Rebuilding Kathmandu - the seen and unseen

Nepal never fails to amaze me.  Resilience through and through.  I first arrived in Nepal fifteen years ago.  The royal family had just been assassinated.  The country was in complete turmoil.  Curfews every night, strikes throughout the day, and in the midst of a Maoist uprising which continued for a decade from 1996 until 2006.  And then of course the earthquake that shook the very core of the kingdom in April 2015. Scientists concur that tension is still building under the tectonic plates where just a slight shift, a movement for a minute or less could easily throw the country back up and land it in rubble.  India then enforced a fuel embargo on the recovering nation, which left massive cues of vehicles waiting (for days) outside gas stations and a bitter winter where people just trying to survive cut down whatever trees they could find to heat their homes and cook their food.  Now even though the embargo has been lifted the fuel shortage is still dire.  The poor quality black market fuel has also left many people in the city sick with chest infections respiratory problems.  Nepal now ranks 177 out of 178 countries for air quality.

Likewise, even though buildings have began to be reconstructed, thousands of families still live under plastic tarpaulins, just a stones throw away from where I am sitting.  And I am sitting directly in front of Boudhanath stupa.  Declared a UNESCO heritage site in 1979, and constructed  somewhere around the 4^th or the 5^th century.  Boudhanath even pre-dates  Kathmandu as a pivotal pit stop on the trade route from Tibet to India.  However, the largest stupa in the world also faltered under the tremor of the earthquake.  It is now topless. Right now hundreds of Tibetan and Nepali Buddhists are circumnavigating the fallen stupa.  It is sunset and time for a dedicated daily ritual. Reconstruction began with the ritual placement of a new central pole or "life tree" for the stupa at the top of the dome.  Piles of bricks are situated ramshackle all around it, along with wooden scaffolding where teams of men and women have been working on its reconstruction.  In contrast to many of the other national heritage sites in Kathmandu affected by the earthquake, Boudhanath was the first to be reconstructed.  The Nepali government refused help from international archaeologists for the reconstruction of its ancient sites, and apart from the self-funded and motivated Tibetan community at Boudha, little work has been done on the other affected sites.  Politics, money and corruption merge, and people complain daily that if only a small percentage of the money that flowed into Nepal after the earthquake had gone to rebuilding infrastructure the country would be as good as new.  That isn’t the case, and the thoughts of the powerful monsoon rain hold a more immediate threat than another quake.

In the background stands Kopan monastery – the working monastery founded to share Tibetan Buddhism with seekers from the West.  Which brings in the other reminder – of the fusion of Kingdoms which Nepal now represents, with a huge population of first to fourth generation Tibetan refugees.  Yet what is missing right now is one of Nepal’s major sources of income – tourism.  The manager of the café I am in joked that “they are on their way – as we speak – thousands of people travelling to Nepal”.  I’m sitting on an empty rooftop with spectacular views.  Including so much of that which is unseen.  

My last visit to Nepal was three years ago.  It is shocking to see what has fallen to the ground.  Yet what has risen (yet again) is a collective movement towards rebuilding life.  When I was in Kolkata just a few weeks ago, it word had it that the earthquake had rapidly increased the number of trafficked children and women to India.  Massive numbers of displaced families meant it was even easier for traffickers to trick, lure or steal girls to sell into bonded slavery and prostitution.  An unofficial estimate of an NGO in Kathmandu says that, at any point of time, brothels in India house around 150,000 to 400,000 girls from the Himalayan country.

Just as the rest of my trip has been guided by spontaneity, the same applies to landing here in Nepal.  It was unexpected and primarily to renew my Indian visa.  Yet this is my sixth visit to Nepal and on many occasions I have had the opportunity of being able to work here.  One of the projects I worked on was a study of the effects of the conflict on children and in particular in regards to infectious diseases.  The research revealed that many children moved to the streets either to earn money or because the men of the family had left to work in India or the Middle East (Nepal still has a huge migrant workforce).  Likewise many girls and young women began to work in bars – small establishments which go hand in hand with lap dancing and prostitution.  As a result there had been a rapid increase in HIV/AIDS.  

