I close the taxi door, thanking my driver, and glance around Dattatraya Square. The morning sun shines over everything, painting this bustling corner of the historic district of Bhaktapur in marvelous color and light. Inhaling deeply once, then again, I start upward through a slanted cobblestone alleyway. If my map is accurate, my destination is just ahead and to the left, a mere five-minute walk.
I round three quiet corners: left, then a quick right, then left again, approaching a small family temple in a peaceful courtyard, and gazing at what I believe to be my terminus. A neat, charming guesthouse – recommended to me by a recent acquaintance and friend in Kathmandu when I mentioned a longing to experience some quiet rest in the valley before embarking on a trek in the mountains – stands four stories high in front of me.
A radiant voice calls out to me from above, ‘Namaste!’, and I look up. Overhead, standing on the balcony of the highest floor, is a kind-faced woman maybe two decades my senior in a bright yellow kurta. She instantly reminds me of sunshine. My Nepali is limited, as is her English, but through gestures and giggles, we agree to meet at the front door so she can show me to my accommodation. She inquires about my friend, sharing some fond memories of him, and escorts me up two flights of stairs interrupted by tile floor landings, ending at a cozy room on the third floor.
I learn quickly that this woman is the keeper of the house, along with her husband. Twice, with great openness and generosity, she asks me whether I have eaten breakfast and if she can serve me some food and drink. This sounds wonderful, and my hungry stomach churns at the thought of food, or perhaps coffee after the early morning. Still, not wanting to inconvenience her, I reply truthfully that I had in fact enjoyed a small breakfast at my lodging in Patan before gaining a taxi here, and I thank her but decline the offer.
I settle into my room, a serene and architecturally stunning space. Terracotta- and cream-colored walls circumnavigate dark wood floors which mimic the rustic elegance of the dark beams overhead lining the ceiling. The bed quilt is patterned in a beautiful cerulean blue. French doors along with large windows on two walls let the light pour in, filtered through wispy, angelic white curtains. A balcony outside looks over the serene courtyard I was standing in just minutes before.
After a few moments’ rest, I climb to the upper level of the home, where the kitchen and dining area are situated (this high-kitchen feature, I later learn, is the layout of a typical Newari home). My host once again asks if she can bring me some sustenance, and once again I hesitate. I stammer, ‘Would it maybe be possible to make a cup of coffee?’ to which she replies, ‘Coffee, only? What about breakfast?” I hesitate again and manage to mumble something like ‘Well, maybe, sure, if it isn’t too much trouble.’
With a genuine, playful twinkle in her eyes, a sweetness in her voice, and an auntie-like care, she pretend-socks me in the arm with all gentleness and asks quizzically, ‘Are you fighting me?’ She then smiles widely and bobbles her head side-to-side in the way I am coming to learn is so characteristic of greetings and pleasantries in Nepal.
A brief pause ensues, and suddenly we are both overcome with laughter. I give in and accept her offer, and she sets a table outside on the back balcony, overlooking the district itself, buildings extending to the foothills of the mountains to the south. A cool breeze creates music from the small, bell-shaped chimes that hang over the balcony. And a beautiful breakfast feast is laid out before me – toast with an array of cheeses and hand-made jams, a soft-boiled egg, yogurt, vegetables, cured meats, guava juice, and coffee.
And in this place so far from home, and from this woman who may never know the impact that she had on my heart that morning (despite my bumbling, tearful efforts to profusely thank her before I left the district the following day), I felt for the umpteenth time the love and presence of God that has met me in countless ways – through countless faces and moments – these past two years as I have traveled, and throughout my life. And I wonder:
How often do we approach God with a posture of timidity rather than confidence? Of not wanting to ask to much or to inconvenience Him with our thoughts? How often do we limit our prayers to only what we think He can or will do? When verses like Ephesians 3:12 and Hebrews 4:16 tell us that we can approach Him boldly; and James 1:7 and Matthew 7:11 remind us that God delights in giving good gifts. I imagine Him taking in our hesitation and timidity with a playful ‘My child, are you fighting me?’. Because, what can He not do? Nothing is too big for Him. No ask is too great. And sometimes, He has a metaphorical feast in mind when the most we have in mind is a cup of coffee that we’re reluctant to ask for because ‘maybe it’s too small or inconvenient’, or ‘maybe He won’t answer the way I want Him to’, or ‘maybe He won’t answer at all’.
May we learn to approach God as a trusting son or daughter approaches a trusted father for wisdom, guidance, blessing. Not from a heart of demanding gifts, but of asking for big shifts – toward peace, toward grace, toward hope, toward faith, toward provision, toward healing. And not just for ourselves, but for our neighbors, our loved ones, and the world.
You know those excitable people who are always game for an obscenely early morning awakening, if it means doing or seeing something wonderful? I might be one of them… And it’s been a blessing to have found friends along the road of life who have a similar disposition. The flights, hikes and road trips we’ve taken that started hours before the first hint of dawn are numerous. There is something sweet and thrilling about these mornings and the tingle of anticipation that transmits through your body as you embark.
This is such a morning here in Bali. I woke up just before 2 AM, donned my hiking gear and boots, and I now wait outside the villa for the driver who will whisk me away to today’s adventure. The morning is calm, and the day is overflowing with promise.
The van arrives, and in the back seat I meet two other travelers who become fast friends. Hedda is here enjoying a yoga holiday far from her homeland in Sweden, and Luna is visiting Bali for several weeks from Korea. This – this – is one of the things I adore about travel, whether close to home or in far-off lands. If you journey with an open heart, travel will collide your story with the perspectives, ways, and stories of other people who you can share laughter and life lessons with, even if the moments are fleeting. And you can discover greater breadths and depths of God’s creative beauty along the way.
We navigate along dark, narrow, undulating roads for about 45 minutes, feeling safe the whole time because our driver is so expert, and we eventually arrive in the Kintamani Highlands – a calm landscape boasting both volcanic and pastoral views in the heart of Bali. We file out of the van one-by-one and are greeted by our kind hiking guide, Kopang. The air smells of sulphur, and our visibility is limited by the pre-dawn hour and a whimsical fog. But we know that we are standing at the foot of Mount Batur.
