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What to Do When Things Don’t Go as Planned: A Note from Germany

This was the thing that didn’t go as planned: we’re supposed to reach Munich, Germany, in 8 hours.

It was Friday afternoon—the first day of our 21-day road trip in Europe. We were supposed to pick up our rented car earlier at Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, but we went into some last-minute frenzy and arrived a bit later. When we left Schiphol, already behind schedule, it started raining. With thunders.

We applauded ourselves for ‘leaving this rain behind’ and decided to adopt our happy, sunny summer mood. So off we went, accompanied by Despacito blaring from the stereo.

We should be in Munich by 7 PM. Or maybe, on the pessimistic side, 9 PM. But the reality was this: we didn’t reach Munich on our first day.

Entering Germany, we got caught in a horrible traffic jam.

I told D that the traffic jam made me feel as if I was on Jagorawi highway, back in Jakarta. I never thought there could be such a long and massive traffic jam in Germany. Sure, we started off in the middle of July, when summer vacation was in full swing and everyone was out with their campers and caravans. But there must be something more than this.

We sat in the traffic jam for hours: talking, singing, making jokes, and trying to find some means of entertainment until we got tired of them all. We also found out the culprit of the traffic jam: massive road works.

The good news was that recently, in June, the EU was set for free-roaming. This means we can use our Netherland or Italian SIM card to access the Internet without any roaming charges, all across the EU!

With the help of Google Map, we decided to find a detour—leaving the highway to avoid the road works. This detour led to another detour since the alternative road suggested was also undergoing road works and (un)welcoming us with roadblocks.

At the end of the day, we found ourselves being on a detour of a detour of a detour, driving along small and winding countryside roads.

That was when we realized that we would not be in Munich by the end of the day. Surrendering to this, we decided to adjust our plan and tried to find a place where we can camp, put up our tent, and sleep for the night before continuing our journey the morning after.

That day, we ended up in a small town called Frickenhausen.

Early in the morning, we left the camping ground and found out that the highway was not getting any better.

The traffic jam was still as bad as yesterday, so we had no choice but to leave the highway and once again, took the small countryside roads. This wasn’t all that bad, actually. I had to admit that I liked it more than the boring highways.

Sure, you would need to drive slower and it might even take a longer time to reach your destinations, but I love the view from the window of my passenger seat. The houses, the farms, the hills, the fields, the mountains, the charming old towns… I thought suddenly I understood the meaning of the sayings: the journey is the destination. It’s the moment when you stop counting the hours to your point of arrival; realizing that you are somehow enjoying these in-between hours to get ‘there’.

And then, I screamed.
I screamed when everything turned yellow.

We passed rows of sunflower fields!

Not many people are aware of this, but I have dreamed of standing in the middle of a sunflower field since I was a child.

For this reason, I love sunflowers. When I started a photography business with a friend of mine a few years ago, we called it Sunday & Sunflowers. We launched the business by sending pots of sunflowers to our friends and colleagues.

So, I was smiling and laughing and screaming uncontrollably when we were passing a random town that day and seeing sunflower fields along the way! It was like finally having your childhood dream in front of your eyes! Seeing this, D stopped the car in a quiet patch of road, and let me absorb the beauty of the flowers while jumping and dancing around happily.

I didn’t walk to the middle of the field, though, because the sunflowers were planted very close to one another and I was afraid that I might harm them. I just walked around back and forth sniffing the sunflowers and jumped backward in surprise when a huge bee was buzzing from one of the flowers, almost kissed the tip of my nose. I giggled. My heart was filled with a simple kind of joy, a simple kind of happiness.

Maybe, sometimes, things don’t go as planned because we need a detour.

Because maybe, if all goes well, we won’t see the things we would love to see, we won’t experience the things we might be happy to experience, or we won’t grow to be the person we could have been. Maybe things need to go wrong before it can get right. Maybe we are forced to go on a detour because we are too comfortable riding along the wrong path. Maybe it’s about surrendering instead of fighting, about trusting instead of fearing.

I could recall one moment in life when everything seemed to go wrong, then stumbled upon a saying that there is no wrong path in this life and that all roads lead to home. With that being said, even when things seem like they don’t go as planned, they actually do.
They always do.

It kind of rings true to me, and more than everything, I want it to be true.

Because sometimes, what it takes to believe is simply believing. And I want to believe that a horrible traffic jam, a plan that goes awry, and a detour of a detour of a detour, would only lead me to my sunflower field.

I wish you all a happy summer. And may you, too, find your sunflower field anytime soon.

hanny
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Bernard Batubara: On Stories, Love, and Heartbreaks.

Bernard Batubara (Bara) is an Indonesian author living in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. He begins his writing career as a poet. Today, his works have been published in newspapers, literary magazines, literary web portals, as well as several anthologies with fellow authors. His books are Angsa-Angsa Ketapang (2010), Radio Galau FM (2011), Kata Hati (2012), Milana (2013), Cinta. (2013), Surat untuk Ruth (2014), Jatuh Cinta Adalah Cara Terbaik untuk Bunuh Diri (2014), Jika Aku Milikmu (2015), Metafora Padma (2016), Elegi Rinaldo (2016), and Luka Dalam Bara (2017). Radio Galau FM and Kata Hati are now major motion pictures. He occasionally gives lectures on creative writing in high schools, universities, and communities.

 

How does Bara—the writer—see love and heartbreak in his writings?