I have been fortunate enough to connect with some wonderful organizations working to rehabilitate survivors of trafficking and provide skills to girls and women who wanted to move out of a profession they had never intended to be in.  Today I ran a workshop for women who were now reintegrated back into their family life.  My intention was simply to provide some relief through movement.  Yet my workshop was perfectly timed to end after a session by a psychotherapist on feeling , recognizing and integrating emotions.  After just one hour of “play” we had covered a great deal of material.  The same themes appeared as in Kolkata:  The women are so busy taking care of others that the very idea of even “feeling” the body was a totally new concept.  Basic movements were a struggle, and this shocked them.  Very quickly they said they felt “relaxed”.  I asked them to share about their experiences and after ever answer from the sixteen women I realized that I continue to underestimate the effect of sharing this practice with survivors.  As a result, the team asked me to go back tomorrow and run a workshop with their staff.  The aim is to provide them with tools to allow the women and children they work with to physically embody the concepts they are teaching.  Amazed at how my work keeps going deeper, how it is able to be guided by the participants, and due to its very simplicity, how it can have profound effects in a very short time. 

Survival Dance

Women’s circles happen all around the world.  Whether it be the gathering of pregnant women, the meeting of mothers who have lost husbands and sons fighting different sides of the same war, to the rather controversial circles of generating “abundance” at the expense of the less savvy, persuasive  or connected “spiritual” sisters.  The origins of the circle is of course the fire – that all sit around and as a consequence are equally seen.  All are equal.  Today the women were invited to share their stories in counsel.  Whatever they shared would not leave the room, all was welcome.  It was a space to verbalize what needed to be said.  The topics discussed today were far more serve than I would ever hear back home.  It makes concerns I myself have once shared seem frivolous, indulgent even.  Almost as if those of us who have no real challenges need to dig deep to find something to talk about.   What was voiced will remain sacred.  Yet what I will say is that even without the translation, the tears which flowed, almost as if they were infectious, felt like poison leaking out from vessels that had been holding pain for far too long.  I felt those tears deep in my being.  And the verb “courage” and noun “warrior” neatly reflect the quality and essence of those who spoke.  The story teller dancer gave a perfect closure to the session.  She spoke of the necessity of women to unite in order for peace to prevail.  That women not only have the potential but the responsibility to guide the human race forwards.  That the force of women united in their refusal to bow down or be divided by the demands, violence or fears of men, contains such a power that no abuse or diminishing can withstand.  My own past failings leap into my mind. Yet the remedy for regret was one of the silent themes of the whole workshop: That each and every moment is pregnant with new beginnings.  Beginnings held prisoner only by our own self judgments and refusal to move forwards.  The counsel was closed with a recording of a song by Greek Gypsy women.  It was entitled “the country of my heart”.

The final aspect of the workshop was a performance.  The eighty nine children plus staff from Asha gathered in the courtyard.  A row of chairs were set up for the women and staff and a wonderful melody of music and sharing followed.

From the outside the gathering could appear to be pretty ordinary.  Yet underneath the surface it was so much more.  The gathering of the children of migrant workers, children dancing their liberation, the right to education, their solidarity in opportunity.  Women disguised as witches, refusing to accept the label they had been given and instead dancing in dignity – together.  The first performance was given by a group of older girls.  Singing to a beautiful melody and accompanied by a drummer banging out beats on a worn out drum.  They held hands and skipped simple steps around an invisible circle.  The women watched intently as if they were witnessing shadows of their former selves; delighting in the gift of youth. Next up were the women, they were all wearing matching white saris with a red trim which had been loaned by Asha for the purpose of performances such as this.  The costume in itself was already a novelty, yet so was having an attentive audience.  An audience that had no agenda to condemn or criticize, simply to receive the gift they were giving as ancient bodies were filled with the ageless spirit birthed in the sound of music.  Finally came dance of the story teller dancer.  She donned a mask (which in a wonderful weaving of connection had been craved in Bali) and flowing robes. She moved with grace and beauty through time and dimensions.  Her final act was reminiscent of the sufi dancers – a spiraling to the Divine, spinning out to spin in, building momentum to find complete stillness.  The women and children alike were mesmerized.  And I felt so proud to be part of this incredible and equally diverse group of female facilitators.