Our mission, which we’ve all accepted, is to climb to this volcano’s crest in time to see the sun rise.
Headlamps strapped to our foreheads and trekking poles in hand, we start out on flat ground, briefly weaving through expanses of farmland laden with crops and tin-roofed dwellings. Soon, we meet the trail that heads straight. up. the mountain. And for about ninety minutes, we hike at a steady pace and at an incline that is sure to add shape to anyone’s glutes and hamstrings. The ground under us transmogrifies from rocky terrain to a soft, fine, granular black soot, almost akin to hiking the sand dunes of the Sahara. We ascend higher and higher, even into a blanket of clouds that refreshes us with a light rainfall, and we giggle with delight, encourage each other to persevere, and share insights from our respective holidays as we go. Eventually, we summit to the ominous lip of the volcano’s crater where we sit to sip coffee and eat the breakfast our guide had graciously prepared earlier in the morning.
We sit and sit, awaiting a glorious break in the rainclouds. And we see…
Nothing.
We watch.
And wait.
And watch some more.
The hour for daybreak comes and goes. Our hands and noses are chilled from the altitude. The clouds we are waiting in illuminate from black to a jubilant grey.
No sunrise.
But wait a minute. Looking around, there is actually plenty to see. There are fellow hikers speaking a multitude of different languages. There are hot natural steam vents lining Batur’s crest that we use to warm our hands. There are wispy, dancing clouds and mists blowing around, above, behind and below us. There is hardy vegetation that extends over the edge of the crater and into the inner depths of Mount Batur that are presently concealed by fog. There is no shortage of joy, discovery, or beauty here just because it happens to be a cloudy day. And the sunrise, well, it’s there. We can’t see it. But its light still illuminates our day, and that – in itself – is a blessing.
I wonder, how often do we allow our expectations of an experience to cloud our journey through the experience itself? How often do we focus more on the outcome we hope for rather than on the joy, learning, and beauty to be gleaned from each step of the hike, each memory of sharing smiles and stories with others, each warm gesture that touches something cold or numb within us?
Is life not more rhythmic, more peaceful, and also more exciting when we allow each day to just be what it is – rain or shine – rather than demanding that it meet our expectations? When we lean into the loveliness and spontaneity around us no matter the circumstances? When we simply treasure each moment, each breath, each connection as the gift that it is, without prescribing or judging how it ‘should be’?
We snap some photos from the summit, enjoy the comfort of coffee mugs in our hands, and connect some more among our group. We then descend by the same trail that we rose from, and after returning below the level of the clouds, we are swept away by serene views of the highlands that were invisible to us during our ascension in the dark. We continue to visit, and we learn that today is Kopang’s birthday. We celebrate her before saying a warm ‘goodbye’, as our excursion continues.
Our group of three is escorted next to a collection of nearby hot springs. We enjoy a sweet tomato juice that is just as refreshing as all of the other cuisine and libations we have encountered here in Bali. We soak our muscles in the soothing pools, surrounded by beautiful views of Danau Batur (Lake Batur) and the mysterious Gunung Abang (Mount Abang), another local volcano. We then tour a third-generation coffee plantation to taste-test a variety of herbal teas and coffees native to Indonesia. This includes the acclaimed Kopi Luwak (for reference: http://www.kopiluwak.org/baru/index.html) which is an experience unto itself. We sit near an open-air treehouse on the plantation, overlooking the vast jungle, acquainting more and more. Butterflies flutter by, which bring to mind my grandfather who passed in 2021. I lift a cheers to him with a cup of plain black coffee – his favorite.
Hedda, Luna and I pile into our tour van for the drive home to Ubud, eyes and hearts and stomachs filled with cheer. We exchange contact information and are sure to continue following each other’s adventures.
I am the first to be dropped off, and after hugs and a universal ‘so wonderful to meet you’, I walk to Samyama Eatery one final time for an unbelievable, fresh Indonesian meal. I have pep in my step, partly out of gratitude for the incredible day, and partly because I’m due to meet my taxi for transport to the airport soon.
It’s the night before New Year’s Eve, and I am setting course for Singapore.
A new, refreshed day begins, and my eyes open unalarmed just before sunrise. I close them again, not in sleep, just to heighten my attention to the morning’s bird-singing, palm-swaying melody arising from outside. Lingering in bed a few moments longer, I decide to slowly ready for a walk further along down the main road toward the series of rice fields that lie beyond the junction to the yoga center. It’s a sweet walk, a saunter, and as I exchange greetings with the family who owns the shop across the street, and as I admire the organized, bright green patchwork fields that radiate on either side of the road, I say a prayer of thanks.
Bali is an island I never believed I would visit, nor necessarily ever planned to. (Perhaps I had thought of it in the remote past, but more so as a farfetched fantasy and less of a real possibility.) The same can be said for other destinations where my feet have wandered over the past several years. For instance, I started this year in Charleston, South Carolina and Moab, Utah, then made my way across the Pacific to Saipan and its sister islands, Tinian and Rota. Guam, Korea, Japan, the list goes on.
I grew up in a suburban corner of Minneapolis, Minnesota, raised in a family of humble means and big love. Our finances did not allow for travel, but I did have two diligent parents who – in various ways – worked very hard to provide for our family and encouraged my sisters and I to dream imaginatively and to believe in possibility, even if our means at the moment did not seem to add up to our hopes. My mom, in particular, spurred us on greatly in pursuing whatever God-given purposes were out there for us to discover in life, even if the path was not yet clear, even if it did not make practical sense.
As for me, many of my dreams revolved around travel – acquainting my senses with new sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches, different from those that were familiar to me. I believed deeply in God from a young age, and my sense of wonder about the world – about the joys and perils of humanity as a whole, about the diversity of languages and cultures and histories, about the mystery of wide landscapes and high mountains and deep seas – derives from the notion that these give us a glimpse of God’s heart, His creativity, His grace, His power, and His mighty love for us. If God created and cares about all of these stories and places – from those in my own neighborhood to those in another community on the opposite side of the globe – I wanted to care about them, too.