 

Bara: My first novel draft was a love story. I wrote it when I was in junior high school. It was about the life of a rebellious high school student and a love story that blossoms with a classmate. A cliché, I know. Like a template. But it was only this kind of story that crossed my mind the first time I tried to write a novel. The draft was completed in 2 years.

I sent it to a big publishing company in Jakarta and got a rejection letter 6 months after.

At first, love-themed stories (and heartbreak; these two are actually a unit; it is impossible for each one to be written on their own) became the fuel for my writing. Simply because I felt that these stories were the ones closest to me. It was a theme I thought I understood the most. Actually, I wanted to write fantasy like Harry Potter novels, but all the monsters I could imagine already made their appearances there. I felt less imaginative to write fantasy and I didn’t read enough to write a historical novel. So, I wrote romance.

As time passed by, with 2-3 of my books were still talking about love, my readers (generally they are younger than me) labeled me: Bernard Batubara—the romance writer.

I started to be known (or seen) as a romantic guy because I write love stories. There was one time when I tried to ditch the label because it felt like I have been somewhat dwarfed by the market. I do possess other interests apart from writing love stories. However, now I accept it and think of that label (the romance writer) as a good opportunity to deliver various ideas outside my ideals about love itself.

My other books, although the ‘outer packaging’ is still revolving around love, are actually talking about a wide array of issues. I talk about illegal logging, horizontal conflict, social condition, law, modernism, urban living, existentialism, religion, and many more. Love stories are used as packaging, a prelude to my ideas.

One of the heaviest tasks for a writer is to make the reader feels connected to what he writes. Love (and heartbreak) story is the easiest material to get people to resonate with it. I use love stories as a bridge to talk about other things with my readers.

Bernard Batubara

 

How far do you process real-life experience into fiction?

 

Bara: At first, I thought one of the most important skills a writer should possess is imagination. Writing is about creating things that once did not exist. That’s the joy of writing.

However, lately, I feel as if I am not too clever in making things up. It’s easier for me to write about the things I have experienced.

I don’t need to find the scenes, characters, or situations that don’t exist. I need only to daydream for a while, remembering a situation or a scene from my past, then write about it.

Easy.

But of course, it’s not always easy to write about your personal experience. There were times when I didn’t want to remember the things I needed to remember. I want to write about the things I have experienced, but I don’t want to write them all.

However, censoring my memory means a betrayal to memories itself.

At the end of the day, I just face it. Anger, disappointment, sadness, all the negative feelings that surface when I remember certain parts of my memories… I learn about them. I dissect my memories. I ask myself why it happened this way or that way, to the point in which I am able to digest those negative feelings and understand them; while turning them into stories.

The first step to remember is by reminiscing the most important part of my experience. For example, if I am writing a love story based on my experience with my ex, I will remember the most impressive moment of our relationship. Usually, that part contains a conflict, and this becomes a conflict in the story as well. I will start writing them down. From here, I can move in many different directions. I can go forward, or backward to past experiences until those memories turn into a full write-up.

How far do I go? Radio Galau FM—almost all of it is based on my personal experience. Kata Hati only takes some ideas and conversations that happen in the real world. Cinta dengan Titik is about someone else’s experience (my friend). Milana, part of it is a personal experience, and the other part is not. And there it goes.

I am most straightforward in my latest book, Luka Dalam Bara. In some of my social media channels and talk shows, I told my readers that the book recorded my romantic experience with someone (most of them know who this someone is).

 

Someone says, write only for one person. Do you agree with this?

 

Bara: I would say that I am quite in agreement with that suggestion. It reminded me of one of my favorite writer’s advice, Kurt Vonnegut. He said, write to please just one person. “If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.”

Another favorite writer of mine, whose name I do not wish to mention here, once said that he writes only for one person: himself. I think I have done the same thing, writing only to please myself, and I did it because it’s easier than pleasing everybody. (Everybody means 7 billion people on earth? Scary)

 

All stories are love stories. How do you feel about this? Is this something you believe in?

 

Bara: Yes and no.

No, because there are good stories I have read, and the writer does not write about romance at all. Some good stories talk about war, violence, political intrigue, glum future world, and many more. Good stories are not always about love.

However, I think even in those stories where love-themes are avoided, at a certain point they will indirectly tell us something about love. Love becomes something subtle and inherent in the story of life, and this—at times, enables us to see love stories in novels that don’t fall under the romance genre. When I read 1984 by George Orwell, I read a love story between the protagonist and his female partner, although Orwell might want to tell a story about the forlorn future of humans.

All stories are love stories—this could be true for the previous reason: love is something inherent in life and it takes different shapes. We’re not only talking about eros love or platonic love but many different kinds of love. Just like it is impossible to write a story without a mention of human sufferings, it is also impossible to avoid bringing forth a love story, however subtle, in a story.

Bernard Batubara

 

As a writer, how do you see the difference between your male and female characters when they fall in love or heartbroken?

 

Bara: Male characters in fiction works I’ve ever read face their broken-heartedness in a way that is not too different from my male friends in the real world. First, they will deny it. Second, they find distractions. Third, they regret the things they have done. Fourth, they know it’s impossible for them to turn back time, so they’ll enter the next step. Fifth, they accept the fact that they are the real problem in that broken relationship.

The same goes for female characters. They’ll weep, mourn until their tears dry up, and in no time they find someone new to love.

