First Published October 2005 at www.travelblog.org/bloggers/gypsygal
In a workshop about Eros and the Divine, and its significance in writing, our writing guru, Jan Cornall, mentioned that the principle of Eros is about “being alive and feeling alive.” Tapping into that energy, according to this Aussie performance artist/playwright/poet/songwriter, will help us in our writing process.
Meditating, Jan said, will help us utilize that energy, noting that as a writer and practicing Tibetan Buddhist, “desire and longing are intrinsically linked to my meditation practice.”
 
She then proceeded to guide us to meditate – with our eyes closed, our backs straight, breathing deeply. She asked us to think about a time that we felt some huge passion. To feel it, taste it, smell it, hear it. After about 10 minutes of meditation, she asked us to come back to the center, open our eyes and just write all about it in our journal. She urged us to write freely, without censoring ourselves.
And I wrote. My pen scribbling the memories of long-forgotten passion, feelings of desire and longing filling the pages of my journal.
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Writing, in many ways, is about letting go. It’s about going deeper into yourself, confronting your inner demons, and releasing whatever it is that’s holding you from surrendering to life.
I came to this conclusion after Maita, one of my mates in the workshop, told me that my writing lacked detail, that I’m holding something back, that I still write like a reporter – describing the facts, describing what I see not talking about what and how I feel.
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In the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying, Sogyal Rinpoche, a renowned guru of Tibetan Buddhism, discussed how impermanence is part and parcel of our lives as a human being. He talked about how grasping at everything, which is bound to change to begin with, is the main cause of our suffering. Letting go, therefore, will set us free.
 
“We are terrified of letting go, terrified in fact of living at all, since learning to live is learning to let go,” Rinpoche said.
I pondered on Rinpoche’s words as I lie down in the floor, legs and arms apart, eyes closed, breathing in and out, my yoga teacher, in her soothing voice, lulls us to “Let go. Surrender. Trust. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.”
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I remembered the time, not so long ago, that I refused to let go and just surrender to life. I was stuck in a job which practically retarded my growth as a journalist and as a human being. I refused to resign from my job, even if I was miserable, because I couldn’t give up the hefty paycheck, my fabulous flat in Singapore, the annual vacations overseas, the comfortable lifestyle. I can’t imagine going back to a poor country, to a life where
I have to watch every penny that I spend; to my old cramped room in Manila where I have to live with my overprotective parents (I love them but …).
Then one day, I woke up and it hit me. I can’t live like this anymore. So after countless meditation sessions, consultations with psychics, healers, astrologers; divinations with my goddess oracle cards, number crunching with my financial planner. After thinking and reflecting, feeling and seeking, I finally let go. I quit my job to fulfill one of my biggest dreams – to backpack around Asia. I followed my gypsy heart – the heart that finds stability in movement.
So I traveled around Asia – learned to snorkel in Pulau Sibu, photographed temples in Luang Prabang, worked on my breathing and asanas in Kuala Lumpur, trekked in the rural villages of Nepal, marveled at the blue skies and the forested hills of Bhutan.
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And then I returned to Bali – my second home, where I belong.
Bali seems to have this mystical energy that lures healers, psychics, artists, writers, seekers, priestesses, goddesses from all over the world. Bali’s full of people who let go of their former lives to recreate themselves.
 
Take for instance Maita, a slender Javanese beauty, who left her job, family, friends and fiancée in Jakarta to pursue her personal calling in Bali. She works in an NGO to earn a living, but she’s an aspiring novelist, and is now working on her writing.
 
And then there’s Liz, a Melbourne-based travel writer, who’s figuring out a way to move out of Australia and live in Ubud. Our workshop guru, Jan, is based in Sydney. But she keeps on going back to Bali to facilitate writing workshops, to inspire her writing, to just live.
In one of her pieces she printed in her zine, Jan sang: “Drive me forever to your rice paddy temple/I don’t want to go back to my life, it’s that simple/I want to stay forever, I never want to leave/It’s here I begin my rice paddy dream.
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I met another Jan in Peliatan. She’s a tarot card reader and co-owner of a new age café.
Jan, ex-corporate lawyer in London, ex-English teacher in Thailand, went to Bali a few years ago because one of her friends told her that she will find what she’s looking for in this island. For someone who’s into the arts and spirituality, Ubud proved to be an ideal place for this seeker. She eventually settled in Ubud, married a Javanese artist/musician, and is now reading tarot cards and offering workshops on tarot card reading.
I went to Jan help me exorcise a ghost which has been haunting me for the past few years.
Jan: The card says you’re trying to escape from something.
Me: Yes I am. I’m running away. My heart’s telling me to go somewhere. But my brain says no, I will just get hurt.
Jan: That’s your ego. Don’t listen to your ego. Follow your heart.
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I saw the artist last night in a jazz bar. I haven’t seen him for years but I know it’s him because he never changed – thick, waist-length hair, mahogany skin, a cigarette dangling from his long thin fingers. I didn’t expect that he’ll be there. I haven’t talked to him for a while. He’s a jerk.
But that night, I don’t know. I wasn’t mad at the artist. In fact, I even went to his table to say hi. He smiled at me, as if he was greeting an old friend. As if nothing happened. We chatted and I was happy that his life is going well, and that he’s happy that my life turned out well. We both moved on and we’re just pleased that we finally had our closure.
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I thought about the artist and all the men I dated briefly. I reflected on the fact that I never had a serious relationship. And then I realized that this is because I never wanted the artist or any of these men that I dated. I never loved them. My gypsy heart belongs to another wanderer – someone who understands my independence. And this is perhaps why I love him most of all.