Believing also in God’s heart for restoring brokenness, I gravitated toward the field of medicine early on; and despite not having a clue how to go about becoming a physician, I felt led toward that pursuit from the age of 10. The miraculous design of the human body, how it carries our being and protects us each day, the ways it is built to repair itself as well as possible when attacked by infection or inflammation or injury, how greatly our lives are affected based on the health of the body (as well as the health of the environment and society that we grow up in) – this speaks to me. How can I be a part of helping repair the brokenness and illness that can assail the body or mind or heart? How can I encourage others in journeying healthfully? How can I partner with those healing efforts that have gone on for centuries before me and will continue for centuries after, especially when you take all of this and apply it to one of the most bright and resilient but vulnerable demographics on the planet – children. Hence, my deep dive into pediatrics over the years.
As I walk along these rice fields, I think about how pragmatically unlikely a trip to Bali or working as a pediatrician felt when I was young, and how humbling it is now to be living out those hopes and dreams. How grateful I am for parents who encouraged me to see and believe beyond the visible reality, even if I had to squint to do so, and to imagine in the distance what I could not yet see. To have faith.
I realize the hour, and walk a little more briskly back to my villa to get ready for this morning’s yoga practice – an introductory study of tantra – which is new for me. Dijan explains how, in essence, the practice involves a keen attention to the physical body and the sensations and energies that pulse through it (which often occur outside of our active awareness). Tantra is much more involved than this in reality, but I am grateful to Dijan for explaining it in such digestible and basic language for a beginner like me. This morning’s is a gentle, simple but powerful work that combines yoga asanas with meditation, again with breathing, and for me, with prayer. It is both refreshing and challenging, as the poses we each assume are meant to be held for longer than is physically comfortable, and the discipline it takes to remain still and to relax further into the pose is something I have not practiced consistently before. Then, the practice is refreshing again as we end in shavasana for the final relaxation, and I experience a sense of out-of-body-ness that I have never felt before – a total stillness, peace, and oneness of my self with my surroundings.
We three wrap up the session and grab breakfast together in the Samyama Eatery once again, then due to a change in schedule, I am released for the rest of the day to explore. After stopping briefly to hug Kopang, the lovely friend/chef/AirBnB experience curator/motor scooter driver from yesterday, I return to the villa, don my swimwear and sarong, and set out walking again, this time south along the main road outside of my complex.
Included in my retreat is a day pass to a local health club called Titi Batu Ubud, a ‘very sexy’ place as I was told by a staff member at Samyama. And it is. As I approach the complex, I notice that it is surrounded by lush tropical forest. Several sleek, windowed structures housing gym equipment, workout studios, and dressing rooms hug a central, open-air multilayered pool and lounge space which is the direct neighbor of a restaurant exuding the most delicious fragrances. I feel overly spoiled and grateful, and start my time with a cleansing rest in the sauna overlooking the pool. I then ease over to the ice bath next door, allowing my body to enjoy the cooling treatment in this tropical environment, and then proceed to the steam room (which, in my ignorance, I had never before differentiated from a sauna) before honing in on a chaise with a beautiful pool view. I take out my notebook and get lost in writing. And writing. And writing.
About an hour passes, and I float over to a benched pile of plush, jewel-toned pillows at the restaurant for a fresh-pressed juice – a fusion of citrus and mango and carrot – as well as an indulgent coconut affogatto (rich espresso poured over a scoop of coconut ice cream). Tarrying a while, I journal some more, share pleasantries with a couple of other guests, and then walk home to get ready for an afternoon adventure. Aishwarya and I made spontaneous plans to visit the iconic rice terraces!
We set out north by scooter, and the views are not to be believed. Rice paddies for miles, some porting a shallow layer of calm water that reflects the backdrop of palm trees and grey-blue clouded skies, which are becoming cloudier by the moment. We pass glorious decorative temples every several minutes and start to feel the sprinkle of rain drops, then as we arrive at the Tegallalang terraces – designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and for good reason – a true downpour begins. Covered in rain gear, we scurry along a line of cafés and shopping stands that overlook the fields, giddy and giggling like school girls with a crush on the same boy, and narrow our focus to the Rice Terrace Cafe. To our delight, we find ourselves the sole occupants of an expansive balcony overlooking this internationally-renowned view.
These terraces are arranged in a clever design that facilitates irrigation through a generations-old system tended to by cooperatives of locals from surrounding villages. These cooperatives are known as ‘subak’. I loved reading about this system here: https://www.indonesia.travel/gb/en/destinations/bali-nusa-tenggara/bali/subak.
We marvel with gratitude at the green heaven in front of us, order fun and refreshing food and drinks, and reflect on the yoga retreat, on courage, and on life. Conversation then pauses as we each journal, listening to the raindrops on nearby tin roofs, taking lingering glances at the fields, thinking out loud to each other every so often. It is only my second day here, and the amount of refreshment and growth and friendship contained in so many ways and places and people in the last 36 hours is both humbling and even life-altering.
After a comfortable while, when there is a break in the heaviest rainfall, we put on our waterproof layers once again and slowly walk back to the scooter. We journey 25 minutes home to our respective villas at around 6:30 PM, most of the way in that continuing downpour which leaves us as drenched as dogs after a daytime swim, with full and bright hearts.
My last activity for the evening, another inclusion in this retreat, is a 60-minute massage with a deep tissue practitioner named Ketut. He is well-known to Dijan, her staff, and the community for massages that both reset and relax the whole being. I walk happily again that short distance between Kutus Kutus and Samyama and allow myself to slowly doze off in complete, blissful relaxation.
I have trouble describing how otherworldly this trip has been so far. On one hand, these experiences are so luxurious and indulgent that I almost cringe. They contrast so greatly with the frugal nature that has been engrained within me from childhood. On the other, my heart is overflowing with gratitude for the opportunity to rest and enjoy in this way, and I am humbled to be here and appreciative to an extent that no words can describe. For as deep, dark, frightening, and painful as life’s valleys have been, particularly starting this time around four years ago, what a blessing to now be wildly beholden for these terraced heights.
