A Christmas Reunion in Bali

I received the long-awaited reply.

She had been working 10 hours per day in an $8-per-hour, no-benefits fast-food job to finagle time with co-workers so she could visit me.

Before she left America we spoke by phone. "I hope you still recognize me," she said in a trembling voice.

I answered, wrought by guilt, that it didn't matter what she looked like.

I had always wanted to remain close to my daughter. Now once again, I had that chance to reconnect.

I divorced when she was 17 years old; about the same age I was when my parents divorced.

Like my own parents, my wife and I were torn apart long before legal separation. I knew that misunderstandings and unresolved issues stood between us.

I had left her to fend for herself when her mother's drinking drove me to pack my bags.

I wanted to heal our wounds from the past, I also wanted us to build new memories together.

"I didn't know when I'd get another chance," was what I had said about my parents, too. The important thing was, to be honest with her about my feelings.

It might not be easy--hear things I didn't want to.

I tried to remember how I viewed the world, and my parents, when I was 22. I hoped that we could at least gain some ground in understanding each other.

I didn't know what her vision was   or whether she had one. What were the young woman's dreams?

I hoped that our father-daughter love/connection/bond would be encouraged. Guide us to be open, honest, and patient with each other.

I would listen, even if the truth, or her views, might hurt.

I wanted her to understand many things about me, too. I wanted her to know how I looked at my own, self-made life.

I felt she was old enough to relate and grasp the meaning.

Our relationship, more than ever, was about balance.

So I thought it would help if I told her how I perceived balance and I hoped the time and place for such a talk would come.

The long wait was over.

There she was -- rushing at me in slow motion, suitcase dropped, arms wide open, in shock.

Her face, a female, cloned version of my own, was full of travel stress.

We embraced, rubbing our cheeks like Eskimos.

My daughter gave me the first of my long-overdue daddy hugs.

Tears from her round, green eyes soaked my shirt collar as we stood there speechless.

I inhaled her perfume and felt her soft skin again.

I broke the ice and whispered into her ear, "Welcome to Bali!"

As I walked with her arm in arm like a proud dad to our taxi, I noticed why she was so nervous over the phone about her looks.

In the past year and a half, she had become weight-challenged.

I knew this wasn't normal for her and I thought about how to respond if she invited me to talk about it.

Along the road to my villa, she watched with awe as we passed by the deities and shops that lined the same road that first bore witness to my arrival years ago.

She wasted no time asking what everything meant.

The rest of the ride back to my guesthouse was filled with catch-up gossip.

The next morning, the island welcomed her. The sun rose with the vibration of an ancient gong.

Butterflies danced in a mad ballet above the bright flowers.

Morning dew dropped from the jungle flora like the notes of a plucked harp. White-winged egrets flew overhead with the soft flutter of a fanned violin.

While she drank her first cup of Balinese coffee the sound of chanting from the nearby Balinese temple filled the room.

A breeze kicked up and a group of colorful dragon kites took to the wind and defied gravity in spontaneous aerial acrobatics.

The loud cough of a broken motorbike muffler sent a herd of ducks quacking across the road.

Bali was in full swing.

For the next week over Christmas and New Year, I booked a villa on the offshore, peaceful little island of Gili Air.

Motorbikes and cars are banned there and transport is via donkey cart.

In the morning, we caught a fast-craft boat that had us anchored in the harbor within an hour and a half.

We were greeted by painted red, blue, and green wooden fishing boats that rocked on the water, like toy boats in a bathtub.

"The roads are all sand, everything is sand and seashells!" Her voice jumped a notch in pitch. "Everything is made out of bamboo!"

We hired a driver and cart, which felt like being hitched to a raging bull.

The donkey cart rocked so badly that we almost bounced off our seats onto the rutted road below.

"I like the beach, Dad. It's so dreamy. I want to lie out and get some rays. I am so pale," she complained.

I watched her observing the locals who were about her age.

I suspected that she needed a break from her guru dad and would like to hang out with other 20-somethings. In this case, the Gili boys.

"Let's get settled and find a beach chair and chill out Dad," she said, finishing her beer.

We soon discovered that our resort lacked the promised amenities.

It was rustic, with no electricity, no air conditioning, no toiletries, no drinking water, and no Wi-Fi.

She was taking it all in stride and set out to search for seashells.

Purple, orange, and pink sea fans decorated the sand like the bottom of a pet shop aquarium.

She picked one up and hooked it to her hair.

"What would you like to do tonight? I asked. There's a traditional Joged dance on the beach. Would you like to go?"

"That sounds awesome, Dad," she gave two thumbs up.

As the sun set, we found our private slice of paradise and waited for the show to start.

Ornamented young girls appeared in costumes made out of shiny gold headdresses and flowing sarongs.

They played gamelan music and told their story in dance.

Their eyes, hands, arms, hips, and feet moved wildly but coordinated to reflect the layers of percussive sounds of Gamelan.

"They're like cosmic dolls," she whispered. "Their grace is remarkable."

"Everything in the temples and ceremonies more or less pertains to balance. How to be in balance with the universe?" I sighed.

“The more time we are spending together. The more Bali is bringing us back into balance with each other."

The dance ended.

My daughter and I looked up at the last rays of sunlight bouncing off the peak of Mt. Agung.

"Ever since you were born and now more than ever since you arrived, I have been thinking about balance," I said.

"How can we be in balance, Dad?" she asked.

For the first time in years, my daughter and I sat together at a seaside table.

A gentle breeze caused the table lamp to flicker and the overhead lamp to sway.

The warung waiter set a bowl of rainbow-colored dragon fruit, soursop, mangosteens, passion fruit, snake fruit, and mango on the table.

I dreaded the thought of her leaving. I sat mustering the courage not to fall apart in despair.

My little mermaid broke the silence.

"I don't know what to think about marriage, having a child, school, my job, and things like my car," she said in a frustrated tone.

"I don't want to end up over my head in debt to a student loan and credit cards."

"Whatever you decide to do, hon, I will support it any way I can."

She finished the rest of her drink and then held the glass high. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

“Happy New Year to you!” I smiled.

If I could help it and I knew it unrealistic, it was to spare her a life of drama, dogma, ceremony, and misspent energy.

She was at a crossroads, figuring out about life and where she was going with it. I was also at a crossroads, asking the same questions.

I hoped she would leave Bali with a sense that beginning again was a good thing. It could be something we could do together.

I gave her some space and left the evening to herself.

She returned to the villa around sunrise and woke me. "I don't want to go home, Dad. It’s like I'm getting started," she huffed.

"Twelve days isn't long enough," she went on complaining. "I can't bear the thought of going back to being a sandwich maker."

“You’ve grown into your truth; it can put a whole different face on things,” I said.

“I am no longer the sacred key holder of 'the why.' You are," I concluded.

"I swear, Dad, I try."

As soon as her head hit the pillow she was under.

While I watched her sleep, I embraced how her trip to Bali was a new start for both of us.

The week in Gili passed too quickly.

Along the way back to the airport, the taxi filled with a reflective, temple-like solemnity.

At the terminal entrance, she said. “I lost 10 pounds." She put her bags down and hugged me again.

"The whole trip was unforgettable.”

I escorted my daughter past security.

To make sure she didn't get lost in the confusion of the airport construction, we hugged one last time before she crossed the final security barrier.

Our hearts had gone through an X-ray.

"I can't believe you're leaving. You just got here. I will miss you."

"Keep me in your heart for a while," she waved.

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