The workshop was sealed with a gift to each of the women.  It was a gift of a new sari.  A physical, tangible, present for them to take home.  A token that they were worth so much more than the thread worn saris they had arrived in.  And the seeds which they had planted during these few days would (if they allowed) were to flourish and grow.  Even if the external remains stuck in superstition, they needn’t be trapped forever as victims.  I  truly feel that if they are able to nurture the immense and natural power they have within, then regardless of the barren land they would return to – a land which as we had heard was suffering a long drought of compassion – then their inner landscape can still become rich and full of promise. United together this could move mountains of intimidation.  One exception to this hope was a one woman called Reka.  Reka was still forbidden to return to her village.  She had no other women nearby.  She had nowhere to go.  Yet she held her head high, smiled widely and my colleagues in Kolkata promised her they would find a solution – perhaps even coming back to take her with them so she would at least have shelter and food; a safe home.

As the sun was about to set I whisked upstairs to sit on the roof.  To sit by myself as the day ushered in the night.  My Aquarius spirit never fails to guide me to the quiet places, the peaceful places, to the moments of tranquility within the chaos.  As the sky changed colours like a chameleon moving through contrasting landscapes, I bowed down in gratitude for all that these women had given to me.  And I rose with a new determination that I have so much more work to do – back home in Bali and around the world.  That I am free; free to move and to share these stories of liberation.  

Several kids appeared and broke my spell of introspection.  They collected drying items of laundry from retired bed frames.  At this point I realized that the small room which we had conducted the whole workshop was the room the women had slept each night in.  Eight mattress for eighteen women, and yet they had still wanted me to stay with them.   Music boomed from crackly speakers down in the courtyard.  Every child and woman was dancing full on.  Apparently this is the evening activity, and the perfect balance to the day time atmosphere of study and chores.  I bolted down the stairs, danced in the middle of children, staff and tribal women, song after song – East meets West and Beyond.

Finally I was dragged away.  A hundred hands grabbed me to stay.  Each woman put wrapped her palms around mine in a double Namaste, thumbs to third eyes and one by one we bowed deeply to the wisdom in one another, connected to the soul.  Good bye a thousand times.  “See you when?”  Next year; next lifetime?  Stay well sister, mother, grandmother.  Stay strong.

Later that night Urmi posted some photos from the day.  She added the following sentiments:

“Powerful and intense days in Jharkhand concludes in love and empathy.  Nothing could be more profound than hearing the stories of these forgotten women. The survivors of witchhunt left transformed by the meditative power of story dancing, play with clay, yoga and healing through love. They shared the horrific stories of brutality suffered and rose in courage and forgiveness.”

I’ve been meditating on the purpose of having a moral guide and developing an inner ethical compass.  Human nature or human nurture?  Perhaps it’s like the chicken and the egg.  I am not sure which one comes first.  If violence is innate and needs to be tamed, or compassion lies masked by the need to survive.  Yet most definitely the discipline of developing and maintaining a daily spiritual practice is singing out loudly to me.   Each night I have been sharing a bed with the story teller dancer.  A kindred spirit who has been dancing her work for much longer than I.  A quiet and humble mentor.  Often we speak without words and yet today has been so profound that I share with her I am often stuck between a life of service and a life of living.  She replied there is only one thing to do:  Do good and be good and this will take up most of your time.