“Okay Ti, let me get a pen and write this down. Tiana’s Christmas Adventure!” My mom, more than 6700 miles away, sought around her for something to write with, and in her usual gracious, supportive fashion sat ready with a notebook to take in the planning and processing that I was sharing.
I had just finished my final night shift on call at the hospital after what had been a particularly challenging 10 days on service over the Thanksgiving holiday. To decompress after an intense early-morning admission, I set up shop at one of my favorite island cafe spaces with a peaceful, healing view of the water. I love my job, and I love working with the incredible children and families on this enchanting island; and at the same time, any work that involves long hours, intense decision making, and difficult logistics – layered together with the impact of being miles and oceans away from loved ones – also calls for intentional moments of pause, rest, self-compassion, and recharging. Blessedly, Saipan is a beautiful place to snuggle into such moments.
Over the past week, I had made the difficult decision not to go home for the upcoming Christmas and New Year celebrations, and I was now discussing with my mom how to make life-giving use of the holiday on this side of the Pacific, which would allow for fewer time zone crossings and less jet lag. For reasons I can only attribute to a vague sense of ‘right-ness’, I had landed on the basic infrastructure of a two-week pilgrimage first through Bali, then Singapore, then somewhere else that I had not yet decided on – planning to just see where the time would lead in those final few days. Together with my mom, we agree that something about this dream makes intuitive sense, even though neither of us can rationally articulate why. I book my flights to Bali, then Singapore, then back to Saipan. The dates are set. I leave the cafe trusting that the lodging in each locale will fall into place in the coming days, and I feel a state of steady calm warm my soul as I make my way home for some deep and needed sleep.
——
That was four weeks ago, and now here I sit after my first full day in Bali. The itinerary for the next four days here is bent on rest, focus, and delight, and this first day leaves me feeling off to a blessed start.
After a hair-thin connection in Manila and a Home Alone-like dash to the gate, I boarded my flight to Bali-Denpasar International Airport late last night and arrived in Bali around 0200 this morning – tired from around 24 hours of travel, but content and at ease. The queue for immigration clearance was lengthy, taking over an hour, but I didn’t mind; I was grateful just to sit and exist, anonymous in this crowd of fellow travelers with similar glaze over their eyes from the early morning hour. I wove lazily through the line, then once it was my turn to approach was quickly cleared by an immigration officer who, when I shared about my home state, was excited to talk about the Minnesota Timberwolves. After a few moment’s connection with him, followed by a brief currency exchange, I proceeded through the duty-free area of the airport to find the man who would help me to the evening’s lodging.
Komang was a kind and jubilant man – taxi driver and tour guide by profession – who allowed me to sit in the front seat so I could admire the views along both sides of the road as we navigated the narrow, dark, relatively empty streets. Conversation was easy, and I learned the very basics of the Balinese language (greetings/welcome = om swastiastu; thank you = suksma), the proximity between Balinese culture and Hindu customs and traditions which I had formerly only associated with India, and the general geography of Bali. I plan to spend my time in Ubud, one cultural heart of this storied island, mostly surrounded with verdure and rice fields – a welcome, tranquil atmosphere.
After a measure of around 50 minutes we arrive at Kutus Kutus Mas Villa in Ubud, and with drowsy admiration and appreciation, I take in the dense palms and tropical flowers illuminated by golden lanterns in the night. I check in, practicing the limited Balinese that Komang had taught me moments earlier, and weave through an open-air courtyard with beautiful landscaping and a sparkling blue pool, eventually arriving at the ornate wood-carved doors to my home for the week – a truly stunning Balinese villa. I marvel another moment, I tuck my belongings away in the armoire, and then I tuck myself into the fresh white linens laid over a mattress that perfectly absorbs my exhausted body.
I fall asleep within minutes, and awaken spontaneously just a few hours later, mystifyingly refreshed. Birdsongs carry through the closed wooden window shutters, and as I prop those shutters open, I am met with bright, warm sunshine and a courtyard view that my eyes cannot believe. The pool’s shimmer is even more luminous in the daylight. The villas surrounding the courtyard are a soothing orange creamsicle color; my small front patio is adorned with simple, sturdy, classic wicker furniture, with a background of concrete walls and window shutter relief carvings depicting Hindu deities and bold florals. The moment contained a delicious symphony of sounds and colors and sensations that would continue to develop throughout the day.
I then began to gradually ready for my first yoga class. Ubud is a sort of worldwide hub for yoga practitioners, which I have never thought myself to be, but which felt like a healthy way to invest my time, body, heart and mind as I reflect on this year’s end and next year’s start. I opted for a private retreat, entailing a 90-minute yoga practice each morning, breakfast at the eatery adjacent to the yoga center each day, and 90 minutes of didactics or additional yogic work in the afternoon, all under the tutelage of a mentor named Dijan.
The retreat center, called ‘Samyama’ – ‘sam’ meaning ‘integration’, ‘yama’ meaning ‘discipline’ – lies five minutes walking from my villa along a quiet, brick road lined with quaint resorts, rice fields, and small family-run convenience shops. Intermittent motor scooters ease along the way, leaving the trace smell of fuel each time they pass. I feel like I am floating as I step along the side of the road, absorbing the warmth of the day into my skin, breathing in the tropical air, eyes keen to retain every detail before me – the vibrant red hibiscus, the swaying palm leaves, the tiny canine that shyly approaches and begins to trace my steps. I am nothing short of wholeheartedly grateful.
After a short jaunt along the main road, I turn left where signs indicate the retreat center will be. The path leads through a narrow alleyway decorated with birds of paradise, the entry into a spa exuding an incredible perfume (which I will later come to identify as plumeria or frangipani), and ending with a staircase which descends into the gardened courtyard of Samyama Yoga Center. The steps curving down contain stones of two different shades, neatly arranged one after the other with the words ‘love’ and ‘compassion’. The bright yellow edifice is hugged on all sides by luscious foliage that gently dances in the breeze. To the right, a stairway leads upward to Samyama Eatery, an airy, open oasis for eating, mingling, resting. And my word, the songs arising from the trees and the birds. Remember the symphony that started this morning? It is in the process of a glorious crescendo.
