September 2018

I reminisce about Bali, about its distinctive scent of incense, about the ubiquitous tiny banana-leaf offerings, laid down so carefully and systematically for the gods. I see the parades of people heading for temple ceremonies, the beautiful traditionally clad women effortlessly balancing offertory baskets on their heads. I hear the dazing sounds of the gamelan orchestras accompanying the celebrations, and my mind soon gets lost amongst the beats of the bronze gongs and cymbals.

Nearly all aspects of life are permeated by spirituality here, in an island where early animist beliefs merged with Hindu practices and Buddhist influences, and where every day a great effort goes into propitiating gods and compensating demons, in the quest of balance and harmony between the opposing forces that constitute the world. I approach this spiritual world, notably far from mine, bashfully and with reverence. With a sarong tied to my hips, I enter the temples as a stranger only to discover that, despite all the tourists, the most welcoming smiles are waiting for me inside, and suddenly I stop feeling like I'm intruding.

I am aware that I'm still an outsider and that I will never adequately comprehend this conception of the universe, but for a moment I empty my mind and attempt to take it all in.