Field Notes

📓6 August 2026

Wish without worrying.

Everything in life begins with the energy of imagination.

Trust. Let go. Surrender.

Be lost in the unknown. The no-form.

Be with faith instead of fear.

You are safe.

When the discomfort arrives, know that it is the way.

You know the drill.

Go there.

Test your patience in the way even you don't understand why.

Run those fingertips around the repulsive, wet grouting.

Again and again.

Feel that repulsiveness arising, and be OK with it.

Trust that it won't kill you.

Then you will know, with direct experience, that it won't kill you.

📓1 May 2023

"Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise so I am changing myself."– Rumi.

Talking about how my innocent youth was so naive, believing that what I know would make things better, would make things better.

Thinking I could voice my opinion and that people would listen because it really was such a good idea (for me).

I love my younger self. Her heart is pure, but unfortunately in this reality it's known as naivety.

I read this and look inside myself with kindness but radical honesty.

How much time and life energy spent in an attempt to convince people—and for what?

Validation? Recognition? Approval of some kind. Just wanted to be right, all the time. I thought, "Can you please, just for once, let yourself be wrong and bad. Be fooled, and unknown?"

When I came back home after almost two months away, the dog I usually saw had just given birth to a litter of four or five puppies. Literally, on the street. They don't seem to have a home. She grew famished; her ribcage shows. She was in much better shape when I left; she didn't seem to be pregnant either.

I felt the melancholia sea rise.

I didn't want to go out to walk my dogs and see these suffering scenes around here. But avoiding isn't my style. I collide.

One evening, as I stood staring at the litter, contemplating the rising thoughts and sensations in my body, I met the mother dog who came by asking for food as usual. A starved ribcage on thin legs, carrying the impossible weight of full, swollen breasts that hung like sagging fruit from a dying branch. I worried. Thoughts flooded: should I interfere? What did I learn last time about rescuing Bekki? What am I trying to save here? Who is a savior when both are in despair?

I left them there thinking, why dwell on the suffering of dogs when all beings are in this suffering together?

What about humanity and other forms of life? Poverty I see everywhere in Bali, famished war refugees in countless camps, undernourished people facing daily hunger in Africa, wildfires that kill millions of lives—why dwell on dogs?

The essence of life is life itself. Not its form, not its meaning, not its label. The very existence of life has no other meaning other than life. Just life. Not the life of a dog, the life of a child, the life of my son, the life of the butterfly, the life of a tree, or the life of me. It is all equal.

A consciousness in this mass of bubbles, an immortal vessel that deteriorates through time. It is ephemeral, has no form, and no meaning. I have an understanding of this both at the intellectual and experiential level, and yet, still fall through the crack of the unconscious ego.

I need to be conscious of this attachment. And it needs to be let go.

I need to save myself first.

Up the Taman Giri hill heading for home, a tiny being with a baby sling rag wrapped to her chest approached me. Tiny legs dangling as the mom paced down the hill carrying groceries in both hands, her lips parted as she passed me with the most fulfilling image of the day.

The biggest smile, and a sparkling reflection of a sunset in her eyes.

I was saved—by a young, skinny, possibly hungry mom and her child that I felt sorry for two seconds ago.

They saved me. Not the other way round.

And in that moment, something changed in me.

The morning light is hitting the frangipani leaves just so, throwing sharp, shifting patterns that dissolve before the coffee even cools.

My mind drifts to a man.

A man whose works never fail to inspire me. We share the same passion—time.

People call his obsession with time a narrative gimmick, a clever puzzle for the intellect. But sitting here in the quiet of the garden, I see it for what it truly is: a psychological architecture built entirely out of the invisible.

Like when I try to draw rustled leaves and branches swaying in the wind, or capture a gleam of morning sunlight in my camera. How to bring a form to the formless?

It takes heart.

This man leaps, folds, and breaks timelines—not to confuse us, but to shake us awake. By shattering the illusion of a linear clock, he forces an acute, almost painful awareness of what most of us are unable to perceive.

We never truly see the value of a moment until the film reels backward, or until a century passes in a single gravity well. He makes us grieve for the present while we are still standing in it, highlighting the tragedy of our own blindness to the "current frame"—this very moment.

This is the tragic asymmetry of how our consciousness interacts with time—we only truly comprehend its absolute weight when it is either flowing in the wrong direction or slipping away entirely.

Like our breath.

The only proof of life we have—now in this moment.

But we don't feel the significant weight of it until we drown.

For someone who has spent more than two decades observing body sensations on a cushion, this isn't just cinema—it’s a somatic truth. In Vipassana, you learn that time is not a concept—it is a cellular reality. You sit, and you register the raw data of the body: the rise and fall of an ache, a pulse, a sudden flash of heat. Arising, passing, dissolving. Anicca.