I am running a little later than expected, but feel unrushed, and soon learn that my mentor as well as my co-retreater are delayed a few minutes as well. One of the eatery staff members shows me the path to the yoga hall in the lower level of the building, where I wait for class to begin. I whisper my thanks, so as not to disturb the attendants of a separate silent retreat taking place in the upper recesses of the center. Dijan and my co-retreater, Aishwarya, arrive shortly after me, and we all meet with hugs and happy greetings, as if long-time friends. I immediately feel welcomed and at home.
We prepare the room with our mats, bolsters, yoga blocks, and bottles of water and proceed through a gentle but stimulating practice, with emphasis today on coordinating our breathing with our movements and attention to the energy and sensation that evolve and travel throughout our physical bodies as we clear and focus our minds. For me, this movement and breathing creates space for prayer and inner stillness. A practical introduction, if you will, to the integration and discipline of mind, body and soul that we will continue to build on in the coming days.
The work is refreshing, and as we end in a guided, relaxing shavasana (or corpse pose), we slowly walk together to the eatery for breakfast. We spend the next hour further acquainting with each other. Dijan shares about her passion for yoga and her years of training and experience in its various disciplines and practices; Aishwarya and I share a little about our stories, our often intense work environments (we work in different industries, but interestingly face some of the same threats for burnout – prolonged hours, sometimes isolating contexts, and great physical and emotional demands). I note inwardly how thankful I am to be among such kindred spirits – vibrant and light but no-nonsense hearts; full of curiosity and passion; bent on vulnerability, authenticity, and deep connection.
After breakfast, I have an hour’s rest until my first one-on-one session with Dijan. I climb the winding staircase to the upper level of the retreat building, which is divided in two between a meditation hall (currently in use for the silent retreat) and a separate laid-back, cushioned space with macrame chair swings suspended from the ceiling and bookcases filled with age-old insights. I nestle into one of the hanging chairs and rock back and forth a short while, journal a few moments, and drift into a soft sleep while the symphony around me continues in pianissimo fashion.
My early afternoon meeting with Dijan is an in-depth ‘get to know you’. She takes a detailed, compassionate history of what brings me to Bali, and allows me to share my story and my intention for being here. I am not here to be a tourist in the classic sense. I have no aspirations to see all that there is to see in Bali while I am here; I will not even try. Instead, my intent is to discover deeper layers of myself, to spend dedicated time with God in prayer, to clear and focus my mind as the new year approaches, to rest and care well for my body, and to open my heart in greater and greater measure to love and joy and possibility, to the point of overflowing. Dijan is attentive, asks thoughtful and clarifying questions, and I can see her beginning to formulate a plan around how to customize my curriculum this week. Once again, I pause for a moment of gratitude.
After our visit, I walk blissfully back to my villa and prepare for a Balinese cooking class I had registered for – the one activity besides my retreat that I signed up for in planning my stay in Ubud. Cooking classes with locals have become an important part of my international travels. I learn so much about daily life and culture and food in these contexts, ways of living that are different (but in some ways also so similar) from what I know, ways of thinking and seeing the world that I have not thought of before. I treasure these conversations, the insights they provide to fill in the gaps of my (unintentional) cultural ignorance, and the moments of connection and friendship that they create.
I am picked up from the villa via motor scooter by Kopang, who to both of our surprise, I had encountered briefly earlier in the day. Kopang happens to be the lead chef at Samyama Eatery, where I ate breakfast! And she happens to organize the cooking class I registered for through AirBnB in addition. She and I are fast friends, and as we ride through the streets of Ubud to her local shop, we discuss upcoming Balinese holiday celebrations, the yoga retreat, and life in general. I learn that in Balinese, ‘Ubud’ means ‘healing’, and I am struck by the notion, as that is just about the most perfect word to describe my journey these past five years, and my time so far in this ethereal place. We arrive at the shop she partners in with her sister Ayu, who will walk me through the class while Kopang returns to the eatery.
The storefront, ‘Tangan Lokal’, is a neat, beautiful space filled with jarred containers of flowers, greens, and other spices. I am met with a refreshing welcome drink, a blend of mint, lime, honey, water and ice. Over the course of two hours, Ayu teaches me to make four Balinese dishes – an iced hibiscus tea with lime and honey (which involves a form of magic – or really, chemistry between the lime and the tea – that causes an almost alchemic purple-to-pink color change in the beverage), an appetizer called bakwan jagung (Indonesian corn fritters) with a classic spicy sauce called sambal, an Indonesian curry for the main dish, and a green roll with a fried coconut filling for dessert, called dadar gulung. The produce we use is sensationally colorful and astoundingly fresh. The conversation is light and informative, almost familial, as if I’m among a long-lost relative. And the meal – well, let me just say that if taste could be musical, this meal would add something maestoso to the day’s orchestral performance.
After enjoying the meal, I walk the busy streets of central Ubud and do some gift shopping for family. Cars are stalled in bumper-to-bumper holiday traffic, as motor scooters whiz bravely by and pedestrians are out about their evening activities, choosing between myriad beautiful restaurants and cafés. My path lines a park space where a cohort of school-aged kids play futbol as the sun sets. A group of men are molding tall stalks of bamboo into curved hooks, called penjor, in preparation for the upcoming Galungan festival in early January. After meandering a while, I return to the shop for my scooter taxi home, where I take a brief but satisfying dip in the cool pool and get ready to meet Aishwarya for an evening adventure. We stop by Yoga Barn, one of the more well-known yoga centers in Ubud, for a brief look-around, then make our way back to central Ubud and find a local bar and restaurant called ‘Oops’ where we settle in as a gentle rain begins. A live guitarist and vocalist decorates the air with soothing music, and Aishwarya and I share more about our respective journeys over French fries and drinks. What a treasure this was! She and I are alike in so many ways, in spite of growing up on opposite sides of the planet, in different faith traditions, with a passion for different industries. I am struck by the feeling of having gained a soul sister today, and am reminded of the Maya Angelou quote: We are more alike, my friend, than we are unalike.
