A New Yorker’s Failed Attempts at Meditation
A New Yorker attempts to quiet her mind and find inner peace while traveling in Bali.
My henna is starting to fade from my hand. A mix of sweat, showers and sun are starting to steal away the intricate design that starts at my right pinky and winds its way up my wrist. I can’t help but admire the symbolism of it all. As my time in Bali comes to a close, the henna from my first day starts to fade. Sheila would call it “woo-woo,” her very own Sheila-branded term for the inexplicable magic that unfolds here in Ubud.
I meet Sheila for the first time during an evening meditation class. Sheila is an ex-pat from Seattle who bought herself a sweet piece of land, built an enviable home and wakes up to uninterrupted views of the rice paddies every morning. At first glance Sheila appears to be in her early 60s. Her body is taut, her skin sun-kissed, her face worry-free. Despite her age, ample yoga and Bali living has served her well. Sheila has aged in the way most of us only hope to: with grace, beauty and a sense of inner peace.
It being my last day in Bali, I decide to end it with a sunset meditation class overlooking the rice paddies. Admittedely, my previous attempts at meditation have only involved a cellphone app called Calm, soundtracks of nature noises (a rarity in New York’s urban jungle) and falling asleep after five minutes of mind-wrestling.
Against the chaotic backdrop of Manhattan, meditation makes about as much sense as a giraffe in Antartica, but then again perhaps that’s exactly why I crave it so much. The idea of meditation appeals to me. What a thrill to think that with practice I could learn to not only control my emotions but also my thoughts. The promise of meditation is like a second dessert course. Simply too decadent, beautiful and delicious to resist.
I want that inner peace, need that sense of calm. I don’t want to rip my hair out (figuratively not literally) every time a train is running late, a cab meter goes over or my bank account dwindles. I don’t need to be a doctor to know that living in a constant state of stress and worry is hardly healthy. As my grandmother once put it, “be careful how you live today, because one day your body will turn around and hand you the bill and you better be able to pay it.” Well, at 29, I am starting to take notice of what I’m ordering so that I won’t have a heart attack (literally not figuratively) when that metaphorical check arrives.
Forty-five minutes before meditation class, I throw my wallet, phone and keys into my worn, leather bag and rush out to the busy streets of Ubud. One look at the road and I know that traffic will make it virtually impossible to drive across town and arrive at class by 6pm. Having roamed the entirety of Ubud by foot, I already known walking will only get me to meditation at least 15 minutes after it has started. My only other option is to catch a ride on the back of a motorbike.
Riding a motorbike to meditation is a lot like partaking in a game of paintball before a massage; the two activities could not be more opposite. Whereas meditation is calm, safe and serene; riding a motorbike in Bali is like having a death wish. No helmets. Narrow streets. Ample traffic. Unpaved roads. By the time I am dropped off at the Ubud Yoga House, I feel as though I’ve just throwback a shot of Red Bull and vodka. My nerves are electric with energy, my hair is whipped into a post-sex style frenzy. My mind is aflutter with excitement.
I walk the narrow pathway to the Ubud Yoga House, not sure of what I expect to gain from a single meditation class. If I am to be honest with myself, perhaps I am here because I’m a sucker for doing the things you’re supposed to do in each destination. When I travel, I’m a cliche at best. Spaghetti in Rome. Croissants in Paris. Camel rides in Morocco. Meditation in Bali. I’m here because after weeks of traveling in Indonesia, I figure an evening with my thoughts would be an excellent way to end the trip.
Sheila’s Yoga House is open air and welcoming. Candles flicker from the banisters, a ginger tabby cat lurks in the shadows, a warm light lights up the wood floors of the gazebo-like yoga studio facing the rice paddies. It’s quiet here except for the sounds of running water, birds, frogs and the distant rev of a passing motorbike. I’m sitting in a circle with about six other people from around the world. A pair of Austrian brothers, a couple of German girls and then me: the outspoken, New Yorker who can’t stop fidgeting to save her life.
My God, have I always fidgeted this much?
Sheila is pacing the room with a Tibetan song bowl. The bowl is an ancient method of meditation. Something about the echoing gong-like sound brings people into a trance; allows their thoughts to flutter to the wind. With each haunting ring of the bowl, Sheila’s guided voice encourages us to focus on the moment at hand, to let our thoughts pass us like clouds in the sky. I relax my face, focus on my breathing and let my inner dialogue takeover.
Me: Okay, mindful meditation here we go. Focus on the moment. The moment at hand.
Thoughts: OH! I’m focusing on the moment alright. Do you FEEL these mosquitos?! They’re eating us ALIVE! Whose brilliant idea was it to have a meditation class after sunset? And this organic mosquito spray? Don’t even get me started! It’s like they LOVE this stuff.
Me: I think one bit my foot just now. My God, I can’t stop wanting to itch it. At least we’re not in Komodo with a risk of Malaria. Can you get malaria in Bali? I will never forgive myself if I get malaria because of a meditation class. Okay, okay let’s focus. What are we supposed to be doing now? Is it focusing on breathing, nature noises or the Tibetan bowl?
Thoughts: I think we’re on the mantra now? Okay choose some positive words. Let’s give this a try. Breathe in and say LOVE, exhale and say PEACE.
Me: Brilliant. Here we go. LOVE…PEACE…LOVE…PEACE…
Thoughts: You should write a book. Why don’t you try to write one? Too bad Elizabeth Gilbert already wrote that ‘Eat Pray Love’ book, maybe you should pitch an article about your failed attempts at eating, praying and loving in Bali. Although you’ve definitely done your fair share of eating…
Me: LOVE…PEACE…Wait, what? Are you saying I ate too much? I feel like all I’ve had is rice and fish for a month. Okay, never mind…LOVE…PEACE…LOVE…PEACE…
Thoughts: Do we have enough Indonesia Rupiah left? Should we buy that blue japamala necklace by the entrance? It was pretty stunning. Did you see it was symbolic of communication? That’s PERFECT for us! A writer in Bali, wearing a communication jap mala.
Me: What would I even do with a japamala? They’re meant for praying. I guess I can try praying with it but that seems a bit forced, no? Oh! I could wear it around New York as this zen yogi who just got back from Bali. Maybe I’ll even wear it each time I write as this exotic talisman of inspiration. Is that obnoxious?
Thoughts: No, excellent idea. Who needs meditation anyway? Why would you ever want to tune these thoughts out? They’re GOLDEN.
Me: This was so not the point of coming to meditation class this evening. I have to learn to FOCUS. Today the thoughts are “golden,” but what about that time I had an anxiety attack? How about the times I drown in stress back in New York?
Thoughts: Oh, right…those times…
Me: Okay, okay let me at least TRY to get five good minutes of meditation in…LOVE…PEACE….LOVE….PEACE…LOVE…PEA — -ah! Goddamn, these mosquitos!
While I don’t leave meditation with some sort of mental control, I do leave it with a few tricks to concentrate the brain and the $60 handcrafted Japamala I’m convinced is my jewelry soulmate. As I said, I’m a sucker for doing the things you’re supposed to do abroad.
