There is no Shadow on the Equator

Geckos.

Spiders.

Cockroaches.

Frogs.

All manner of night jungle creatures.

Scurried back to the dark safety of their daytime hiding places. The rats that had thundered across my bamboo ceiling like a herd of stampeding buffalo. Now silent.

For the time being, I switched off my fan and headed to my outdoor kitchen to boil water for coffee. While the kettle worked up to a whistle. I swept last night's bat poop off the patio furniture. And settled into contemplation of my "one-way ticket" refugee status.

The silence of the Bali jungle seemed to resonate from the deep waters of the soul. I sat listening in hopes of discerning a clue, a sign, or any answer at all lying below the mist that might tell me what to do. I knew I had to avoid dwelling on "what ifs," to ponder instead the more immediate and relevant question: what now?

I survived the expat challenge for three years. But now the outside world had caught up with me.

It felt as if every belief I'd ever had about who I was. Who and what I wanted to be, and where I wanted to go, came together at that moment.

The pain of the past and thoughts of all I loved pulled at my heart in flashbacks. Flash! I saw my daughter. Flash! I saw my old house. Flash! I was on an airplane going home…but there was no home to go back to.

My adult daughter needed a caregiver pending a liver transplant.

Most mornings as I drank my coffee, an elderly woman called Nenek (grandmother) came by to bless my home. She had an ageless quality about her. She wore a head of solid gray hair. A broken, toothy smile set in a face turned leathery brown from many years' exposure to the tropical sun. Nenek had a hunched back that gave her bare feet a slow but purposeful walk. She carried herself with dignity and grace. Her bony hands bore flowers. Incense, and holy water. On a small bamboo leaf plate, which she offered to the gods. Who, in turn, would give a blessing upon the home and protect it from evil spirits.

Since before recorded time. Nenek's ancestors had made this blessing on the homes entrusted to their families. I was fascinated by her spiritual devotion to this simple, ritualistic routine. I came to look forward to her visits. The contentment that her blessing brought to my dwelling. Helped to ground me in this strange new world. Thereby loosening the attachment to my lost home. And bringing some closure to that chapter of my life.

The early morning mist that had risen from the valley's floor and swirled all around me was now vapor. The heat of the day arrived. I rested my foot on the table in front of me to inspect last night's latest foot injury, which appeared to be a sprained toe. Nothing new. I had sprained my toe three times.

It hadn't stopped raining at "Camp Paradise" for three months. As the last hazy glow of the obscured afternoon sun faded into twilight. I bid the day farewell with a local beer and a song or two on my guitar; a ritual that had become my custom. It had been a long time since I'd been intimate with my babe. Once the center of my life, I had neglected her and we drifted apart. There was a time when the instrument had served as a cherished companion. Guide on countless journeys to anywhere. It seemed funny how fingers dancing over metal and wood. Discovered friends, entertained strangers, and fill the void with dreams, hope, and love.

Thoughts of whether I should stay or go tumbled around inside my paradox; I knew there was only one option. Counting raindrops alone in the jungle wasn't the answer.

By losing the worldly possessions that had bound me to my old life. I was becoming like my amphibious visitors. Undergoing a metamorphosis from that which I had been into what I would become.

Nature will have her way.

Read the book!