Impermanence isn't an intellectual philosophy; it is a physical fact felt at the nerve endings. His genius lies in projecting this exact internal landscape onto many movies we love. He traps the inflated ego in its own desperate attempts to outsmart and control the clock, only to bring it to its knees through the ruthless beauty of the slip.

The shadow on the grass beside me has already moved.

Gone.

I am worthy of love and respect simply because I exist.

I learned early that the world does not stop for a dog like me. Feet pass, scooters snarl, waves keep their promises to no one. Hunger taught me to measure time by smells and shadows. Pain taught me which hands to avoid.

Still, each morning, I wake.

The sand is warm beneath my ribs. The sea speaks in a language older than fear. I exist inside that rhythm, and that, I've learned, is enough.

I do not own a name. Birthdays don't exist. I do not know yesterday or tomorrow. I have scars I did not earn and lessons I never asked for. Yet my heart still lifts when footsteps slow. My tail still remembers how to hope.

Most humans look through me as if I were air. Others look down as if I were a dreadful disease. But this morning—in rare, luminous moments—someone stopped and knelt. She met my eyes without wanting anything from me. Her touch was full of love. Her dog did a full, investigating sniff on me, but gently. In those moments, I felt it: not pity, not rescue, but recognition.

I am not worthy because I am useful. Not because I am cute or behave well. Not because I am chosen or not.

I am worthy because I breathe. Because I feel joy and fear and longing. Because I am the one soul alive under this sky.

I am a dog of the beach. I am here.

And that reason alone is enough.

📓11 November 2025

Rainy, cloudy, foggy afternoon.

I knew I had to slow down.

And I did. For the most part.

Allowing myself to rest is a sacred validation of self-love.

But there are some old, limiting beliefs that still hold me back and create a block. Maybe I should work really hard to make the book happen, even though it strains my energy more than an inspiration should. Juggling with the absence of the muse to write and maintain consistency here has already been real pain. A kind of pain hasn't borne me any fruits of success, but I still endure it day in and day out.

Unfinished business, books half read, and broken promises are stationery on my desk. Things seem to slow down, stagnant, but anxiety hasn't come knocking on my door. This proves the inner shift—I surrender to the energy of the waning moon.

Relax and release. Let go.

There's no point in dreaming it, but don't attain it. Making the tea and don't drink it.

But what is it that's still in my way? Why still hoarding, and wanting to do more?

My brain keeps feeding stories that feel true. I know they're told from emotional residue and past wounds, the cognitive bias. Stories like, "This ain't gonna fly, and I shouldn't waste my time trying".

So—I avoid the real work—writing.

But I know that what I avoid will control me.

And I know that avoidance feels like relief now, but it won't stay for long.

And I know that every time I dodge the discomfort, I strengthen fear, procrastination, shame, and other destructive villains that are lurking in my shadow.

I am not who I think I am.

I am not who I think I am.

Again. I am not who I think I am.

Practice being, because identity isn't fixed. It's a feedback loop of habits, beliefs, and repeated stories. You shape who you are by what you do over and over, not what you wish you did and who you wish you were.

Be conscious of the options you hoard, Kwan, or your action (and inaction) will be guided by the illusion you feed yourself.

Take a step back, evaluate life from a point of rest, and complete surrender. Prioritize and focus on what truly matters, you don't need to have it all—and perfect.

The 'pursuit of perfection' days are gone.

Don't let old fog dim your light.

While waiting for the train to Bern this morning, another train pulled up in front of me. Through a window slightly to my left, a baby sat on her father’s lap. The glass was two, maybe three meters away.

The baby looked at me, our eyes locked. Her tiny finger rose and pointed at me. Her face breaking into a smile.

I smiled back, and waved gently. Yet in those few minutes while the train idled on the track, her gaze held. Steady. Long enough to unsettle me, to wake something buried.

It felt like recognition. Too much awareness for a baby. Too intense focus. And suddenly I knew—I was not looking at a child. I was looking through her.

The chill came then. Not fear, but joy. Joyful chill that can break us open. Like meeting someone we had lost forever—again.

The tears followed. Quiet, unstoppable. Relief, almost.

Then the train pulled away. Gone again. I sat on the bench at platform 3, wiping tears with the back of my hand.

What a strange mercy, I thought. To be seen. To be remembered. If only for a brief moment.

Eyes are the windows to the soul. They say.

During the dark nights of the soul, I kept asking:

How does a lost person find their way?

I moved.

Not straight.

Spiral.

Sometimes up.

Sometimes down.

Sometimes toward what glittered, and away from what mattered.

I circled the center.

Writing was there.

It always was.

I learned to hold uncertainty.

To sit in the doubt until it thinned.

Not to rush.