I guess because fiction is a reflection and a result of contemplation of real-world events, the characters’ actions would not be that far different from what we have seen in the real world. These are also the things that make us feel connected to a novel or short story we are reading. We feel as if we are seeing ourselves (or our friends) in it.

 

How is your attachment to your works? How do you deal with compliments and criticisms?

 

Bara: I would think of myself as a writer that could move on easily when it comes to my work.

At the time a new book is being published, I no longer think about it. I am already focusing my mind on the next one. Sometimes, during talk shows, there were questions from readers about certain scenes in my book—and I had to dig my mind really hard to answer that—since I had detached myself quite far from that work.

I used to think of my published books as my children. In that sense, our relationship is like this blood-connection between a father and his children. But then, I thought, a good father could be one who lets his children grow independently and find their own ways to face the world. Furthermore, the world the children are facing is their own world—a world that is different from the world of their father.

My attachment towards my published works is limited to a chronological memory. Which book, published by when, or how I began writing that book… those kinds of things. But when it comes to emotional attachment or the like, I don’t think I have that kind of feelings inside of me.

I do not have enough energy to cultivate an emotional relationship with all of my works. Life moves forward and I invest my energy on my future works.

And speaking about criticism, I was once annoyed with the mocking of my works on social media. However, afterward, I realized that being annoyed had no benefit for me. So, that was it. Today, I think of all the responses to my work as appreciation. I only take into account inputs from people whose reading taste and thinking ability I trust.

The rest are just different forms of appreciation.

*) photos courtesy of Bernard Batubara
hanny
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Tirta Arsanta Hot Springs: A Getaway in Mount Pancar, Bogor.

One thing I love the most about my hometown, Bogor, is its proximity to the mountains. (Well, that, and the abundance of delicious street food). To me, beaches are lively and intense, forests are adventurous and mystical, but mountains are tranquil and relaxing. When I want to do nothing, I go to the mountains.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual.

—Oscar Wilde

A few days ago, I found my latest favorite spot for ‘doing nothing’ in Mount Pancar. I was surprised knowing that it was only 30-40 minutes away by car from Bogor, and the journey was free from traffic jams.

We drove to the mountain from Sentul Selatan exit; passing the posh residential complex and a gigantic amusement park before climbing further up until the road became narrow and bumpy. The sounds dimmed, the air cleared, the mountain top appeared, and we drove through the villages, further up, and further up. We stopped at Babakan Ngantai village and entered an establishment that looked like it could be someone else’s house.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Well, it is, to some extent.

The Hidden Gem of Mount Pancar.

Tirta Arsanta is a gorgeous family-owned hot spring retreat overlooking the mountain.

The place reminded me of those stories Indonesian kids wrote for our composition homework in elementary school: those stories about how we spend our fictional weekend visiting our fictional grandfather in a fictional village.

Only this time, the place is real.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

The resort hosts four teak joglo villas—each with a private mineral hot spring pool—surrounded by gardens where bananas are hanging from its tree. The villas are rented for IDR 1.5 million on weekdays and IDR 1.8 million on weekends. However, the room is so spacious—and with extra beds, you can have 4-5 people sleeping there comfortably. Two private hot spring pools, each with a spacious seating area and private shower room, are also available for visitors who do not wish to spend the night at IDR 350K for 4 people.

Down below is a small river you can cross to reach the vegetable plantation and the pine forest. To get there, be prepared to say hello to the gouramis, the chickens, and the geese. If you’re lucky, you can also meet the friendly owner, Pak Faisol, and converse with him on various different subjects through the night.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta exudes a certain familiar warmth and smells of lemongrass. I was surrounded by the sounds of nature and the beautiful view of the mountain. Everything that came out from the kitchen tasted delicious: the crispy banana fritters, the pecel madiun, the grilled rice with salted fish, the kampung fried rice, the ginger lemon tea…

I sometimes wonder if eating our meal in a beautiful place can actually improve its taste.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

I spent my time around the compound mostly barefoot, feeling carefree, and child-like. That day, I came with a book I wanted to finish, but at the end of the day, I was mostly just walking around, relaxing, daydreaming, and enjoying the view. Phone signal, like the Wi-Fi connection, was unreliable (the villagers use Indosat); but it was actually a good thing. I love to unplug every once and a while, as it helps me to rest and be still.

In the evening, Pak Henri—the manager of the resort, invited a massage lady from the nearby village. Bik Nur came to my room equipped with herbal oil and a sarong. The staff had prepared an extra bed for my full body massage; and after more than an hour, my muscles were so relaxed I felt like a jellyfish.

As the temperature went down, I stepped into the private hot spring pool by my villa’s terrace—feeling its comforting heat on my skin until sleepiness nudged me on the shoulder.

The Village of Hot Springs and The Pine Forest.

Mount Pancar is rich in hot springs. Near Tirta Arsanta retreat, there are 3 sources of hot springs the locals referred to as Red crater, Green crater, and Black crater. A 20-minute stroll from the resort, crossing the river, would take you to these craters. There was no strong sulphuric smell in the air, as the village hosts mineral hot springs, not sulphuric ones.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

“You see, there are mosses growing here,” Pak Henri said when we visited the Green crater. “The locals believe that you can use it as a beauty mask. You can scrape the moss, add the mineral water from the hot spring, and blend it into a paste to be smeared on your face. After a while, it would harden and you’d feel as if your face was stretched out. Do you want to try? I can get some for you later when we’re back.”

