Today was a full day.

More than that, it was one of those days where I caught myself thinking, I live here. Not because I have an address here. Not because I know every little alley or speak the language. It was something else. I felt seen. I felt loved. I found myself wondering how to make this way of living… stick. How to carry it home with me when I eventually have to leave.

Mostly, though, I just want to share the moments.

This morning, on my way to coffee, the boys on our street were busy setting up the stage for tomorrow’s festival. I stopped to tell them they were doing a great job. I also noticed a few places that could use a couple more bolts.

Now, this is Bali, and we all know everything here is held together by zip ties and prayers. But tomorrow there are going to be lights hanging everywhere, musicians moving equipment on and off the stage all day and well into the night, and those load-bearing supports are going to be asked to do exactly what load-bearing supports are supposed to do.

So I asked for bolts. And a drill.

They laughed. I wasn’t kidding.

I explained what I was thinking as I tightened everything up. It probably would have been just fine. It almost always is. But a few extra bolts now mean everyone sleeps a little easier later. Then I handed everything back, wished them luck, and left them to keep building.

I wandered into Seniman, which was absolutely packed this morning. I sat on a rocking chair at the counter, smiled at the baristas, and before I even had a chance to think about ordering, my espresso appeared. There are very few things in life better than people who quietly know your coffee order. I thanked all that is holy for espresso, drank it, and today I didn’t linger. I had places to be.

On my way up the hill I stopped to chat with Gusti at the little warung on the corner. She asked how much longer I’d be here, and when I told her about ten more days she smiled and asked if I was hungry. I reminded her that my homestay feeds me breakfast every morning and that after that I don’t usually want to eat again until much later in the day. I promised I’d stop by before I leave. She seemed satisfied with that arrangement.

Then it was off to Mikos.

I hugged Kochang, slipped into my bathing suit, and climbed into what may have been the most perfect pool on Earth today. I floated for a long time doing absolutely nothing except watching the trees.

Now, you can call me crazy. It won’t be the first time.

The trees were talking. One would bend ever so slightly. Just a tiny movement. Then another tree would answer back across the garden in exactly the same rhythm.

Boop. Bop. Bedeeep. Boo beep.

I know. I know how that sounds. Maybe you’ve heard it, too? That’s what I watched for the longest time. A conversation carried on entirely through leaves.

There were also these bees that looked more like hummingbirds than bees. Huge things. They buzzed around the flowers while I floated there listening to the trees gossip with one another.

Kochang never seems to remember that I’m rarely hungry. She does always remember that I’m allergic to bananas.

While I was busy communing with trees and bees, she appeared beside the pool carrying pancakes and watermelon.

“As a snack,” she said.

I laughed.

I’ve secretly been wanting pancakes this entire trip, but almost everywhere here makes them with bananas, so I’ve simply gone without.

Not today.

Today I sat on the edge of a swimming pool eating banana-free pancakes with giant bug friends, and honestly, it was glorious.  I am so damn spoiled. 

Eventually I had to wander home because my beet juice guy was waiting for me. I changed back into my clothes, walked down the hill, and checked in on the boys again. By then the stage itself was finished and they were already rigging lights. Keduk walked me through tomorrow’s schedule. The whole village wakes at seven in the morning for a parade. Then come the offerings, the food, more music, and after sunset… the street party really begins. Those are the performances everyone comes out to see.

The whole street is so proud of this celebration. The boys, especially, have worked so hard to put it all together.  

I’m proud to be part of it.

I picked up my beet juice, chatted with everyone there for a while about all sorts of things, carried it home, tucked it into the refrigerator, hung up my wet swimsuit, filled up my bottle with more water, and headed right back out again.

Kochang was waiting.

She was taking me to her village for another celebration. I climbed onto the back of her scooter, held onto the back of the seat and off we went into the Friday afternoon traffic towards Penang. 

This is what I really mean when I say I feel like I live here now.

These invitations don’t feel like they’re being extended to the crazy American woman who’s passing through. They don’t feel performative. They feel genuine. Yesterday I attended one of the most extraordinary cremations I’ve ever witnessed. A beloved priestess had died, and her family and community celebrated her life with so much joy that I couldn’t stop smiling through the tears.

Today was another celebration of a life well lived.

As a death doula, I understand this language.

Here, death isn’t hidden away. It isn’t whispered about. It’s carried. Sung. Cooked for. Prayed over. Celebrated.

The belief is that the spirit continues its journey toward another joyful life, and I find that breathtaking.

Life here feels the same way.

Wake. Give thanks. Share food. Build stages. Help your neighbors. Ride scooters. Laugh. Families don’t scatter here. They gather. For everything. 

Mothers. Fathers. Daughters. Sons. Grandparents. Aunties. Uncles. Cousins. Great-grandparents. Everybody. Living together. Growing older together. Showing up for one another every single day.

It’s noisy. It’s chaotic. It’s absolutely bursting at the seams with love.

LOVE.

All caps.

It reminds me so much of my grandparents’ house in Massachusetts. You never quite knew who was going to be there, but there was always room for one more person at the table. Always another chair to pull over. Always another story being told. Always enough food. Always enough love. 

Today, sitting beside that pool and later sitting in Kochang’s family compound, I kept asking myself the same question.

How do I keep this alive when I’m no longer physically here?

Tomorrow I’ll wake before dawn to help the kids with their festival. 

Yes. Of course I will.

Later in the morning, I’m meeting my friend to help with another wedding. Not because I have to. Because I want to. Somewhere in between I’ll sneak into Seniman for espresso, and much later I’ll wander over to Gusti’s for dinner.

I have this feeling that the biggest thing I’m bringing home isn’t going to fit into my suitcase. It doesn’t have to, though. 

It’s this slower heartbeat. This softer way of moving through a day. This feeling that maybe home isn’t always a place. Maybe sometimes it’s simply the version of yourself that finally remembers how to arrive and to make certain the cakes are steady. 

Thanks for coming along.