Not to decide too soon.

A spider spins from the design inside itself.

We don’t.

We have to find the shape first.

We have to learn the edges of our own terrain.

Around and around.

From hope to hopelessness.

From dark to light.

Each turn brought me closer.

Closer to the essence of the Self, I always know it's there.

Some days, I wrote without a point.

Walked without a destination.

Read without seeking the lesson.

And still, ideas rose.

The world shifts constantly.

You shift with it.

When the pattern wove itself into me, I felt the energy change.

I was not the same.

I will never be the same.

The spiral turns again.

But I won't lose my way, as long as I am orbiting around the Self—my inner compass.

Individuation does not follow a straight line, but instead spirals, cycles, and returns—often appearing chaotic or regressive, while actually deepening over time.

You revisit similar wounds at deeper levels.

It feels like setbacks, but they are actually an integration.

You feel worse before better; clarity comes after confusion.

Dreams, archetypes, and synchronicities guide you more than plans.

Healing happens when safety and spaciousness allow it—not when pushed.

Spontaneous awakenings, downloads, and dissolutions of identity may occur.

A single insight may collapse years of believing.

And then you are free.

Read the full essay here.

Life moves at an unthinkable speed.

Tomorrow, we bring Bekki home from the vet.
Our home — just us three for seven years — will be four.
Tonight is the last night it’s only Wallie and us.

There’s a hollow in my stomach.

I tell myself to meet it with curiosity.
To see the possibilities, not the loss.
Not the longing for what we leave behind.
Say goodbye to the page. Turn to the next.

But here’s the truth: We are not the same as yesterday.
Wallie is not the same dog.
The river, the ocean, the trees — different.
Even the sun and moon have shifted.
Nothing holds.

Each second dies as it arrives.
So why cling? To what?
Why now, and not two seconds ago?

Anicca. Anicca. Sabbe saṅkhārā anicca.
All things are impermanent.

And with that, the sadness lifts.
What’s left is contentment.
Gratitude for the dhamma.

It's OK to be afraid.

Facing the unknown is your only choice right now if you want to progress. Trust that you have all you need for this courageous leap of faith into a deeper level of self-discovery. It's the moment you listen to your heart and soul, not your head.

Take that risk you're afraid of, and take it graciously.

Overcome the fear, and inspiration will flow through you as soon as you get out of your own way. Slay the beast that has been in it, and surrender to the outcome of your effort.

Come what may.

Come to the edge to discover that you can fly.

And you will fly 🕊️

The sky burns gold as the sun dips into the sea, and for a fleeting moment, everything looks peaceful. But my heart aches.

Somewhere, bombs are falling. Children are screaming. People are killing each other. For what? Power? Pride? Borders drawn in dust?

This loss—this unending grief—feels senseless.

As silhouettes move quietly along the shore, I wonder how the world forgot its soul. How do we let hatred become habit?

I long for a world where we choose love over bloodshed, where we remember that every life—every single one—is sacred. When will we wake up?

📓4 June 2025

I don't hit and run, it's not my style.

I went back to the scene to assure there's a wounded life I could save, or a dead body I need to clear. I cannot live with that doubt for the rest of my life. It will tear me apart every time I think back on that moment.

What happened had happened. Anything that happens in time is irrevocable. But I will do my best to mend it, to find closure, so that I can move on with peace.

I will not give guilt a chance to bully me.

And when all is done, I ended up saving the life of another stray kitten from that busy roadside. I had passed it on to a good hand, and it will live a good life now, maybe for a while, hopefully forever.

The feeling of this frail kitten on my palm when I picked it up off the street with no apparent injury, and then brought it to the next safe place, is far more rewarding than what I asked for when I drove back there.

I am grateful for my courage.

There’s a certain stillness that comes when you know you’ve made another being feel safe. I feel it sometimes—with Wallie, with my husband, with the strays on the streets of brutal Bali. This act of kindness doesn't seem grand. Often just a moment. But it touches the heart, and stays.

It has been a swift seven months since we moved to Bali, and at times, I still drown in grief.

I’ve spent most part of these months, especially lately, trying to figure out what the grief means. Not the big abstract grief—the world’s grief, though that too—but the quieter kind. The kind that sits in your chest and doesn’t speak until 3 a.m., when you’re too tired to make sense of it and too awake to ignore it (damn the sleep deprivation.)

I arrived on this island hoping maybe I could write my way to peace. But the days here are loud, and the roads are dense. The beauty is brutal. The suffering is everywhere—dogs limping through trash piles, people walking bare feet on a scorching bitumen. And me, trying to find poetry in it.

And now, I don’t pray for it to stop anymore. I pray to see clearly. To let it carve something honest in me. Maybe that’s the whole point—to watch the dust and not mistake it for the road. To know I’m not the pain, just the one watching it.