“Sure!” I exclaimed. It would be an experience to get this local beauty treatment while I was there!

That morning, Pak Henri took me and my friend, Chyntia, on a hike to the craters and the pine forest surrounding the village. It was quite a mild hike (I was on my leather sandal), but the track could be steep at times. It took almost 3.5 hours for us to go there and back, but the hike offers lovely scenery of the vegetable plantations and the villagers plucking chilis and climbing trees.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Pak Henri, like all the staff at Tirta Arsanta, came from the village. During our hike to the pine forest, we made several stops at the villagers’ houses when the owner called out to him.

“We’re walking to the pine forest,” he said.
“Walking? From the resort? So far!” the villagers responded.

I was scared hearing this as I was reminded of the day when I got lost in Taipei’s Yangmingshan National Park, looking for hot springs. At the time, tired and sweating, I stopped by a police station to ask about the exact location of the hot springs, but it seemed like the police officers could not explain it in English.

They could only say, “Ah, far, far.”
When I asked, “How far?”
The police officers replied by extending their hands, and said: “Faaaaaaaaaaaaaar.”

But the pine forest was not that far, and we reached it in another 30-40 minutes. The forest is where the locals go for dating or family outings. “I don’t know why they love it here,” said Pak Henri. “I mean, there’s nothing here but trees.”

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

But Chyntia and I loved it there. The breeze was lovely and the view was beautiful. We walked around the area, posing at a huge rock, and watching a ladybird. Chyntia also found a green pinecone. It made me feel as if I was transported to a scene from Ghibli’s My Neighbor Totoro.

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

A Soak in Time.

The best thing to do after a hike was dipping our sore feet in the refreshing water of the river; had some breakfast, and then retreated to our villa for a hot spring soak by the terrace. Pak Henri had prepared our traditional moss-mask from the hot springs, so Chyntia and I started our DIY beauty treatment by the pool. I could feel how strong the moss-mask stretched my skin; although the application made our bathroom quite messy and muddy (sorry, Pak!).

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Tirta Arsanta Gunung Pancar

Maybe the time spent ‘doing nothing‘ can actually be a time well-spent, even if it’s just a day!

Lately, I am so used to long-term travels—in which I am actually working while traveling. It is fun, yes, and I am grateful for the opportunity; although to be honest, at times it can also feel intense and tiring. Pausing a reset button for a day; doing nothing but enjoying nature and having a relaxing time with a friend was actually reinvigorating.

For a day, forget Facebook and Instagram. Get your feet dirty. Smear muddy moss-mask on your face. Smile to the villagers as you pass by. Smell the lemongrass. Sweat as you hike. Jump into the river. Soak in the hot spring. Slow down.

And then, be still.

hanny
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Breakfast in Ubud: Big Hearty Breakfast with A Good ‘Folk’.

I am very protective of my mornings.

One thing I appreciate the most about working independently is the flexibility that comes with it: the flexibility to manage my own time based on my own pace. For me, this means protecting my mornings.

Naturally, I wake up early; as soon as there is sunlight in the room—which is why I love to sleep with my curtains and windows open. But I love to take my time in the morning. To go slow. I spend some time just lying in bed, feeling the way my body tingles with life after an 8-hour rest and remembering my dreams. Then I would reach out to my bedside table, grab a book, and start reading. I reserve at least the first 2 hours in the morning for myself: reading, writing in my journal, having coffee, dancing, or listening to uplifting or inspiring talks and interviews.

For this reason, I love late breakfast. I don’t like to prepare some food or fill myself up first thing in the morning, so breakfast has to wait. Until later. Until around 10.

Some mornings deserve a big hearty breakfast.

Those mornings are not meant for instant coffee and leftovers, yogurt and granolas, or apples and bananas. They are the kind of mornings when you are craving to be pampered with food. Good ones.

You know exactly when you experience these mornings from the time you wake up. You could be very sad, very happy, very tired, very energetic, very heartbroken, or very much in love; but you know that you just want to start your morning by slouching in someplace nice, ordering a full breakfast served in a beautiful plate with beautiful presentation, and sipping a good cup of coffee. A big cup of coffee.

breakfast in ubud

breakfast in ubud

breakfast in ubud

When I woke up groggy one morning, D suggested that we have it: that big hearty breakfast. Not knowing that by asking me to eat, he already lifted up my mood level a notch.

“Pick a place,” he said. “And we’ll go there.”

My ‘Secret place’ pick for breakfast in Ubud.

D and I have this thing about ‘secret places’. On slower days, after clearing each other’s schedule for the day, one of us would exclaim: “I am going to take you to a secret place today!”

A ‘trip’ to a secret place means:

  1. it is a place we have never visited together before
  2. it is either a beautiful place or a place offering a beautiful experience
  3. we will spend some time there relaxing and lazying around
  4. the person suggesting the secret place would offer to pay

That particular morning, for the big hearty breakfast, I decided to choose a ‘secret place’.

There was this cafe called No Mas in Ubud‘s Monkey Forest Road that we frequented in the evenings to catch up with friends. Below the cafe, there was this hipstery-looking place called FOLK. Usually, it was already dark and closed when we’re about to have some drinks at No Mas.

breakfast in ubud

I read some online reviews of the place and found quite a bunch of surprisingly mouth-watering testimonials. So, I told D to drive to No Mas; because our secret place for breakfast in Ubud would be ‘nearby’.

breakfast in ubud

I always opt for good food, not Instagrammable food.

