The Power of This Now

Let me list for you some of my happiest places:

      1.   Dancing salsa with my instructor, Cesar, from Arequipa

      2.  Sitting around a table of food and wine with my favorite people in Wellington

      3.  Now.  Right now.

Let’s pretend that happy place number three is charged with great wisdom.  I’m talking about every ‘now’, every moment I am ever in.  You know, some Eckhart Tolle ‘Power of Now’ shit.

The truthful ‘now’ of which I speak:  a mix of the Yoga Barn and Yumi House in Ubud, Bali.  Which is where I actually, physically am right now. 

The truthful interpretation of ‘now’ and the pretend interpretation are very much connected.  I came here to get my Power of Now/Eat Pray Love on.  Oh, and it’s so on…

From the time the plane landed in Jakarta, I was not entirely feeling my travel flow.  I had spent nearly a month on a friendship tour, and my independent state of travel felt strange.  I missed the comfort of the family homes I had crashed in and the ability to not have to explain anything about myself.  I missed the familiarity and the easy companionship. 

This was all to be expected, but what was unexpectedly strange was the lack of the ‘wow effect’.  I was seeing/experiencing things that I found fascinating and having interactions that warmed my heart.  It is almost impossible to be completely out of your cultural context and not have those moments.  But, there is a way in which those moments usually land on my heart.  I’ve been lucky to do a fair amount of travel in my life, and I was finding that my early days in Indonesia were not landing on my heart in a way that I was used to.  I wasn’t getting ‘that feeling’. 

Quite frankly, I was finding the whole travel thing to be an ass pain. 

OK, well, this isn’t entirely true.  I had moments when I got ‘that feeling’.  Like when I was on one of those, “This is Indonesia, Sucker” bus rides and the ticket man assumed that I could speak Indonesia when I called him out for trying to scam me by laying down the correct number in his language.  It was at this point that all the old, smoking men on the bus and all the old women with 87 bags seemed to feel it was their duty to look after the hairless white girl.  AND, then among the 10 other dudes walking up and down the aisle of the bus trying to slang tofu, fruit, not-so-cool drinks, weird stuff on a stick, and perfume, there was a young man with a guitar that serenaded me with “Hey, Jude.”  Or, like when I Mr. Allen took me surfing.  Or, like when we spent all day searching for the holy food cart and it seemed like we spoke to half of the people in Yogyakarta’s informal food and beverage sector and they all thought we were totally hilarious (and fairly ridiculous).  Or, like when the people from the guesthouse fed me dog and then gave me a doggie bag of fried things for that volcano bus ride.   

So, ‘that feeling’ did present itself to my heart now and again, but I could not shake the general nagging sense of ‘this is not what you are supposed to be doing right now, Anna’.  This was quite disconcerting, as I have seven months of travel ahead.  It was also a source of identity crisis – being overseas is what I do best, isn’t it? 

This is all to say that when Mr. Allen left, I felt a bit lost.  I really just felt like staying in one place and thinking and writing and relaxing and enjoying and being.  Yogyakarta wasn’t the place for that.  I was hoping that place would be in Bali, but I felt a traveler’s obligation to go to this big famous volcano that was hard out hyped.  So, I spent about 200 hours on a bus and five minutes at the cool volcano on my way to Bali. 

Then there was Ubud.  And, all was right in the world.

A fellow traveller gave me a recommendation for accommodation in Ubud (the central mountain town in Bali – yep, the Elizabeth Gilbert zone).  Of course, the directions I had were vague at best, but I put a policeman on the case, and soon enough, I was rocking into Yumi House.  And, little nine-year-old Yumi and her family’s home had me at hello.  The moment I walked into the courtyard, I knew this was exactly where I was supposed to be, that I could be totally and completely content if I spent my entire stay in this garden, and that I would not be leaving Ubud until my expired visa forced me out. 