The Necessity of Intimacy

Another early start.  On the roof, moving, breathing, simply being.  My dreams last night had been very vivid.  I had watched myself age rapidly – a beautiful reminder, as if it were needed, of the impermanence of this body. So this morning my practice was a practice of non-attachment, of exploring the limbo between “progress” and mastery of my movements and ultimately; letting go of achievement once it had been attained.

In the back of the jeep my vision gave a continuous commentary to the new details of another day. Its discerning how there is so much more than what first meets the eye.  Today it was as if a distinct hierarchy appeared on the roads.  Wealth reflected by use of vehicle.  This ranged from the pedestrians to those on bicycles, scooters, motorbikes, cars, to the chauffeur driven.  Almost as if there is a negative correlation between wealth connection to the earth.

When we arrived at Asha there was a farmers' meeting.  The group of men all quickly stood up to greet us.  I still find this form of courtesy uncomfortable.  And perhaps because it was rooted in a frame of inequality.  For the women we are working with would not have received the same welcome.  In fact, the women stood patiently at the back, visibly excited to see us and waiting for their chance to say “Namaskar”.  Having so many pairs of eyes on me at one time reminds me of how strange I must appear.  My white skin, blonde hair, green eyes.  Not to mention my giant like proportions in comparison to the ladies tiny frames.  They often come and squeeze my arms, say how soft my skin is, pat my belly laughing that its shape is sign of my role as simple “woman” as opposed to “woman, wife, mother, grandmother.”

Names are a challenge for me.  As if we are so much more than a name so it bypasses my mind.  And the unique tribal names were no exception.  However, what had become well established in these few days were certain faces and looks of recognition.  I’m not sure if I can describe it.  But I am very aware of it – the necessity of my walking into a room with a presence which is open to connection.  When I find myself in the middle of women from a very different backgrounds (whether that be occupation, religion, age, culture, lived experiences), I need to find a way to establish trust.  As this can’t be through language I am now very sensitive to ways which we look.  And by that I mean eye to eye.  Something magic is allowed to happen…

As a result I have formed connections with several women which really have touched some place deep in my heart.  These are connections that don’t come with any words.  I see them because they have found ways to talk to me.  As I have them.  Women who light up, who shine, who are clearly deeply connected to an inner strength and resilience which they share freely at any given opportunity.  Women who have bought to life the importance of our inner attitude, of the ability to find peace no matter what life presents, to trust that everything will pass.  Indeed I realized that for many of these women, the exile from the village had happened many years ago.  Many had now returned to their famines and yet still suffer greatly from the shame and memories that they relive every day.  In comparison, others have risen, either not so invested in their community’s acceptance or have simply moved forwards with their lives to the best of their abilities.

We began the day with a gift to each woman of a garland of marigold flowers.  I spied the three sisters peaking through the door, so I sneaked out and threw  three rings of golden petals over each of their necks. Three shy smiles to cracked their lips.  Three priceless smiles.

Yoga followed.  I repeated the same poses as the previous days, in the hope that they would take more than an experience home with them, and have embodied some movements, that could with practice, limber up stiff and aging frames.  However, I began to wonder how realistic it was for the women to find a space, time or will to continue this when they returned home.  Asana could easily be categorized as a leisure activity.  And leisure after all comes secondary to survival.  The first concern of the women is to be able to gather the essential commodities to survive – food, water and shelter.  Then of course there is the mental attitude to want to find some physical or emotional relief.   To be able to generate a belief that it is possible to feel differently, that life might not go back to how it was but it also needn’t stay the same.  After all this is an attitude which pervades all cultures:  The excuses that so many of us give to struggle.  And of course there is the final component of circumstance – of the actual physical space, time and opportunity to practice.   Yet after the session one of the women shouted out that when she returned to her village she was going to gather up her neighbors and share two or three different asanas with them every day.  She grinned, hands on her shoulders, circling proudly as she showed me what she remembered.  If that is the case – my contribution has been more than a novelty.