When our order came, they looked exactly like Instagram food. So pretty and neat and clean, carefully carrying all the right color combination to look wonderful on my camera. They even came with edible flower petals. And the portion was quite big.

breakfast in ubud

breakfast in ubud

Imagine our surprise when instead of simply looking good, the food actually tasted delicious!

The good reviews were spot on!

We had the epitome of a big hearty breakfast: toast, poached egg, bacon, spinach, potato, and beans—and also a healthier version of toast, poached egg, avocado, and feta cheese. Plus a cup of cappuccino and latte. Each element of the dish is delicious in itself; each one a bomb of flavors, even when tasted separate.

A good hearty breakfast can always make my mornings and lift up my mood. And that day, I must have chosen a good secret place.

breakfast in ubud

breakfast in ubud

breakfast in ubud

Folk Kitchen & Espresso
Jl. Monkey Forest, Ubud, Kabupaten Gianyar, Bali 80571
(0361) 9080888
hanny
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My Latest Sunset Spot in Ubud, Bali

Sunset Spot in Ubud

Are you the sunrise type, or the sunset type?

I have been sharing a room with Mumun from the travel blog Indohoy during some of our trips, and before bed, she always said enthusiastically, “Let’s wake up early tomorrow and watch the sunrise!” – to which I responded with: “Well, let’s see tomorrow.”

Usually, the next day, we would open our eyes at around 7—looking at each other sleepily, still curling in bed, our stomachs growling, craving for breakfast. Nobody mentioned the sunrise that has completely risen by then.

So, let’s just say that I’m more of the sunset type.

Sunset Spot in Ubud

My latest sunset spot in Ubud.

Apart from the Tjampuhan Ridge, lately, my favorite sunset spot in Ubud is hidden just in the midst of its center. A few meters across Bisma Street, before the entrance to Tjampuhan Ridge, a rocky uphill path takes you to a narrow alley leading up to Subak Sok Wayah. There, a winding narrow track awaits: lined with cafes, guesthouses, and shops selling paintings and souvenirs on the left, and rice fields on the right.

Sunset Spot in Ubud

Sunset Spot in Ubud

Cafes and restaurants with sunset views are plenty along the track, perfect to wind down after a stroll around Ubud. A small cafe even offers a reading of your Vedic charts—could be a fun pastime for the curious! I personally love waiting for sunset while reading on Kindle at Sari Organik or Cafe Pomegranate. They are located not too far away from one another.

Sunset Spot in Ubud

Sunset Spot in Ubud

The Golden Hour.

There is something magical with the lights at this hour. When I was little, I used to think that sunset was a gate to another realm. There must be a door somewhere behind those beautiful lights, leading up to an enchanted forest with imps, fairies, and talking animals. As a grown-up, I still get the chilling excitement of watching the sun goes down; still having the feeling that I have just been transported ‘somewhere’ without actually moving, or leaving.

The In-Between.

My friend once told me, that we can feel the Divine between our breath: that tiny moment in-between inhaling and exhaling. There are many in-between moments in our daily lives: when we walk, in-between the changing of our left and right foot; when we brush our teeth, in-between the moment when the brush leaves and touches our teeth; when we eat, in-between the tasting and the swallowing of our food.

In watching sunsets. In-between light and dark: that tiny window into the magical world of a pivotal moment when eternity sneaks in through something so mundane and temporary.

Sunset Spot in Ubud

Sunset Spot in Ubud

SARI ORGANIK
Address: Jl. Subak Sok Wayah, Tjampuhan, Ubud
Phone: (0361) 972087

CAFE POMEGRANATE
Address: Jl. Subak Sok Wayah, Ubud
Phone: 0878-6080-3632

hanny
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,

On Making Things as A (Meditative) Practice.

My mother was a maker. She baked the most delicious cookies and cakes. She sewed bags, patchwork blankets, and dresses out of a Japanese how-to book. Made hair bands and bead bracelets. Redesigned an old wooden bed-stand into a couch. If she was still alive, she would have launched a DIY tutorial channel on YouTube.

***

“No. You haven’t showered!” she would scold me when—upon waking up in the morning—I dragged myself to the kitchen in the hope of joining her making kaasstengels.

“Put on a proper dress!” she would dismiss my presence in my thin, rugged, and washed-out pajamas another time when I was excited to help her storing the unused beads based on their shapes and colors.

“Wash your hands!”
“Don’t sneeze!”
“Sit respectfully!”
“Get rid of that sulky face.”
“If you’re angry like that, stay away.”

I used to cry or sulk, even more, leaving my mother to work on her creation alone. I hated those moments, those words. To me, they all sounded judgmental, harsh, and patronizing.

I always thought that ‘making things’ was my mother’s. Not mine.

I was careless and sloppy; while my mother was neat and tidy.

***

A few months back, my friend Clara wrote a heart-warming piece about how, as a teenage girl, she had sworn not to grow up to be the adults her parents were. But of course, in her late twenties, she found out that she had actually become her parents. That she had grown to like the things they like and value the things they value.

I wasn’t sure when I started to make things again. Maybe that one time when I enrolled in a course to make batik. Then, silver jewelry. Cooking Balinese food. Watercolor painting. Weaving. Making prayer beads.

