I am half awake. Its 3 am. The roosters are calling across the village of Ubud. One after another. Cockadoodledoo! Echoes in my dreams as thousands respond to each other across the hills and rice terraces. There are as many roosters as there are people.
SLOWLY PULLED FROM DEEP SLEEP BY A SYMPHONY OF SOUND, I KEEP MY EYES CLOSED AND SEARCHED TO IDENTIFY EACH MUSICIAN IN THIS ORCHESTRA. QUACKING, AND LOTS OF IT FILLED THE PERFORMANCE LIKE A TRUMPET SOLO, AS THE CRICKETS KEPT A RHYTHMIC BEAT. TOGETHER, THE SYMPHONY OF MY SWEET AWAKENING IN THE RICE FIELDS LIFTED ME FROM SLUMBER.
I wake up. The sound of water moving between the rice fields, flooded. Thick mud sticks to the bottom of my soles. The path is one foot across. I grab a handfull of grass. The rice is ready to harvest. I pound the grasses against a weaving basket letting it hit my face and fall onto the ground. I am handed more as I hit the side of the bowl. Strong as a bull, men and women bend and knell and cut and pound and grab the grasses full of rice to harvest. They are paid $1.50 a day. Sun up, Sun down. They are grandmas and grandpas.
Chek, cha, Chek, thunders in the vocal chords of a hundred dancers telling the story of Hindu Religion. Crosslegged sitting in a circular pattern with 4 rows of dancers they
move and twist their bodies to the right and to the left. Raist their hands in the air, choo, cha, choo, cha, chek, cha, choo . . .shaking their hands in the air waving them in the sky. Gold plated decorations outline and shine to the firelight two main performers as their elbows and hands move in different directions and their eyes and neck follow different chords to the dances. Their eyes open showing whites filling expression of the gods. Necks moving to the right and left. Index fingers flutters like a dragonfly wing. Hands movements display buddha dharma hindu poses.
I am awaken by the delicate touches of a paintbrush, ink dotted on his hand painting an egg. Streamlined strokes paint leaves and butterflies and birds on an egg. Many years practice in silence painting. He already sees the image, he is just filling in the space. Nothing copied. All from the mind's eye. Intricate patience transports him into another world of butterflies flapping slowly in the tropical sun and dappled shade pumping its blood through its body. And birds chirping and singing their songs as big leaves wave in concert with the wind. Sitting on branches fluffing its wings and combing its beak.
He grabs a tiny long piece of silver bending his wrist and hand in different motions. Expert in the art of silversmithing.
In the night I follow a branch tracing its outline to touch the river below. Roots gather in the all places hanging down like hair. I have never seen a tree like this before. Its huge. The mother of all trees lives here. Gods are here growing and growing and listening and breathing the prayers of the people.
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