 The next session of the day bridged worlds between imagination and reality: Between an inner journey and outer movement.  The women were instructed to paint coloured light with their whole bodies.  Moving through space and internal limitations. Bringing colour to darkness, and play to frail bodies.  My skepticism that they would be receptive to such instructions was quickly washed away.  Through closed eyes rainbows were danced.  This led beautifully into an art class.  The class was simple.  It involved only two elements - a blank piece of A5 paper and paper plates filled with a few blobs of primary colours.  There were only a handful of paint brushes.  I thought of the complaints or even plane refusal to paint with fingers by women from other backgrounds and cultures.  Yet here today, these women had no such comments.  After all, many had never painted before – never put paint on paper in their  lives.  They were content with so little and carefully dipped fingertips into colours to create magic – transforming what was empty, blank, shapeless into expression.  The room dropped into a deep meditative stillness.  One by one women called me over to show me their decorated pages, their moments of creation.  The women from the tribal villages had their own style – I’ll call it “unconditioned”.  They painted anywhere on the paper – not just in the middle.  And their work/play did not depict objects or tell stories, but represented unique patterns and shapes.  In comparison, the survivors of domestic abuse who had grown up in the towns all drew the same composition:  A house, a river, hills and the sun.  The picture perfect ideal.

Lunch was another huge affair.  I watched the three young cooks take it in turn to run in and out of the compound, juggling huge bundles of fire wood as they navigated the heavy front gate.  Now and then a baby goat would charge in behind them, until it was chased back out.

The bael tree provided another moment for my memory. The women lined up in front of me, pointing to parts of their body and asking for a short massage.  I often think of the rather cruel and inhumane research carried out in the United States in 1944.  Twenty newborn infants were housed in a special facility where they had caregivers who would go in to feed them, bathe them and change their diapers, but they would do nothing else. The caregivers had been instructed not to look at or touch the babies more than what was necessary, never communicating with them. All their physical needs were attended to scrupulously and the environment was kept sterile, none of the babies becoming ill. The experiment was halted after four months, by which time, at least half of the babies had died. There was no physiological cause for the babies' deaths; they were all physically very healthy. Before each baby died, there was a period where they would stop verbalizing and trying to engage with their caregivers, generally stop moving, nor cry or even change expression; death would follow shortly. The babies who had "given up" before being rescued, died in the same manner, even though they had been removed from the experimental conditions. The response of the women we were working with showed clearly that maybe we can physically survive without connection and affection as adults, yet something within us thrives with simple platonic.

As I worked I closed my eyes and let my intuition guide me.  Years of cutting bamboo, of weaving baskets, of carrying countless children, buckets of water  -years of life in a tribal Indian village – had left its mark in distinct areas of the body.  Back and shoulders, hands and wrists were all bustling for attention.  As I opened my eyes I saw Murni – a young women in her late teens staring at me.  For a moment I realized how strange the scene must look.  A blonde foreigner hands working stiff joints of crooked women who were all brandished as witches.  

Murni had a young child called Puja.  She always had the baby on her hip.  And when either were separated both became anxious.  When Murni was wed just two years prior, as is custom here, she moved in with her husband’s family.  Yet her new family were not impressed with their new addition.  Even though it was an arranged marriage, it was soon to be arranged that Murni would be replaced and a new wife was found for her husband.  She was kicked out.  Baby in belly.  I often stop and pause, look around at the faces which stare back at me.  The stories which over the days have began to accompany them.  And I am left wondering that we really have no idea about the “what ifs”.  What if these women had not been branded as witches, sold into sex slavery, beaten into submission, made a homeless teenage bride?  I say this because what I see in front of me each day is a testament to the strength of the human spirit.  And I am weary about using that term as it is elusive and yet oh so apparent.  It’s the fusion of what can’t be seen, quantified or valued.  It can’t be taught or bought.  Yet it represents the weaving together of the shakti of women the world over.  The ability to rise up, to move forwards and to do so countless times and through countless years.  Each woman here has survived not just for her own benefit but to be a living testament and guide for others.  Each woman’s resilience - regardless of age, tribal or Indian – has the potential to be the spark of perseverance for another.