I found this completely relieving and satisfying – scratching that really hard to reach itch on your back.  I wasn’t restless in my two weeks in Java because I fell out of love with travelling but because I needed a new interpretation of travel this time around.  So, here I am in Ubud, reinterpreting.

For me, this reinterpreting means waking up outrageously early.  It means yoga-ing once or twice a day.  It means attending a three day Law of Attraction workshop.  It means chanting in honor of the full moon (and my birthday!).  It means learning about Balinese culture in a slow, natural manner from the beautiful family I have the good fortune of staying with.  It means embracing every cliché that I embody.  It means writing.  Most of all, it means doing whatever I damn well please whenever I damn well please to do it.

While Ubud is rocking my world, I think a lot about whether or not I am rocking Ubud’s world.  This is the sort of place I hate to love.  I am not the only person who has fallen into the warm, charming arms of this town.  It seems the same has happened for a ba-zillion other Western people.  As the ba-zillion of us have shown up, rice paddy after rice paddy has been exchanged for massive hotel and spa after massive hotel and spa.  Along with us, there comes a tsunami of plastic water bottles that I see as symbolic of endless examples of cultural corruption, social injustice, economic inequality, and environmental un-sustainability.  I am walking down Balinese streets that are not at all intended for the Balinese. 

So, here I am in this playground of Western bliss – a theme park of spirituality and healing and indulgence with an affordable price tag.  I can’t help but question what it means for places like Ubud to exist (indeed, Ubud is far from alone in this respect), but I also can’t help but love every last dysfunctional bit of it.  For better or worse, I am really enjoying the ride.  

My princess bed!

My cute little porch!

The garden!

Yumi and her mom, Ibu Desa.  Obsessed.

This photo is not good at all, but it is for the benefit of the Bokuniewicz crew.  There is a Buck symbol next to the door.  I knew this place was meant to be...

I'll Have Another, Part 2

When my dad was in the hospital last year, when he was still very much conscious, making friends with the nurses and letting everyone know that he was quite certain he was fine to return to Grand Central Skinner, I stumbled upon an NPR radio program called 'On Being.'  At the time, I had a hunch that my dad was very much wrong about his ability to quickly return home.  My heart and mind felt a bit heavy knowing that my dad was not OK and that I was supposed to be on a plane in less than two weeks. I was craving a bit of wisdom on just about anything.

I clearly remember pulling into the Henry Ford Hospital parking lot, listening to the last five minutes of the show.  Sylvia Boorstein explained what she says to herself when she is in a moment of anxiety:  "Sweetheart, you are in pain.  Relax.  Take a breath.  Let's pay attention to what is happening.  Then, we will figure out what to do."

That was the wisdom I needed to hear.

And, she ended the show reciting a poem by my favorite, favorite poet, Pablo Neruda:

Keeping Quiet
by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

--
The show stayed with me.  When I got to Australia, I subscribed to my favorite NPR podcasts (the usual suspects -- Radiolab, This American Life, and Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me) as well as On Being.  A few weeks later, it occurred to me that I should actually search for that first show I heard in the parking lot of the hospital and listen to it in its entirety.  I found out three further facts that made my initial listening experience seem quite special:

1.  The episode had been taped in the metro-D (in bourgie Birmingham, to be precise).
2.  The title was "What We Nurture" -- a phrase that deeply resonated with me around my relationship dynamics with  my father.
3.  It was a re-broadcast...which I interpreted as The Universe handpicking this episode out of the archive to play at the precise moment that was meaningful to me.

And, get this -- they rebroadcast the show AGAIN in the week of the anniversary of my dad's death.

I have listened to this episode, 2.2 times, and each time I have found it quite helpful and wise.  So, I wanted to share it.  Check out "What We Nurture" on On Being.

Mr. Alan, 2 for!

Often when I tell people back at home that I am travelling alone, I can read from their reaction some concern, a bit of pity, and a general vibe of awe.  This reaction is totally logical and loving, and it sort of makes me feel like a bad-ass.  However, anyone who has ever traveled alone knows that you are never, ever actually alone.  To add another layer, if your last name is Skinner, you really, really are never alone. 