I have spent the last few years learning to ‘make things’.
Random things.

They came to me one by one, and I simply said yes. I don’t even know what I would do now that I know how to make these things. I am pleased simply from witnessing the way I can do something I couldn’t do a few hours before; amazed by how I can create something close-to-beautiful out of what seemed like scattered components.

I love how time silently flies when I am concentrating on the way my hands move: my nerves and muscles memorize the mechanics of how things work—sometimes by carefully listening to instructions, other times by listening to my intuitions.

From ‘making things’, I learn about humility—that there’s always something new under the sun. I learn about patience—knowing that everything takes time. I learn about commitment—to keep trying after a series of failed attempts until I can do it. I learn about harmony—on how to keep your brain and your hands moving in unison. I learn about respect—to treat each component: attentively as each one, no matter how small, would be the sum of the finished goods.

To me, it’s meditative.

After more than 30 years, I just realised that making things was my mother’s meditation. It was her practice. And she had put so much respect to it: the respect it truly deserves.

Before making things, my mother would take a long shower and put on a nice dress. She would put a light make-up, comb her hair, and spray herself with a body mist. She would then clean her ‘maker space’ thoroughly and keep the place as neat and tidy as possible throughout the making process. She would do everything in silence; or by reciting one of the 99 names of God in a whisper.

***

I watched the way my fingers silently weaved prayer beads last weekend, as I sat cross-legged on the porch of a Balinese compound in Ubud after a quick shower. The warmth of the morning sun was grazing my skin and the smell of coffee wafted gracefully from my working desk.

Maybe, just like my mother, ‘making things’ has become my practice, too.

And, just like Clara, I have somehow grown into my mother; more than I thought I ever would; more than I thought I ever could.

hanny
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In Search of the Perfect Place: “The Perfect Place Is the Place You Commit To.”

Perfect Place: Wanted.

We’ve been looking for ‘the perfect place’ since we could remember, either consciously or subconsciously. We know such a place doesn’t exist, but we’re looking for it anyway, thinking that there must be something close to perfect somewhere, out there. It may not be perfect for everyone, but it could be perfect for us. Even its imperfection would be just perfect.

Perfect Place
Lazy Cat. A cozy cafe in Ubud.

When I was a little girl, I could not wait for the weekends. Weekends meant a trip to the swimming pool, to the mountains, to the bookstore, to the corner of the street. When I was an adult and had to slay an office job 9-to-5, I could not wait for the weekends. Weekends meant a trip to nowhere but a whole day of reading books and munching chips in bed.

When I’m traveling, I’m missing the comfort and familiarity of being home. When I’m home, I’m missing the excitement and adventure of exploring new territory.

***

My Perfect Place and Yours Can Be Both Different and Similar.

We’ve been looking for ‘the perfect place’ since we could remember, either consciously or subconsciously. We know such a place doesn’t exist, but we’re looking for it anyway, thinking that there must be something close to perfect somewhere, out there.

Our perfect place may differ: from a new house, a job, a spouse, a dress, a state of mind, a circle of friends, an office, a childhood memory, a lost love, a wedding, a family… but we’re all looking for it because we’re craving for the same feeling: the feeling of being in a perfect place; or the feeling we thought we would feel about it.

The feeling of being.
The feeling of settling in, delightfully.
The feeling of snuggling in, safely.
The feeling of knowing that this is enough.

I was back in Ubud a few days ago from the Philippines and got invited by a friend, Gianluca, to dinner. We had a barbecue on his porch and I spent the night learning how to keep the coconut charcoal burning by blowing them with a hair dryer. A few hours later, we started talking about our future plans. He told me that he’s been thinking to move to Barcelona and making the city his base.

“I want to find a place where I can stay and build my own house. That’s my dream, to build my own house,” he said. He’s been working and living in some other countries for some time, before ending up in Ubud. We talked about how Barcelona could be a better deal; a better place; a better option; a ‘perfect place’.

At the end, he shrugged and said, “You know, a perfect place is any place you commit to.”

I told him that it’s a Tweetable quote, and tweeted it away.

***

The Perfect Place to Commit.

We’ve been looking for ‘the perfect place’ since we could remember, either consciously or subconsciously. We know such a place doesn’t exist, but we’re looking for it anyway, thinking that there must be something close to perfect somewhere, out there.

There were many instances in life where I had been thrown into ‘imperfect places‘. Places I would want to run away from, places I would want to turn my back from, places I would want to forget. But during those times, I did not. I did not run away, I did not turn my back away, I did not forget. I stayed.

I, either consciously or unconsciously, committed.
Or chose to commit.
To put an effort through the hardships, the heartaches, the tears, the struggles…

Until I’ve given my best.
Until I’ve had enough.
Until it was time to leave.

We may think that we haven’t found our perfect place yet, but who knows maybe right now, some of us actually have. Here, right where we are.

Because a perfect place could look bright and sunny, easy-going and friendly, adventurous and interesting, vibrant and flowing, but the perfect place could also look grim. It could look like hard work and a sharp tongue. It could look dull and boring. It could look too stressful and too fast-paced.

And still, it could be the perfect place for us to mold ourselves. To hone our skills. To develop a thicker skin, creativity, a sense of compassion, or an appreciation of beauty.

Maybe a perfect place is about choosing what, where, and who to commit to–and make the most out of it.

