of motorbikes and honking of cars, the breeze flowing through the ancient banyan tree next door. And I'm grounded again. I will so miss all that. Life will be so different, I'm certain. And even though I tell my friends here, whom I consider my family, that we will see them again, I just don't know when that will be. The finality of moving is so -- final. I will never goes back to this again, my life in Bali as I know it. And the excitement escapes me right now of our new destination. I don't want to go. I don't want to leave the security of where I live. But it's time to move on, and thrill of the home in the Berkshires will re-emerge once we're en route. Right now, we are in the throws of our final hours of departure. And I mean throws. And I feel the tears start to flow.