Wisdom Bodies

I’m beginning to wonder if anyone is going to show up.  I’ve worked on a hundred different projects around the world, often with grand intentions to be met with a tiny group of participants leaving me debating if my path is misguided and money better spent on a specific donation.  However, this mindset is putting the emphasis on quantity instead of quality, and what the years of social activism have taught me is that no matter the number of participants for whoever does attend it can be a powerful experience beyond any calculation.  Just like with any action we take which is backed with a compassionate and wise intention it is often very hard to even anticipate the long term effects.  

 

Once again my doubts were washed away as a auto-rickshaw pulled up and a huge group of women piled out.  Amazed at how they all managed to fit inside they cautiously rearranged their thread worn saris and huddled together.  Each woman had lifetimes etched in her face.  The majority were older.  Their skin was sun and time worn yet ages were hard to estimate.  A few stumbled forward with wooden sticks as make shift canes, hunched over, eyes fighting to see. Each woman was very dark, tribal skin – the original people of this land.  Born free from caste and therefore at the very bottom of the well entrenched hierarchy.  Chests, hands and feet bore tattoos from their ancestral line which were at first invisible but like a magic eye pattern, once I saw -  I saw many.  Eighteen women in total joined us, they had traveled six hours on foot, bus and now rickshaw and with very little idea of why they were here.   They were welcomed them with a sweet lassi – a statement of how the days were to continue.  They were our guests.  They would be fed good food, fresh fruit, snacks and chai.  They would be waited upon.  They were here to rest and rejuvenate, to strengthen and heal.

Urmi introduced us and explained the purpose of the workshop.  They nodded in response and then were invited to share their name with a movement.  This they did with varying degrees of gusto.  Some clearly unsure what to make of it all.

The story teller dancer (whose project this was) began by leading them through movement to sporadic music.  The music was sporadic simply because it was hooked up not with a plug but with wires leading directly into the outlet, so it kept falling out.  One of the Asha team attempted to fix it by sticking tiny sticks of wood directly into the socket.  It kind of worked.  Admittedly I was skeptical to how the foreign music, foreign facilitator and foreign movements would be received, but they were.  It was like a breath of fresh air had just whisked through the room and old bent bodies came to life.  I followed with some very simply asanas.  Primarily from the pavanmukatasana (joint freeing poses) series. The movements are basic and designed to gently lubricate the joints while strengthening the mind body connection. Urmi translated into Hindlish (ie. Hindu splashed with English) so I followed that she was telling them the body is like a machine that has to be regularly oiled and used to stop it from freezing up.  It I teach the sequence regularly and all over the world.  In comparison to my usual lycra clad students at the Yoga Barn, the women’s movements were awkward.  It was  like watching the petals of a flower gently thaw open after a frosty morning. It was a testament to their life of hard work and the luxury of having access to both the time and knowledge to connect to one’s body.  I thought back to my Indian friend in Kolkata who scoffed that these tribal women would know more about how to move and the practice of yoga than me. If nothing else, I hoped that perhaps a couple of them would remember some of the movements which may over time help to relieve tired joints and contracted limbs.  And in the meantime I could visibly see connections being formed – between minds and body, facilitators and guests.  For the first time I could also see the benefits of teaching through an interpreter.  Confident that if I said something too esoteric or inappropriate it would be congenially intercepted.  Continuous reflections came that a smile can melt away even the most convicted frowns.  Really seeing, and by that I mean speaking through eyes rather than with my tongue goes such a long way.  It was indeed clear that for many of these women they were not used to having such direct recognition.   Years of being ostracized, of being feared and taunted had worked its way into their very being.  And within just one morning of being invited to Be was a privilege to watch and at the same time a testament to the danger not of witches but of those who believe in them.  I really had no idea what to expect, yet soon they began to share their stories.  One by one.  Some survivors or domestic violence and others of the witch hunt.  And survivors is the key word.  These women are strong, resilient, powerful to the core.  I watched their words before I was able to hear them.  I saw flickers of emotion rising through posture and tonation.   Many of those hunted as witches had similar experiences.  Some it had been years ago, others more recent.  To my ears it sounded reminiscent of the klu Klux klan days.  Perhaps this was my vivid imagination but unfortunately as the stories began to correlate I feared not.  Women courageously recalled how they were hounded, made to eat human excrement, forced to leave their families, stripped naked and left in the forest to scavenge for food. One older woman who was perhaps one of the most reclusive in the group had a scarf tied around her head.  It looked very strange, as the others all wore their long graying hair tied back, with nothing than the occasional flick of the tail of their sari over it.  She began to tell her story.  She was accused of being a witch.  She denied.  She was given shit to eat and so she did and then to further prove her innocence she was told to go to the local temple and shave her head.  Although her hair had begun to grow back for any traditional woman in India to cut her hair was a huge shaming. Another told how she had stood up for her accused friend, now seated by her side, and then her and her family had also been persecuted.  One of the more lively women in the group, explained with great animation how now she would go to a chai shop which before would refuse to serve her, demand her drink, finish it, slam the cup down on the table in front of her audience and proudly walk out.  Holding your head up high as a named witch was being a true warrior woman.  And she was.  She had also been part of a three woman street theater group who toured the local villages, performing and educating on the violations of women like her.  Another boldly said the women felt good now.  Here in this moment, because we could see them, we were talking to them, listening to them, but when they went home they did not all have this luxury.  I was reminded of a panel I had attended on survivors of Indonesia’s many war crimes.  Of women who had lived through the 1965 massacres, of the East Timor massacres (1975-1999) and in West Papua 1998.  The panel strongly emphasized that until the women could tell their stories it was next to impossible for them to move on.  They absolutely had to voice what they had endured and then from then on they could begin to forgive, move on, grow from what they had survived.