The thing is, although it sounds really cool and unique in the American context that I am off traveling alone for eight months, there are heaps of people doing this all over the world, all the time.  In fact, there are so many people doing this in the world that I sometimes find it troubling.  But, that is material for another blog post.  In this post, I want to talk a bit about one of the people that eradicated my alone-ness:  Mr. Alan.

Well, really his name is just Allen.  But, how could I possibly not make a reference to that classic metro-D shoe store, and it’s commercials that havebeen cranking on WDIV as long as I can remember?  I knew Mr. Allen and I would be friends because the second time I saw him and called him ‘Mr. Allen’ and launched into a really uninteresting rant repeating, “Mr. Allen’s!  2 for 59!” in my best impression of that ad’s super masculine voice, he did not laugh that much, but he continued to show an interest in talking to me.

Twenty-four hours later, he told me I had to stop calling him Mr. Allen.  I was no longer allowed to say the ‘mister.’  If I needed to do so, I would have to say it silently before uttering his name.  Fair enough.  I do have the tendency to exhaust these sort of things…

I usually let travel buddy dynamics unfold out of practicality or proximity.  I’m really into organic evolution of things.  So, I don’t work hard for travel companions.  I actually like a bit of my Anna space, and I am a bit too old to feel like I need/want company for the sake of having company.  I would rather be embodying a different traveler cliché by re-reading Eat, Pray, Love alone on the balcony of my accommodation than have the same boring backpacker conversation that I often find uninspiring.

But, it was a bit different with Mr. Allen.  I felt drawn to him, as I often to with hardcore folks (despite my un-hardcore-ness).  I met Mr. Allen in a small town that is renowned for surfing, and that was just what he was there to do.  He was in Indonesia to surf that one specific wave every single day for 14 days.  I liked that.  I had only been on the tourist trail for a few days, and I was already having heaps of philosophical and ethical questions about being a traveler.  Plus, my inner American was grappling for a purpose.  And, there was Mr. Allen – a dude with a very clear travel purpose in his surfing who liked to take the piss out of people like me with my Lonely Planets and draft itineraries.  He was kind of like a travel non-conformist without being one of those travelers who is actually annoyingly trying to be a non-conformist.

What was coolest of all about Mr. Allen was the fact that he volunteered to introduce me to surfing.  Now, let it be known that I have never had much interest in surfing.  It looks like totally amazing great fun, but there is the small issue that I am slightly terrified of the water.  I had completely ruled it out of possible things to try in my life.  I have dabbled with all sorts of hardcore things, many of which made me feel that I was dying.  So, I felt like I had earned the right to draw the line at surfing and scuba diving.

Remember, though, that this is explicitly a surfing town that I am in.  So, I was the only person not getting involved in the waves.  Everyone was talking surfing with all sorts of interesting related slang.  And, everyone was saying that it was completely necessary for me to get my ass on a surfboard.  I held my ground for quite a while.  Then, Mr. Allen said that he would take me out with his surfboard and that I would not try standing at all – belly on the board only.  He also assured me that I would not die.

Woah – it was totally amazing!  Let me be clear that I did not actually do anything technical.  We would walk out to point in the water that Mr. Allen deemed appropriate.  He would watch the waves and then he would say, ‘get on the board.’  And, I would.  And, then he would give the board a slight push at just the right moment.  And, weeeeeeeee!  It felt like I was flying on top of the water!  I did not die.  In fact, I did not even feel like I might die.  It felt more like I was on one of the best amusement park rides ever.  Oh, it was just so good. 