After finding a few additional gifts for family, we retreat back to our respective resorts. For the umpteenth time, I thank God for bringing me here, for the day, for each moment, for revealing Himself and His love through the smiles and hearts and sights and sounds that I had the humbling privilege of encountering over the past 18 hours. And now I realize, it has only been 18 hours! My gosh, if such beauty can transpire in so short a time, I am overwhelmed to think about where this “Christmas Adventure”, as my mom aptly named it, will lead from here.
This is one of several questions that I’ve been reflecting on in my inner journey, especially over the last five or six years. There have been innumerable lessons in that time, born mostly of grief and pain, but ultimately giving way to joy and healing. One lesson in particular – which actually dates back to a wisdom passed on from one of my former middle school teachers – has been on my heart in this season of tropical living on Saipan.
Ms. Byram taught my 8th grade class. She was diagnosed with cancer midway through the school session, and was sadly unable to complete the year as our teacher because of the illness and the treatment it required. During one of her final days in the classroom, she ended the lesson with a message: You guys, I am still learning a lot about life. But one thing I want to try to share with you is that life is less about what happens to you and more about how you respond to it. And I want to encourage you to respond like palm trees and paper clips as you journey through.
She went on to explain:
Palm trees grow deep roots over time. Their roots are tested and deepened with any level of breeze or gust they face. From early on in their growth, this is the case. And though it may be difficult, it is good thatthey are tested, because when the truly high winds inevitably come, they will not stay standing without having learned first to anchor deeply into the ground. Meanwhile, above ground, these and all trees actually learn to bend with and accommodate the wind – also in order to stay upright. Many palm trees in particular have those long, curving stumps as evidence of this accommodation. Firm in the earth, a mature palm trunk is steady and immovable when typhoons rage, shaped by the unseen forces underground and the palpable ones above.
Ms. Byram’s point, in essence, was that life sends little tests and also big ones, most of which we cannot control. And to survive, to eventually thrive, we must choose to learn from each gust, great and small. To live deeply, we anchor down into our foundation – our faith and our loved ones – as the winds blow. And at the same time, we learn and bend with the gales that come above ground as we journey through life. Both this firm foundation and this flexibility are necessary in order to grow tall and strong.
Next, she held up a paper clip, noting how its purpose is to hold paper together. She told us that we each, too, had a purpose, and that life is an exciting adventure of finding that purpose. Taking one end of the paperclip, she folded it to make an S-shape. With this, she took the concept of flexibility one step further. When an external force is applied to a paper clip, if the clip is too rigid and does not have the capacity to adapt, it will snap and no longer be of any use in its purpose. Similarly, she encouraged us to stay true to who we were made to be, while also being adaptable and open to growing and evolving with the seasons, people, perspectives, and lessonsthat life would bring. To stay rigid and unchanging along the way, we would be liable to snap under the changes and pressures that inevitably come.
Saipan had a strong storm last night, with loud winds, heavy rains, and power outages. As I drove about the island today, I noted the palm trees standing tall – both along the road and as I set course into the jungle – and I smiled as Ms. Byram and her encouraging presence and message came to mind.
I now issue Ms. Byram’s challenge to you, friends, even as I continue working on it myself:
May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields, and until we meet again, May God hold you in the palm of His hand.
I am seated right now in a cozy corner of my favorite Hamline-Midway coffee shop. The bright spring sunshine filters in through a full wall of windows. A pair of friends are situated at the table beside me enthralled in conversation about European furniture. Ben Howard is softly serenading the shop with his thoughtful melody ‘Old Pine’. A refreshing mint chocolate chip cupcake with green and gold sprinkles (it is St. Patrick’s Day, after all) tickles my tastebuds. A bold, rich coffee brew is warm on my tongue. And soft, grateful tears are cool on my cheeks as I take a moment to pause, reflect, and process the past few days, weeks, months.
I have abided in this room countless times since I moved to the neighborhood in 2018. A brief drive or a slightly lengthier walk from my home, I often came here to think, journal, visit with friends, or read – Today, my aim is no different. But, in many ways, it feels very different. Because this time, I have no concept of when I will have the opportunity to come back.
2022 to date has been an extended farewell, the longest ‘Minnesota goodbye’ that I personally have ever said.
In three days, I will bid adieu to the house that has been my hygge-haven for four deep and sweet years. Heartbreak has roamed the halls, and so has healing. The walls have heard laughter and crying; the windows have witnessed abuse, restoration, and ultimately miraculous joy and safety and peace. Packing and moving these past several weeks has been an immense but liberating process, as I sifted through and donated or sold clothing and furniture and other items best suited for others. I reviewed collections of keepsakes, ticket stubs, greeting cards, journals, and more dating back to my elementary years, taking a hilarious trip down Memory Lane. I repackaged a few while releasing others, experiencing ever-increasing levity with each letting-go. And as I physically renovated my environment, I felt God gently probing and renovating my own heart, calling me into deeper trust in Him. I was reminded of how Jesus offers to exchange any heaviness we carry for His perfect peace; how we are charged to cast aside anything that weighs us down or would cause us to stumble so we can navigate life with light and hopeful hearts; how He delights in doing ‘a new thing’, making streams in the desert and ways in the wilderness. My heart is always encouraged, jubilant at the thought of this!
Then, in six days, I board a plane to start the next volume of this journey. My heart’s passions are people, Pediatrics, art, cultures, language, nature, wellness, joy, and prayer. My heart’s desire is to love God and others extravagantly; steward whatever time or treasure or talent I am given in this life wisely and well and for the good; and learn and grow as God’s daughter, as a woman, physician, relative, and friend along the way. In the coming season, I am grateful for the opportunity to keep practicing all of these things in Saipan, an island gem nestled in a region of Micronesia called the Northern Mariana Islands. This archipelago – composed of limestone and volcano – has a rich and complex cultural, geographic and historical landscape that I cannot wait to learn more about. But until then, I am savoring each moment here in the Midwest, among the people and places that will always come to mind when I think of home, no matter where on earth the next months and years lead.
And so, grief and gratitude and excitement all coexist in this moment, tied together by peace. Releasing what is behind, grabbing hold of what is to come. Leaving the familiar for the uncharted. Turning away from the past, but bringing the lessons with me to the present and stepping forward into something brand new – a blank canvas ready to come to life, a block of clay waiting to be molded and shaped. Not knowing (and not needing to know) what the finished product will be, but simply delighting in the process, seizing each precious moment, and living each day to the fullest.