The story teller dancer transformed the horror stories through movement.  She instructed the women to paint with invisible coloured light of their imaginations, use their hands, feet and back as a paint brush and to my amazement they followed.  Smiles lit up eyes, and the spirit of forgotten youth brought their frames to light. Once again demonstrating that yes her and I were from radically different cultures, with radically different lives, and yet though movement we could share freedom in this moment.  Watching her passion and emotion was truly inspirational, and another testament that even though this workshop would only last three days, it was three very unique and sacred days.

At the end of the afternoon we sat together outside, drinking chai and watching the days sky turn to dusk.  Asha was a sanctuary, and compared to the “modern” and suffocating hotel I and the team members were staying in, this was paradise.  One woman joked with us that she had the worse seat in the rickshaw, and every time she fell asleep it woke her up with a violent bump. She would jump up and down in her plastic chair laughing at her morning journey.  A hundred photos were taken, hands were held, my tattoo behind my ear examined by many hands and eyes.

As our driver (who had spent the whole day waiting for us, clearly with no other work and no intention to waste petrol on an unproductive long drive home) pulled the jeep out many of the women held onto me and told me to stay.  I wanted to yet I had been invited by the team and my place tonight was still with them.  However, I realized that my intention to be a bridge for the light and love of my special community back in Bali was being tangibly constructed.  When we arrived back in the hotel I opened my email to receive a message from Cat Kabira:

What you are doing is so important and worthwhile - you know this, your soul knows this. Just in case you're still questioning, what you're doing is 1 BILLION PERCENT VALID. You're on your perfect path. You are so empowering, refreshing and inspiring to so many. Keep it up -simply by being the dedicated loving human you are.

Grateful to the women who asked me to join them here, grateful to the women who I had the honour to meet today, grateful to the women around the world who support and encourage me to keep sharing, grateful to the women who have shared their wisdom and craft with me, grateful to the women whose line I am from and whose lives were so very different from mine, grateful for all the privileges I have had and continue to have.  Grateful.