I knew from the time I began writing my novels that this day would dawn.
In just over a month, I am leaving the sweet island I call home, the creative nest that has nurtured me through two businesses and midwifed two and a half novels through me. Bali, my muse, we are parting but, as I have visited you every year for 22 years, surely I will return.
Los Angeles, I’ll be with you soon. The time has come for me to speak out about transmuting sexual abuse into sexual health. The time has come for finding copacetic creative partners to turn the three Girl Submerged novels into film.
In the meantime, I am enjoying Bali to the max and writing every day. (I have been finessing Book 2 while birthing Book 3.) I have been wanting to experience the new Bali flotation tanks before I go and finally got myself there, thanks to my friend, Clem.
Decades ago in Los Angeles, after learning about the scientific research of John Lilly, inventor of the isolation tank, I gave it a try. Floating in salt-saturated water the same temperature as a human body, held within a structure eliminating light and sound, the lack of stimulation added to muscle relaxation is supposed to open the channels of consciousness. Expanded consciousness has intrigued me since my teenage years and still fascinates me beyond anything else.
In Los Angeles, I went to a Hollywood office building for a float. The tank in Bali is in a room with an altar, surrounded by peaceful gardens and rice fields. Both times, however, the first thing I encounter is fear. The tank resembles a coffin. When the heavy door swings shut, subconscious terror of being locked in filters into my mind. I test the door before lying in the shallow water, convincing myself I am safe. Like the Dead Sea, the salty water supports me, almost like defying gravity. As in meditation, I follow my breath. The only sound, other than my inhalation and exhalation, is the regular rhythm of my heart. Hearing clearly each heartbeat is for some reason startling, for a moment even disconcerting. It is as if having become conscious of what I usually take for granted, I am now responsible to ensure the beats continue.
Breathing through the variety of fears popping up, relaxation seeps in. Next comes emptiness. A quiet beyond lungs and heart. A blankness beyond darkness. Out of that stillness arises a mantra: Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo. The words chant themselves through my brain, softer than a whisper, over and over and over for the rest of my hour in the tank. I know this mantra from Kundalini yoga classes. I have practiced vinyasa and hatha yoga for more than 25 years, but only rarely Kundalini. Still, the Adi Mantra emerges as my companion while I float: Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo. I bow to the Creative Wisdom, I bow to the Divine Teacher within.
At home, I listen to Snatam Kaur Khalsa, the Sikh songstress with the voice of an angel, singing Ong Namo Guru Dev Namo. I read about how chanting the mantra at the beginning of a Kundalini class allows the practitioners to put aside their busy lives, step outside of time, and let go. The Adi Mantra is a tuning fork, a call from deep within to align, open and receive inner guidance. As I float, in the tank and through this period of massive change in my life, I bow to the light within me, guiding me and calling me to my highest consciousness.