And as this season’s farewells with family and close friends have unfolded, what a treasure and a privilege each has been. I am humbled and awestruck – How blessed I feel to journey through life with such loving, golden-hearted people. How sweet that technology can bridge the gap “until we meet again”.
And as I step forward into what is to be – Saipan and, thereafter, God only knows – my soul says an open and whole-hearted céad míle fáilte (Irish for “hundred thousand welcomes”) to any direction He would take me, any new friends and experiences and lessons that await me, any joy or trial that lies ahead.
Words are hard to find this tender week. And as I lay in bed tonight, I cannot help but think about the women, men, children, families in Ukraine at this moment as they live – maybe barely survive – another day, hunkered in bunkers in an attempt to escape lethal intent. The prayers they are praying, I wish I could partner with and echo. What they must feel, what they are facing, I cannot begin to fathom.
Home is the one place you should never have to flee from. The one place in the whole world you should be able to feel safe, at ease, at peace, sheltered from any storm. A sacred ground where family gathers, memories are made, food and music and laughter are shared, and neighbors and strangers become friends. How anyone can justify threatening and destroying these spaces – bombarding and claiming a whole country, inciting fear, displacing families, massacring communities – cannot be grasped.
Abba, Father, This week’s events, we know, You see. We beseech you, God, That Your perfect peace would bring calm to chaos, That Your might and comfort would surround the mourning, the hurting, the suffering; Counteracting how their cities are surrounded by unjust armies and tanks and explosions. We pray that fear would be abolished, That evil would be extinguished. Our hearts cry out For deliverance for the oppressed. For rest for the weary. For strength for those who rise up in the face of darkness, Fighting for light. We pray for our world’s leaders, That they would have Your wisdom to navigate wisely This brutal war.
And during these painful days, As senseless brutality invades, May we be extra intentional – Wherever on earth we are – To be the sunshine, to be the peace To our neighbors, To our loved ones, To strangers, To anyone in our path. May we be extra willful To send our support and our prayers – In whatever form possible – To those affected, Near and far. May this become, In ever-increasing measure, Our normal rhythm and practice As we journey through this world, This life.
A calm, peaceful morning is underway. The skies above are a clear, velvety dark navy blanket bursting with starlight as I drive the short route to Canyonlands National Park. Situated around a half-hour from Moab, Canyonlands is known to offer an inverted, carved-inward landscape that juxtaposes the upward-reaching formations at Arches. My eyes squint carefully at the empty road before me to ensure that no wildlife are crossing along the way. I feel a familiar tingle of excitement for this morning’s hike.
Amos Lee sings as I pull into the trailhead parking lot, layer multiple times over for warmth, and collect my backpack. I get out of the car and adjust my headlamp, now necessary since the car lights have extinguished. Just a sliver of creamsicle coloring has started to tint the eastern horizon, and the area is dark. An easy, short jaunt leads me to the feet of Mesa Arch.
One of the most photographed icons in Canyonlands, I am surprised to be one of only four people at the landmark this morning. We all warm ourselves, exchange introductions and origins, and keep our eyes fixed on the horizon watching for first light. Tomas, one of the gentleman at the arch, shares a story from decades ago about his one and only visit to Minnesota, when he went tubing down the Apple River with his mother and brother. Soon after we start talking, the hiking duo from Minnesota that I met in Capitol Reef yesterday arrives, and we all visit further as we await the upcoming spectacle. These interactions remind me that home is something you carry in your heart, and it can include new people and new places and new moments, no matter where life takes you.
The canyon is grey with shadow several minutes longer. I cannot wait to see its depths and details revealed when sunrise comes, but I try to photograph its edges in the meantime as the sky slowly brightens. Then, one of many miracles that occurs every day in our lives, a tiny, vibrant sunburst peeks out from over the La Sal mountain range. In the minutes that follow, the arch before us exudes an ever-increasing tangerine glow. The canyon begins to fill with daylight. I gaze. And gaze. And gaze. And cannot believe the beauty before my eyes. I remain for two hours, noticing how the sun arches across the sky, admiring how the shadows dance along deep ravines in response to the sun’s gentle leading, marveling at how a scene can be at once so simple yet so intense. The first wave of explorers has gone, and a new couple has arrived. Rafal and Stephania are a loving duo from Warsaw, Poland who delight in finding adventure together and are on a tour of national parks in between work commitments. We admire the landscape together, then they leave to journey further into the park. My final friend this morning is named Phil, an aerospace engineer decades my senior, who is adventuring the park after a recent knee replacement. He works for NASA – which is the coolest – and we exchange our fascinations with astronomy. He and I exchange photos for one another, he departs, and for a moment, I stand before this luminous scene alone.
I feel breathless, humbled, grateful. A melody rises up from my heart, and I cannot help but sing and set it free. I go and sit beneath the gleaming arch and reflect on the drop-off to canyon views directly below. The layered rocks of peach and cream and seafoam green, the fringes and edges and expansive canyons that dive into the earth, the sheer, unadulterated artistry. I meditate for a moment on what a canyon can teach us about life. Can it teach us to embrace the depths, treasure the layers, brave the shadows? To watch the horizon expectantly for daylight, even when a season feels dark, and to appreciate the stars in the meantime?
Slowly, hesitantly, I leave my post and return along the looped trail toward my car. I spend the remainder of the morning driving the scenic roads of Canyonlands, stopping at any overlook or trail I can find to stand in awe of the views, and encountering Rafal, Stephania, and Phil several times along the way. To end the morning, I pass through the Visitor Center to pay my entrance fee and find gifts for family and friends. As I leave, Phil arrives and gifts me with a NASA pin, to my great surprise and giddy delight. I thank him profusely for the gesture. My heart is full.