Lucky for me, Mr. Allen was heading out of surfy little BatuKaras to Yogyakarta on the same day as me.  So, we got to hang out together in the hustle and bustle of an Indonesian city as well.  We ate every fried thing we saw on a food cart.  (Actually, we probably just ate everything off of every food cart we saw that we had not yet consumed that day.)  We rented a motorbike and visited a cool, old temple (let it be known that I was NOT the driver – that would have been more terrifying than every hardcore thing I have ever done combined.)  We each got a massage by a man that Mr. Allen called ‘Frances’ while we were sitting on a stoop and drinking a beer. 

And, then Mr. Allen left.  And, I was sad.

This is why I love travelling, though.  I love seeing heartbreakingly beautiful things.  I love witnessing other cultures and learning about religions.  I love being in situations that cause me to say, “Is this really happening right now?”  I also love the natural presentation of ubiquitous life lessons.  Like the fact that the Mr. Allen’s of life come and go and that that is OK.  Be grateful that Mr. Allen showed up at all and acknowledge the greatness of the peace and stillness that comes along after he leaves and you return to a greater state of alone-ness.  There will be more Mr. Allens that present themselves and their proverbial surfboards at just the right moment, in just the right way.

The Call

For the first time in my life, I am in a space that is more Islamic than the place where I am from.   This is only apparent to me in the number of women wearing the hijab, the general lack of alcohol, the call to prayer, and the description on Wikipedia.  Otherwise, it feels quite similar to the unadulterated chaos in lush green landscapes that I have witnessed in other predominantly Buddhist areas of Southeast Asia.  And, it certainly feels nothing at all like The Debo.

I am quite excited about being amongst the majority-Islam vibe.  It’s new cultural territory for me.  And, it’s refreshing not to have to deal with sloppy drunk men (there has been at least one crowd in every other town I have ever ever ever visited the world over).  Best of all, it gives me an excuse to write about the call to prayer.

The first time I heard the call, I was living in Cape Town.  I think it took me a good few weeks to figure out what the hell was going on.  “Hmm, that’s interesting.  Didn’t I hear that loud singing yesterday?  Hmm, it seems like this singing happens every day.  Hmmm, it seems like the singing happens at the same time every day.”  I got there eventually, finally factoring in the mosque around the corner and the well-known Muslim community just a few blocks from me. 

I came to love it.  It stamped the day with a particular rhythm.  It became one of the endearing regularities of my life in that great city (along with that annoying dude on Kloof Street who always asked for ‘money for the train’ and one of my favorite Long Street characters, Ooooweee Icky Icky).  The call had nothing to do with me, but I knew it meant a lot to a number of people in the homes around me.  Although I was in no way connected, I liked the idea of a melodic component bonding that community.

As I have begun to weave my way through Java, I have found myself appreciating the call yet again.  I like that a few times a day, a chant invites everyone within earshot – Muslim or otherwise – to contemplate something greater, something outside themselves, something that references the bloody miracle that we are all moving and grooving on this planet.   It makes me realize that often full days pass without me stopping to consider what a wonder the Earth is.  

The man on the amplifier seems to be asking everyone to just stop for a few moments.  I’m sure he would prefer for everyone  to get on his praying train, but I suspect he would be happy that even non-prayers like me are paying attention to his call.

…

An aside:  I’m not going to lie.  When that dude started chanting from the mosque two doors down so loudly that it seemed he had put a speaker right outside my bedroom door AT 4AM, I did not find it very endearing at all.  

I'll Have Another

One year ago today, my dad, Charlie Skinner, passed away.

It was Saturday, the 5th of May, 2012.  Cinco de Mayo and the Kentucky Derby.  And, the name of the winning horse was "I'll Have Another."  For anyone who knew my father, there is no need to explain the appropriateness of these events marking the last day of his life.

He did not, however, go out in a hat-wearing fiesta of glory.  He left us after a long month in the ICU, mainly in a coma, mainly on a breathing tube, mainly uncomfortable, but (hopefully) mainly unaware of all of this.  

Despite the difficulty of those final days and the way they have haunted me this year, there was something peaceful and special about his very last day.  It was deeply sad and hard, but it was profound and strangely serene.  