Maybe a perfect place is about continuously finding balance between where we are and where we want to be–and to be okay in between.

hanny
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Theoresia Rumthe: On Embracing “Wildness”

theoresia rumthe - behind the pages

Theoresia Rumthe co-authors the poetry book Tempat Paling Liar di Muka Bumi (The Wildest Place on Earth, 2017) with her partner, Weslly Johannes. Theo was born in Ambon and currently lives in Bandung, writing, and facilitating workshops on poetry making and public speaking. She is also one of the initiators of Molucca Project, an effort to bring some good vibes about her hometown in Maluku (Molucca).

 

How do you give birth to poetry?

 

Theo: Poetry is born out of the most mundane things inside of me. If you asked me how the process looks like: I love to observe. I love to observe the smallest things around me, for instance, the green grass, the dried leaves with their textures when I stepped on them, a droplet of water from the tree trunks that fall on my skin, raindrops crawling on the window, the glimmer of lights from the car’s headlights when it’s dark, and the eyelids of a lover. I love to observe these things closely, slowly. Once I observed them, I connect them to the feelings inside of me. The next step is to pour them into a piece of paper.

 

How does ‘the wildest place on earth’ look like?

 

Theo: The ‘wildest place on earth’, in my opinion, is inside our head. There’s a limitless world in there. If I need to give meanings to the word ‘wild’, then I would perceive it as an ‘adventure of feelings’—of how courageous we are in exploring each and every feeling inside of us, whatever those feelings are, bravely. When I thought of the word ‘wild’, I have this memory of when I was twelve or thirteen: I sneaked out of the house only to watch a midnight-movie in the cinema, without asking permission from my parents. (laugh)

 

Photo courtesy of Theoresia Rumthe

 

What kind of ‘wildness’ runs inside of you?

 

Theo: I like things that hit me first. Whether they are sentences that come first or feelings that come for the first time. I do not like to edit them. Something ‘raw’ is usually way more honest. This is the reason why I never edited my poetry, except when it comes to the choice of words. Something that is more ‘raw’, more ‘matter-of-factly’, more ‘honest’ has its own wildness. And that resides inside of me.

 

How do we find poetry?

 

Theo: I believe that inspiration can nudge whomever it visits. The problem is, who would be sensitive towards that, and who would not. When you get nudged and you’re indifferent, inspiration will find someone else. So, if you’d like to find poetry around you, there’s only one key: don’t be indifferent.

Poetry is not always about words. We can see this from the way the Universe creates poetry; could be from the rainbow, the colors of sundown, the breeze that caresses your face, the salty sea that sticks to your skin, the traces of sand on the sole of your feet.

Photo courtesy of Theoresia Rumthe

 

How does your birthplace influence your works and the way you see the world?

 

Theo: Ambon, my birthplace, significantly influences my works, the way I see the world, and my creative process. My Mother and Father had introduced me to ‘the stage’ when I was young. I grew up with two sisters, and we love singing since early childhood. Not only singing, but also reading poetry, and we’re quite friendly with the stage since we’re playing amateurish drama and theatre. My Mother and Father also introduced us to books. I remembered that I already composed my first short story when I was a teenager, although it remained unfinished until today.

The exotic natural landscape of Ambon also gives a stimulus for me, who grew up there, to create. I don’t know, but I feel as if the ocean is not only blue, but there’s a richer gradation of colors. And the mountains are not always green. They can have hues of salted eggs. There, I learned to see all possibilities in the midst of all impossibilities.

 

How do you stay true to your art, to the creative force inside of you?

 

Theo: Do you create poetry every day? If this question is posed to me right now, then the answer is yes—because I am preparing my next poetry book. But, sometimes, for a long time, I don’t create poetry.

Theoresia Rumthe
Photo courtesy of Theoresia Rumthe

What’s important for me is to give birth to creative works, and this should be done every single day. If I don’t make poetry, I write for my blog. If I don’t write for my blog, I write whatever sentences that come to mind in a small notebook I carry around, or on my mobile phone’s note page. If I am negligent about this, I feel anxious and restless.

I choose to stay true to the art and creativity inside of me. I think it’s simply about making your choices. My ‘fire’ won’t go far from art and creativity. To live and to choose to lit your fire consciously and fully, I look at it as an achievement in life. The most important thing about lighting your fire is to do it wholeheartedly, instead of doing it only to look ‘cool’.

So you won’t regret the day you die.

hanny
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5 Things I Am No Longer Afraid of Saying to Be True to Myself.

“The thought of being whoever I want is a terrifying thing because I have only ever been who everyone has wanted me to be.”
― Dianna Hardy, Saving Eve

I used to be a people pleaser. To some extent, I guess I still am. Not as much as before; but the tendency is still there.

I grew up in two ‘opposing’ families in terms of faith, values, and cultural background. Since I was little, I had taught myself to be accepted on both sides of the family by being a chameleon.

I’ll be whoever they want me to be. I’ll be whoever you want me to be.

It was a safe way to avoid conflicts. A safe way of not being rejected. To feel as if I belong here and there, at the same time.

My transition into adulthood posed another question though: Who am I, really? What kind of person am I, truly? 

Most of the time, I found myself saying the things I didn’t want to say, agreeing to things I disagree with or getting caught in a situation I didn’t want to be in–simply because I wanted to please others. Simply because I was afraid of saying these things out loud:

1. I don’t know

I used to feel ashamed of saying this. I felt incompetent. I felt stupid. I didn’t know where exactly I got the idea that I couldn’t simply say these words bluntly. Maybe at school, when I learned that most of the teachers wouldn’t accept those words kindly.