I leave Canyonlands midday and make the drive to a trailhead along the Lower Colorado Scenic Byway just north of Moab. This quiet, tranquil road winding in tandem with the mighty Colorado River leads me to the desired parking lot. I am so eager to begin this hike that I start for a good few minutes up a strenuous staircase before realizing I left my phone on top of my car in the parking lot. I return quickly, gather my phone, and scale the staircase once again. There is a landing at the top, and I am unsure of where to go, so I veer right to follow a beautiful train track that appears to have a trail of footsteps beside it. Rocky walls line both sides of the tracks, and I take some photos as I hike on for another 15-20 minutes. I begin to question where this leads and, grateful to have my phone, notice on Google Maps that I am not at all following a hiking trail. This is unfortunate, because there are two duos of hikers behind me who have been following me all this way! I about-face and tell both groups that if they are destined for the local arches this afternoon, we are on the wrong path. We collectively laugh and joke, and begin our return to the landing from which we ought have ventured straight over the railroad rather than making a right hand turn. How wonderful it is, I observe, that when we go the wrong direction, it is never too late to turn around. How often does this happen in life, and God in all His goodness and grace allows us to course-correct and get back on track?
I hike on happily, leap-frogging with my fellow explorers as we take photos and stop to gaze at the landscape at different intervals. The dirt path contains some light obstacles and scrambles, which eventually give way to slickrock. Jade green dashes of paint mark the trail along the rock, leading to a steep upward climb along a cable system, followed by a ladder climb up to a ledge where views of two remarkable arches come into view. I continue the hike to the left along a broad slickrock bench that curves around a ravine, noticing beautiful Bowtie Arch to my left. I pause and goggle here, then continue on to one of the largest arches in Moab, Corona Arch. A hiking couple arrives around the same time, and it turns out they are from my home state! They tarry a moment, along with one family who was already exploring the arch, then as both groups leave, I have the space to myself.
An orange ribbon against a blue sky; I love this complementary color combination. Birds sing nearby, and my heart sings with them. Once again, as before, I sit and enjoy the vista quietly, drinking in the moment. Then I take a second to introspect and ask – What can I learn and glean here, from this place? I crane my neck to follow the extent of the formation and notice how open an arch is, how flexible it appears as it bends, how strong it must be to withstand the elements of wind, rain, ice, snow that assail in any given season. I love how these qualities relate to life – When struggle or hardship come, can we learn and choose to courageously keep our hearts open, stay flexible as circumstances shift, and strengthen our faith in God and our resolve to endure?
I ready myself to return along the out-and-back trail, and as I do, I notice two fellow hiker women and one dog approaching – Tori, Bridget, and Loki. Recognizing them from the railroad track mishap, we greet each other with laughter. We visit a while, sharing observations and stories and photos, and quickly learn that we all work in healthcare. We very swiftly become friends, joined by a love for hiking, faith, and our jobs! They have just arrived to town today, and we make plans to meet for dinner at a local eatery this evening. We say farewell for now, and they go onward toward the arch while I make way down the ladder, down the cables, and toward the parking lot. I drive the short road back toward Moab and decide on a detour through Arches National Park where I watch the sunset. The sky transforms from a bright blue to a soft cerulean, the orange rocks turn grey-violet, the mountains appear lavender, and I am spellbound by the beauty.
After sunset, I swing past my hotel to change, then drive the brief mile into town for dinner. Tori, Bridget and I meet at the Trailhead Public House and Eatery for burgers and drinks, wonderful gifts after a long day of exploring. We enjoy learning about Moab from our waiter, Travis, who over time has made his way here from Alabama because of the incredible outdoor experiences that this locale has to offer. The time is precious and full of laughter, as we talk together about life, love, and other mysteries. We tentatively agree to meet at nearby Dead Horse Point State Park for sunrise tomorrow, provided no one out-sleeps their alarm.
Another day in Utah has come and gone. It was full to the brim, and my heart is full in kind. I return to my hotel, soak leisurely in the hot tub, and turn in for the night.
“I wonder if the snow loves the trees and the fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, ‘Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'” – Lewis Carroll
The friendliest birds are chirping outside. My eyes are still closed as I take advantage of a drowsy, restful start to the morning. Slowly, un-rushed, I let my eyelids flutter open and take in the still, tranquil forest view outside the picture window facing north. This time of year, the trees are mostly denuded of their leaves, allowing a special view of the uniquely adorned bark normally concealed beneath their deciduous fronds. The shadow of each tree inches slowly across the canvas as the sun rises to the southeast. The sky begins to brighten as I light the propane-fueled hot plate (there is no electricity here) and start to boil some water for coffee.
I am grateful for these days to retreat at a spiritual hermitage in the northland. Especially as a fresh, new year begins. Faith has been important – necessary, really – to my life’s journey for as long as I can remember. Every season, every trial, every joy I have lived through, I look back and see evidence of God’s presence, power, creativity, miracles, compassion, and faithfulness in ways that defy any earthly explanation. Reflecting on this past year is no exception. From the sweetness of seeing life-long dreams fulfilled, to losing a dear father-figure in my life, to navigating the pandemic and all its complexities, to witnessing some of the most awe-inspiring mountains and waters and aspects of creation I have ever seen, to opening my whole heart to love again after deep heartbreak in times past, He was there. And I am reminded of the chorus to a song I love, called “Storyteller”, that so often crosses my thoughts in times of reflection. The words – which, maybe just maybe, could apply to your story too – declare:
“The mountain where I climbed The valley where I fell You were there all along That’s the story I’ll tell You brought the pieces together Made me this storyteller Now I know it is well, it is well That’s the story I’ll tell.”
The coffee is ready, and warms my hands and my heart in kind. I shed quiet tears of gratitude, healing, and forgiveness as my reverie continues. Over the course of an hour, I read a few chapters of a book I am enjoying, journal 2021 to a close, and lift my eyes again to the nature that beckons outside. I sip the last of my cup, layer myself three times over from head to toe, and waltz into the -15F outdoors. Step by step through a powdery layer of snow, my feet find the nearby hiking trail, and I cannot help but feel a tickle of anticipation. 2022 is here. And today is a wildly cold, beautiful day, ripe with wonder and possibility. I cannot wait to see what it brings.
Here’s to the stories we’ll tell about 2022 after another year of journeying this world. To the joys we will celebrate and the lessons we will learn. And to the God who walks with us through it all.
Captivated Me 