I was hoping to do something special to mark the anniversary of The Chuckster's death, but my circumstances have not easily allow me engage in a worthy ritual.  Along with my physical location on the other side of the world from the metro-D, I feel emotionally a world away from the girl who was sitting in a hospital room, staring at a blood pressure monitor in between reading aloud pieces by Rilke to my dying father.  Still, I want to feel connected to that difficult but profound moment in time.  And, more than anything, I want to feel connected to my dad.  

So, that is what this blog entry is all about -- an exercise in exercising my dad's spirit. 

There is so much I could say about my dad, so much I could say about how I experienced his last day on earth, so much I could say about my grieving over the last year.  In fact, there is too much to say.  So, for now I will let someone else do some of the saying for me.  My Uncle Len wrote a brilliant essay about Charlie last year which I have pasted below.  If you have a moment today, please read it along with a cocktail (preferably a stiff rum and coke), and drink it in honor of my dad.

 

  

My brother-in-law, Charlie Skinner, always said that if he could pick a time in which to live it would have been during the Roaring Twenties. He’d have driven a Duesenberg, worn a fedora and hung with the cats in the jazz clubs of downtown Detroit. Prohibition? I know exactly what Charlie would have said about the prospect of making bathtub gin at home in the basement, “I’d a been right there, baby.”

He was, after all, the son of a bar tender who became a bartender himself, working the likes of the Bull Market in Detroit’s financial district and the Soup Kitchen Saloon in its warehouse district, before opening his own watering hole, the Silverdust Saloon, where he made a killing off the iron workers who stormed the joint during their lunch time breaks while erecting the infrastructure for GM’s controversial Poletown Plant during the early ’80s. “Shoot ‘em up, Charlie,” one of the regulars used to say. And so he did.

The Chuckster loved a good story, and, hoo boy, could he ever tell one. With color and imagery and gusto and more damn sincerity than just about anyone I ever knew. Which is why he was able to go on to become one of AAA’s top-producing life insurance salesmen before his liver started showing signs of wear and tear a few years ago. Charlie never “sold” a policy. He explained “why you need to do this for your family.”

Speaking of stories, everybody has one about ol’ Charlie: How the nuns at St. Al’s met with his parents to suggest that their son would probably do better at Fordson, the public school down the street. How he broke his leg the first time he tried parachuting out of an airplane. Or how he adventured around the globe by himself before settling down (well, sort of) with my sister Betty and raising two fabulous kids who embody all the ideals he espoused and who exhibit the drive and the discipline that he found difficult to muster.

Our boy Charlie wasn’t much for rules. He abhorred convention. And he often bristled at the hypocrisy he perceived in those who attended church on Sunday yet discriminated against people of color every other day of the week or failed to share in the wealth they accumulated. And he practiced what he preached. He would always pull money out of his pocket for the panhandlers he encountered in the Motor City he loved to explore, and I would say to him, “Charlie, the guy’s a hustler—he’s scammin’ you, man.” And he would inevitably say to me, “Aw, you never know, Leonard. What’s a couple of bucks? The guy might really need it.” He even took in a homeless person once for three days.

That was Charlie Skinner. He fed the hungry. He clothed the poor.

Charlie was an only child who loved the concept of family more than anything else. That’s why, after his mother and father died, he so embraced mine. The best times I ever spent with him were on the extended family vacations 18 or 20 of us—my Mom and Dad, brothers and sisters, my kids and all the cousins—took to such places as the sprawling Frank-Lloyd-Wright-type mansion that Domino’s Pizza magnate Tom Monaghan built on Drummond Island (Charlie’s idea because he thought we should “go big”) or the collection of modest little cottages we rented on the shore of Lake Huron in Harrisville.

We lost my Dad, the star of those shows, a few years back. Then we lost my Mom, our leading lady, a couple of years later. Yesterday, we lost one of the greatest character actors of all time, the one and only Charlie Skinner.