A bowl of rice

A month has passed since returning home from my adventure in Bali. Bali, Bali, Bali. It's latched onto my heart and it just won't let go. The roots of this experience have planted themselves forever. I didn't realize the extent of it all until a recent escapade to Las Vegas and ordering Chinese food at Bills' Casino. We were in Vegas for a friends birthday party. Yes, Las Vegas. The complete opposite spectrum of the peacefulness and serenity of Bali. Crazy. What was I thinking? It's so not me. This painted picture of my identity to others as a tree hugger. In sin city? I don't know, but I still just wanted to be on the move and be amongst friends. Roll with the chaos, just as you would in Bali. Once you're on the move, it's hard to stop. Once you've up rooted, it's hard to stop. Go, go, go.

Vegas was a hoot. I had such a great time with friends, and laughed so hard, I had perma grin when I got home. My trip to Vegas gave me the realization of how much Bali had implanted in me. It all came in the form of a bowl of rice. At brunch one morning at Bill's Casino I ordered Chinese food. I don't know why, but it just sounded good. When the waiter brought me my meal, there was a bowl of white steamed rice. Purely plain white steamed rice. It hit me really hard. How the hell was I supposed to eat my rice? It's like I was eating rice for the very first time. A tug of war went on in my mind. Something like this.....
"Just use your damn spoon.....but I can't it seems so weird to use a spoon...I just want to use my hand...but I don't want all my friends to think I'm weird...or that I am trying to get attention.....just use the damn spoon....then none of this will cause any wanted attention".
For the life of me....two minutes seemed like an eternity....just to simply decide how I was going to eat my rice. My hand wanted to pick it up, pop it into my mouth and be done with it. I was starving!!
In the end I apologized to everyone at the table and ate my damn rice with my right hand. I didn't care. It seemed so absurd to eat my rice with a utensil.
It's funny how a bowl of rice can hit you like a brick wall.
And, it's happened twice now. Last week my friend Kevin and I went out for Thai food. The woman at the restuarant looked at me really weird, and urged to get me a spoon or a fork for my rice. I told her that I had a spoon and I had a fork, but that it seemed really weird to eat rice with it. So again, I ate my rice with my right hand. The waitress came over again, still surprised, but this time she gave in. She was smiling. She explained that her grandmother eats her meals with her right hand and it all seemed to bring back a feeling of nostalgia to see this American woman (me) eating my meal with my right hand.

I don't know what it is...but white rice reminds me of Bali. I never really ate much rice either, but now I crave it. It symbolizes so much more. Rice means so much. It is used in so many ceremonies. It's like gold. It's pure. It's a life force. All of this from a bowl of white rice.

My heart lives in two places. Here and there. Finding a middle ground somewhere in between is hard. I may struggle with this my entire life and I'm not prepaired for that. I'm already ready to go back....it's just a matter of time. For now, I'll just take it one day at a time.