times he found angels who looked like devils. When asked how he could tell the
difference, the saint said that you can only tell which is which by the way you feel after
the creature has left your company. If you are appalled, he said, then it was a devil who
had visited you. If you feel lightened, it was an angel.
I think I know what that little punk was, who always got a laugh out of me.
On my ninth day of silence, I went into meditation one evening on the beach as the sun
was going down and I didn't stand up again until after midnight. I remember thinking,
"This is it, Liz." I said to my mind, "This is your chance. Show me everything that is
causing you sorrow. Let me see all of it. Don't hold anything back." One by one, the
thoughts and memories of sadness raised their hands, stood up to identify themselves. I
looked at each thought, at each unit of sorrow, and I acknowledged its existence and felt
(without trying to protect myself from it) its horrible pain. And then I would tell that
sorrow, "It's OK. I love you. I accept you. Come into my heart now. It's over." I would
actually feel the sorrow (as if it were a living thing) enter my heart (as if it were an actual
room). Then I would say, "Next?" and the next bit of grief would surface. I would regard
it, experience it, bless it, and invite it into my heart, too. I did this with every sorrowful
thought I'd ever had--reaching back into years of memory--until nothing was left.
Then I said to my mind, "Show me your anger now." One by one, my life's every incident
of anger rose and made itself known. Every injustice, every betrayal, every loss, every
rage. I saw them all, one by one, and I acknowledged their existence. I felt each piece of
anger completely, as if it were happening for the first time, and then I would say, "Come
into my heart now. You can rest there. It's safe now. It's over. I love you." This went on
for hours, and I swung between these mighty poles of opposite feelings--experiencing the
anger thoroughly for one bone-rattling moment, and then experiencing a total coolness, as
the anger entered my heart as if through a door, laid itself down, curled up against its
brothers and gave up fighting.
Then came the most difficult part. "Show me your shame," I asked my mind. Dear God,
the horrors that I saw then. A pitiful parade of all my failings, my lies, my selfishness,
jealousy, arrogance. I didn't blink from any of it, though. "Show me your worst," I said.
When I tried to invite these units of shame into my heart, they each hesitated at the door,
saying, "No--you don't want me in there . . . don't you know what I did?" and I would say,"I do want you. Even you. I do. Even you are welcome here. It's OK. You are forgiven.
You are part of me. You can rest now. It's over."
When all this was finished, I was empty. Nothing was fighting in my mind anymore. I
looked into my heart, at my own goodness, and I saw its capacity. I saw that my heart
was not even nearly full, not even after having taken in and tended to all those calamitous
urchins of sorrow and anger and shame; my heart could easily have received and forgiven
even more. Its love was infinite.
I knew then that this is how God loves us all and receives us all, and that there is no such
thing in this universe as hell, except maybe in our own terrified minds. Because if even
one broken and limited human being could experience even one such episode of absolute
forgiveness and acceptance of her own self, then imagine--just imagine!--what God, in all
His eternal compassion, can forgive and accept.
I also knew somehow that this respite of peace would be temporary. I knew that I was not
yet finished for good, that my anger, my sadness and my shame would all creep back
eventually, escaping my heart, and occupying my head once more. I knew that I would
have to keep dealing with these thoughts again and again until I slowly and determinedly
changed my whole life. And that this would be difficult and exhausting to do. But my
heart said to my mind in the dark silence of that beach: "I love you, I will never leave you,
I will always take care of you." That promise floated up out of my heart and I caught it in
my mouth and held it there, tasting it as I left the beach and walked back to the little
shack where I was staying. I found an empty notebook, opened it up to the first page--and
only then did I open my mouth and speak those words into the air, letting them free. I let
those words break my silence and then I allowed my pencil to document their colossal
statement onto the page: "I love you, I will never leave you, I will always take care of
you."
Those were the first words I ever wrote in that private notebook of mine, which I would
carry with me from that moment forth, turning back to it many times over the next two
years, always asking for help-- and always finding it, even when I was most deadly sad or
afraid. And that notebook, steeped through with that promise of love, was quite simply
the only reason I survived the next years of my life.
108 108 108 108
And now I'm coming back to Gili Meno under notably different circumstances. Since I
was last here, I've circled the world, settled my divorce, survived my final separation
from David, erased all mood-altering medications from my system, learned to speak a
new language, sat upon God's palm for a few unforgettable moments in India, studied at
the feet of an Indonesian medicine man and purchased a home for a family who sorelyneeded a place to live. I am happy and healthy and balanced. And, yes, I cannot help but
notice that I am sailing to this pretty little tropical island with my Brazilian lover. Which
is--I admit it!--an almost ludicrously fairy-tale ending to this story, like the page out of
some housewife's dream. (Perhaps even a page out of my own dream, from years ago.)
Yet what keeps me from dissolving right now into a complete fairy-tale shimmer is this
solid truth, a truth which has veritably built my bones over the last few years--I was not
rescued by a prince; I was the administrator of my own rescue.
My thoughts turn to something I read once, something the Zen Buddhists believe. They
say that an oak tree is brought into creation by two forces at the same time. Obviously,
there is the acorn from which it all begins, the seed which holds all the promise and
potential, which grows into the tree. Everybody can see that. But only a few can
recognize that there is another force operating here as well--the future tree itself, which
wants so badly to exist that it pulls the acorn into being, drawing the seedling forth with
longing out of the void, guiding the evolution from nothingness to maturity. In this
respect, say the Zens, it is the oak tree that creates the very acorn from which it was born.
