✦ Temples

Bali Temples are part of my path.
They call me suddenly.
Each visit offers something unexpected — an inner opening, a silence that rearranges, a sense of home I did not anticipate.
These experiences shape how I create now and how I hold space for others.

I didn’t plan to find them. I certainly didn’t plan to be found by them. But that’s what happened. Somewhere between coincidence and inevitability, the temples of Bali began to open — not as destinations, not as rituals, not even as traditions — but as living thresholds that seemed to know something about me I hadn’t yet remembered.

Just a day ago I was taken to a temple I didn’t know existed, by a man who thought he was guiding me. In truth, he was just answering something neither of us could name. The path silent — but as we arrived, something shifted in the air, as if the space had been waiting.

Temples have become part of my path. Not as symbolic settings, but as actual initiatory forces — places where something inside me changes without effort, without explanation, without warning. I don’t go to them on schedule. I don’t seek them out. But when they call me, my guide hears the calling as well and he and I go. He with an offering in hands, me sometimes with nothing but silence.
Sometimes I am met. Sometimes I am tested. But always, I am rearranged.

These places are not for decoration. They are not for performance or spiritual identity. They are alive. They undo you. They reveal. They listen more than they speak. And when they do speak, they speak in a language that doesn’t require translation.

I don’t share everything that happens there. Some things are not meant to be written.
But what I do share, I share as someone who continues to be changed by places older than memory and more precise than words.

If one of these stories finds you, it’s not by accident. And if a gate opens, even just for a moment — enter.

Soul Record No_ x
— Fire and Ocean

She doesn’t ask where they’re going.
She already knows — if he’s driving, it’s never a straight road.

He doesn’t plan with a map, He plans with heat.
That kind of fire that doesn’t light candles — it cracks stones.

He showed up. Like a storm with no warning.
Like silence right before the scream.

It’s their third journey.
Temples. Sweat. Prayers.
She goes because something in her chest won’t let her stay.
He goes because he can’t stop.
Together they move like riptide and lava — not safe, not slow, but real.

He prays. She listens.
In one temple, something grips her lungs.
No warning. It clenches her from the inside —
spine, ribs, gut — like a hand closing in the dark.

She’s shaking. Her skin screams.
She doesn’t faint. Doesn’t speak.
Just holds it,
like women do —
until the scream finds its own way out:

Why ? Why ? Why did you leave me?

Not hers.
Someones. But it lives in her now.

And then another temple. And another. Their body–time–space stretches,
as if they’ve been traveling not for a day, but for a whole week.
They return.

And just like that — he vanishes.
A text. Colder than stone:
“I won’t work with you anymore.”

Like the whole day didn’t happen.
Like she hadn’t just cracked open the earth with her bare breath.

She sits in the dark. Starts painting.
Not thinking. Just following the pull.

And then it hits — that voice again.
But now it’s louder. Rawer. Clearer

Why did you leave me… why did you leave me, Mother?

It’s him, it always was..
But it’s also more than him.
It’s all of them.
Every man, abandoned. Given away before they had a name.

He cracked open a portal.
Not just to his pain. To theirs.

She paints —
to bleed the shadow into color. For the human Earth.
For the unasked. For the silenced rage.
To bleed it out. For the human Earth.

For the ones who never got asked what they felt.
For the ones whose rage turned into silence.

The temple still echoes.
The painting is still unfinished. The prayer still burns.
Earth human Healing, a ritual.
The one that opens the next door.

She says it quietly, as if afraid that if she says it too loud,
something might scatter and vanish.
But she can’t not say it anymore. — I want to work with men.

To carry water when they burn.
And to paint, when there’s no other way.