Somewhere in all this—grief, writing, silence—I remember who I am. I remember the light. That’s the part that saves me. That I still believe in the return.

That I still believe I’m already on my way Home

At least, there's a meaning in these harsh, suffering scenes I see every day.

Let me remember:

The grief is not mine to hold.

I am not here to carry the world,

only to walk it in truth,

to witness with loving kindness, and to be grateful.

and then to release it back into the wind.

This is an act of being kind– to myself, who also needs it, but often left forgotten.

WE live in a world where there's too much talking going on and not enough acting. We seem to forget a simple law of cause and effect– 'there's a specific cause to every effect in our lives'.

Or something simple like getting off our asses and do things in order to find out the answer we're looking for.

Begin taking steps into the wilderness of the unknown. Stumble and fall, and learn how to rise back up. Lose the way when it's getting dark, be terrified, but strive to kindle the fire to light the way. And you continue.

No action - no result.

Too many resources to consume, too much information and knowledge, freeze us in fear.

"Do I know enough?"

"Have I had enough skills and tools to go on?"

The answer is 'no', there will never be enough if we don't know how and where to put a stop to it, and make the meticulous research you've gathered act in your favor.

Great thinkers don't hoard knowledge; they systematize how to think, then act on it and make it into great books.

Stop preparing to brew the best cup of coffee if you won't drink it after.

Drink your fucking coffee. It's cold.

📓16 May 2025

There's a fly in the house.

I killed two mosquitoes already, and it's only 9 o'clock. I will try not to kill that fly.

Fucking pain in the neck.

I'm still mad. And still don't know what has caused this rage.

I will continue to write until I find out, or until things start to make sense, or until I'm healed.

Took Wallie out to the beach this morning. Fed the dogs on the street. I was relieved that they all seemed OK. Not particularly healthy, but not sick or in any kind of pain.

But then, on the way home, while driving past that humongous wasteland, I saw four puppies. Tiny puppies are maybe a month old, the mother was nowhere to be seen. They seemed to be having fun playing, but were dangerously close to the busy road.

I felt grief rushing through when I thought about their future, but I had to stop my head from feeding me stories that I'll never know if they're true.

Only the heartbreak was real.

I sent them metta. I hope they'll make it to a good life., and I kept going.

And I'm mad at Bali again.

Fuck.

📓12 May 2025

This little soul entered our lives seven years ago. And when he did, he upended my world, knocking me off my feet like no human being could. He changed me for the better and guided me to see my worst. To that, and a lot more, I owe it to his existence.

He's turning eight today, and for dogs, this is approaching senior years. I'm not fond of this fact, but also not mad at it. We have lived our best (and a few worst) days.

And I smile the brightest when I'm with him.

I love you, Wallie. Happy birthday ❤️🎂

P.S. I realized about two months after that he was turning eight, not even. And I felt a lift of heaviness from my chest. One more year. Three hundred and sixty-five more days full of love with him. What a present 🎁

📓5 May 2025

That scruffy, angry lady on the roadside.

Kicked a scruffy stray dog that followed her with a wagging tail.

I was so mad. Why did she kick him? What if I ran her over now, just because I was annoyed by her too? Fair game?

But then I looked at her face. The miserable face.

Yes, I forgot, everybody is wounded. We all live in some kind of pain.

If you need an excuse for being kind, start with that.

The angry lady, too, must be.

I sent them both metta.

📓13 April 2025

Today is another day that I believe Bali has favored us. Clear blue sky, with the rainbow in it. A reward after two nights of madness of thunderstorm that came in with brutally vulgar lightnings and thunder strikes that sounded like it could bring the roof down (which it did one time, two months ago, on the tree branch to fall and punched a hole in the roof).

We are savoring it at our utmost, while it lasts.

📓3 March 2025

In the wake of yet another darkest night of my soul, I wake up to the night terror of realizing…

“How did I let a whole year slip by?”

I hope it was just a dream, and tomorrow, I will still wake up to March 2024.

A lot has happened, yes, relocation and all.

But.

Life has turned the page, and now I’m settling here in Bali for four whole months, so long that even the most stubborn monsoon has left.

There are still twenty-seven unfinished drafts in my Draft section, a website that houses my essay collection that has had no update since ten months ago, and a fifty-thousand-word first draft of my book, which has been left cold in the forgotten drawer since December 2021.

And here, in the heat of the tropical island away from the wildest dream of winter in Japan, I still find myself frozen at my desk, in front of the screen, like I never left this place.

The place of fear.

Fear of not being enough — a delusional place we know doesn’t exit.

But I still turn up here every day for a magical thinking day like this. Like a terminally ill person hoping for a miracle cure.

What if today is a good enough day?