I think about the woman I have become lately, about the life that I am now living, and
about how much I always wanted to be this person and live this life, liberated from the
farce of pretending to be anyone other than myself. I think of everything I endured before
getting here and wonder if it was me-- I mean, this happy and balanced me, who is now
dozing on the deck of this small Indonesian fishing boat--who pulled the other, younger,
more confused and more struggling me forward during all those hard years. The younger
me was the acorn full of potential, but it was the older me, the already-existent oak, who
was saying the whole time: "Yes--grow! Change! Evolve! Come and meet me here,
where I already exist in wholeness and maturity! I need you to grow into me!" And
maybe it was this present and fully actualized me who was hovering four years ago over
that young married sobbing girl on the bathroom floor, and maybe it was this me who
whispered lovingly into that desperate girl's ear, "Go back to bed, Liz . . ." Knowing
already that everything would be OK, that everything would eventually bring us together
here. Right here, right to this moment. Where I was always waiting in peace and
contentment, always waiting for her to arrive and join me.
Then Felipe wakes up. We'd both been dozing in and out of consciousness all afternoon,
curled in each other's arms on the deck of this Indonesian fisherman's sailboat. The ocean
has been swaying us, the sun shining. While I lie there with my head pillowed on his
chest, Felipe tells me that he had an idea while he was sleeping. He says, "You know--I
obviously need to keep living in Bali because my business is here, and because it's so
close to Australia, where my kids live. I also need to be in Brazil often, because that's
where the gemstones are and because I have family there. And you obviously need to be
in the United States, because that's where your work is, and that's where your family and
friends are. So I was thinking . . . maybe we could try to build a life together that's
somehow divided between America, Australia, Brazil and Bali."
All I can do is laugh, because, hey--why not? It just might be crazy enough to work. A
life like this might strike some people as absolutely loony, as sheer foolishness, but it
resembles me so closely. Of course this is how we should proceed. It feels so familiar
already. And I quite like the poetry of his idea, too, I must say. I mean that literally. After
this whole year spent exploring the individual and intrepid I's, Felipe has just suggested
to me a whole new theory of traveling:Australia, America, Bali, Brazil = A, A, B, B.
Like a classic poem, like a pair of rhyming couplets.
The little fishing boat anchors right off the shore of Gili Meno. There are no docks here
on this island. You have to roll up your pants, jump off the boat and wade in through the
surf on your own power. There's absolutely no way to do this without getting soaking wet
or even banged up on the coral, but it's worth all the trouble because the beach here is so
beautiful, so special. So me and my lover, we take off our shoes, we pile our small bags
of belongings on the tops of our heads and we prepare to leap over the edge of that boat
together, into the sea.
You know, it's a funny thing. The only Romance language Felipe doesn't happen to speak
is Italian. But I go ahead and say it to him anyway, just as we're about to jump.
I say: "Attraversiamo."
Let's cross over.
Final Final Final Final Recognition Recognition Recognition Recognition and and and and Reassurance Reassurance Reassurance Reassurance
A few months after I'd left Indonesia, I returned to visit loved ones and to celebrate the
Christmas and New Year's holiday. My flight landed in Bali only two hours after
Southeast Asia was struck by a tsunami of staggering destruction. Acquaintances all over
the world contacted me immediately, concerned about the safety of my Indonesian
friends. People seemed particularly consumed with this worry: "Are Wayan and Tutti
OK?" The answer is that the tsunami did not impact Bali in any way whatsoever (aside
from emotionally, of course) and I found everybody safe and sound. Felipe was waiting
for me at the airport (the first of many times we would be meeting each other at various
airports). Ketut Liyer was sitting on his porch, same as ever, making medicine and
meditations. Yudhi had recently taken work playing guitar in some fancy local resort and
was doing well. And Wayan's family was living happily in their beautiful new house, far
away from the dangerous coastline, sheltered high in the rice terraces of Ubud.
With all the gratitude I can summon (and on Wayan's behalf), I would now like to thank
everyone who contributed money to build that home:
Sakshi Andreozzi, Savitri Axelrod, Linda and Renee Barrera, Lisa Boone, Susan Bowen,
Gary Brenner, Monica Burke and Karen Kudej, Sandie Carpenter, David Cashion, Anne
Connell (who also, along with Jana Eisenberg, is a master of last-minute rescues), Mike
and Mimi de Gruy, Armenia de Oliveira, Rayya Elias and Gigi Madl, Susan Freddie,
Devin Friedman, Dwight Garner and Cree LeFavour, John and Carole Gilbert, Mamie
Healey, Annie Hubbard and the almost-unbelievable Harvey Schwartz, Bob Hughes,
Susan Kittenplan, Michael and Jill Knight, Brian and Linda Knopp, Deborah Lopez,
Deborah Luepnitz, Craig Marks and Rene Steinke, Adam McKay and Shira Piven, Jonny
and Cat Miles, Sheryl Moller, John Morse and Ross Petersen, James and Catherine
Murdock (with Nick and Mimi's blessings), Jose Nunes, Anne Pagliarulo, Charley Patton,
Laura Platter, Peter Richmond, Toby and Beverly Robinson, Nina Bernstein Simmons,Stefania Somare, Natalie Standiford, Stacey Steers, Darcey Steinke, The Thoreson Girls
(Nancy, Laura and Miss Rebecca), Daphne Uviller, Richard Vogt, Peter and Jean
Warrington, Kristen Weiner, Scott Westerfeld and Justine Larbalestier, Bill Yee and
Karen Zimet.
Lastly, and on a different topic, I wish I could find a way to properly acknowledge my
cherished Uncle Terry and my Aunt Deborah for all the help they gave me during this
year of travel. To call it mere "technical support" is to diminish the importance of their
contribution. Together they wove a net beneath my tightrope without which--quite
simply--I would not have been able to write this book. I don't know how to repay them.
In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world
who sustain our lives. In the end, maybe it's wiser to surrender before the miraculous
scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for
as long as we have voices.