Either it was a marketing term, a new band, a song, a movie title, or breaking news… I used to pretend as if I knew everything. But it was tiring, really. And I just realized that it was actually pretty stupid to pretend as if I knew everything. Because it’s impossible for us to know everything.

Not knowing about something is okay. These days, I say I don’t know when I don’t know about something. I am surprised to know that most people are okay with that.

2. I can’t afford it now

It used to be a sensitive subject. Something you would avoid discussing. Probably because most of the time, we linked our success based on the things we can afford. Wasn’t it the case? When I was a kid, I saw how the adults around me measured each other’s successes based on how many things they can afford.

It was almost like a taboo to say: I can’t afford it. Or that I can’t afford it now.

When a friend asked me out to an expensive restaurant or went on a luxury trip somewhere, I used to feel as if I have to find a way to afford it. That I have to work for it. To make it happen.

It could be that I withdrew my savings. Took the money from another account that I had allocated for something more important. Spent the money anyway and braced myself for a week of only eating instant noodles. Or I would find a kind of lie to avoid the invitation altogether.

Was it shameful to say that we can’t afford something at a particular moment in life?

One time when I was still in university, my group of friends was planning to go to an expensive cafe. And one of them responded to that, light and loud: “I can’t join you, guys. I’m broke for the week!”

We all laughed. We understood. We didn’t perceive her as if she was less than before. We’ve all been there.

Sometimes, it’s not that we’re broke. Sometimes we’re saving money for something else. Sometimes, we have more expenses to cover at particular moments. Sometimes, we ran out of lies and excuses.

So, these days, I take it upon myself to be honest and straightforward with it: “I can’t afford it now. Maybe some other time?”

3. I’ll have to pass

I used to think that I need to be a good ‘follower‘ to be accepted. That I have to say yes even if I want to say no. I repeatedly found myself in a situation I didn’t want to be in, simply because I have no courage to say no, to turn down an invitation, or to just simply say, “Sorry, I’ll have to pass this time.”

In the old days, this would mean finding myself being really sleepy and tired, couldn’t wait to go home and curl up in bed; but forced to laugh, dance, and make jokes with a bunch of friends or colleagues until midnight.

I used to think that if I wasn’t there if I wasn’t present in each and every moment, I would lose my friends. Or they might enjoy the night without me and stop inviting me altogether. I was afraid that they would look down on me, or talk about me behind my back.

My insecurities made me suffer.

But I’ve had enough of that. If suffering is an option–like what Murakami said–then I would say: “Sorry, I’ll have to pass.”

4. Actually, I have a different opinion

I learned that it was safe to be similar, and it was dangerous to be different. The best way is to be like everyone else, doing what everyone else is doing, following the majority, and trying hard to be a part of it.

This was unnatural. Differences exist in life. We are all different in many different ways. What is it that makes us afraid of being different? Are we afraid of rejection? Of triggering conflicts? Of hurting others? Of hurting ourselves?

How did it get to us? Who taught us that we’re not allowed to be different, and to embrace our differences?

I used to go for the easy way: agreeing with everything everyone is saying. Just to be on the ‘safe’ side. But it only got me trapped in a more difficult situation: because how is it possible that you agree to everything, that you agree with everyone?

At some point in our lives, we need to know where we stand. So I start learning to disagree. And to voice my disagreement better. To accept that we can agree to disagree. To feel comfortable having my own opinion. To speak up. Sometimes, it starts with a tentative stutter: “Actually, I have a different opinion…”

5. I don’t want that. This is what I want

I was raised to accept whatever comes my way.

This is actually a good thing, to some extent. The other extent is when I thought I have to accept anything that comes my way; even if I don’t want it. This includes wearing clothes I didn’t like to allow disrespectful behavior towards me.

At a certain point, it became unhealthy.

There were times in life when I didn’t even know about what I really want because I thought I should want the things other people want. I used to feel as if I was not grateful enough to say that I didn’t want something; or if I wanted something else.

I learned to be assertive. To say the things I want and the things I do not want. I tried with the simplest things: “I want to eat pasta today.” Or, “I don’t want to go to that event because I don’t find it interesting.”

I am still amazed at how liberating it is.

I realized that I used to hold grudges against certain people in my life, because I felt as if I have to do the things I didn’t want to do, only to please them. Then I pitied myself, saying: why am I the only one who needs to make the sacrifice? I ended up hating these people, or blaming them for the way they ‘make my life miserable’, for the way they ‘make me feel this way’.

Only lately I realized that this scenario happened only in my mind. The other person might not really know about this. They are not mind-readers. They didn’t know how I actually feel because I was too afraid to tell them about what I really want.

What about you?

Do you have some things you were afraid to say as well? Why do you think you were afraid of saying these things? Did you manage to overcome your fear of saying those words out loud? How do you think saying these words make you feel better connected with who you really are?

hanny
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Hanny illustrator
Hi. I'm HANNY
I am an Indonesian writer/artist/illustrator and stationery web shop owner (Cafe Analog) based in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. I love facilitating writing/creative workshops and retreats, especially when they are tied to self-exploration and self-expression. In Indonesian, 'beradadisini' means being here. So, here I am, documenting life—one word at a time.

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