Confession: I once knew how to talk to birds.

Here is a chunk of my life. I don't usually like talking about myself in public, but I think some may relate.

I am born from strange, strange parents. My father was a professional trumpet player, then, for a long time, the only lawyer on our city whose hair would flow lower than his shoulders. He would defend conscientious objectors, deserters and anyone who had a beef with the system. The kind of people who pay later.

My mother was a painter, the perfect mix between an asocial hermit and your very own spare mom. She was the sort of person who would declare aloud, while lining up at the bank, that "love is more important than money and why are you looking at me like that?"

Details of my childhood are irrelevant until my 11th year, when we moved from a rickety, minuscule downtown studio to a full fledged farmette, lost in a pine forest near the center of St. Nowhere.

Mom decided to populate it.

From that day on, I spent my days in contact with many more animals than I'd bother to count, including 150 kilos of love in the shape of a pet pig.

Things tended to happen a lot, amidst this never ending woods. Understanding the intricate personality of goats, hens, sheep and ducks quickly became my daily task; to this day I still remember how to breed chickens.
We were practically off the grid, living from the produce we grew and gathered.

This mix of 'creative parents' and an every day life permanently connected to nature -want it or not- has resulted in several rather mind blowing revelations; the kind that only happen to you in your teen-age.

I will never forget the sparrows we rescued from a fallen nest, how we taught them to fly and how they would land on our fingers when we called them. I will always remember walks in the forest accompanied by a dog, two cats and, of course, the pig. I will never, ever forget the first time I had to face the unfathomable power of our earth when, one night, a storm felled every single tree of our 500 hectares forest.

It's not until I moved back to the city, 5 years later, that I realized how many, many people we craving for what had been my life so far. Yes I did run naked in the wood (somewhat) yes I did my homework perched in a tree (after which I took naps on the very same branch), and yes I did learn to talk to birds, at least a couple of words.

Yet, nothing is said of the buckets, the dirt, the swampy ground and icy nights, the coal stove, the secluding distance and the lack of drinking water. Searing summers and wicked winters they were. And hail or rain or whatever, the hens need feeding. Nothing more will be said, too, because it was all worth it.

Worth as in "worth paying that price". The price of hot and cold, the price of heavy and sharp, the price of far. Oh so far.

Now, here I am, half a world and half a life away from the farmette. And still I see people craving for the connection, for nature, for the feeling you get when the sparrow lands on your finger.

Some talk to the sky, to shapes, to themselves. Some fall silent, some just can't stop talking. They spin around, looking into their bodies, their sex, their clothes, their speech like a radar antenna.

It might sound patronizing, but I actually am sad. No hatred here; let the sky listen and who knows it will answer. I am not sad at their rites, their terms or their spiraling search.

I am sad because somewhere there's a fallen nest, and nobody to pick it up.

Confession: I once knew how to talk to birds. by Danny Hefer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

PS: Great many thanks to the many great members of Ubud community without whom I would have never come up with this writing.

Ubud Sans Yoga. Yes but why?

This cover is the only thing
Ubud and Ibiza
have in common.

Ubud, Bali is a fantastic place.

I hear myself say that a lot, although sometimes I get somehow confused when my interlocutor  comes up with mind blowing question such as "And why is that?"

Is it the diversity of origins and life stories you find when talking to people you meet there? Is it the eye scorching contrast between the many sub-communities of the place? Is it the soothing warm tropical climate and its corollary scores of topless simians (bottomless, too, as far as I've noticed)?

It's a bit of everything.

Set aside its hedonistic overtones,  the whole of Bali is a giant magnet for post-divorcee, broken hearts and refreshment seekers from all over the planet (or even Australia), as well as a good share of more or less successful entrepreneurs. Since long before a certain movie about Julia Roberts filling her stomach while fornicating inside places of devotions, spiritual travelers have been coming in as many flavors as it take to prepare a raw rainbow fruit cake.

Ubud, while being drastically different from the party oriented south of the island, shares the same kind of attractive power. Ten years ago, when the two streets and hundreds stray dogs that made this little town were known as "The Village of the Painters", Ubud had already become a safe harbor for a handful of peace loving individuals, if only a happy few.

The place is now teeming with life and offers more activities than most of the middle sized cities I know. Eateries, art studios, gyms, music shops and cafes, cafes, cafes for all tastes from the most sinful to the healthiest possible choice, a museum, temples, dance performances, jam session, open mic, salsa and, I'm sure, much more I am completely missing out. Also, a coffee festival, a writer festival, book launchings at every corner, a gong show (I skid you not) and... well, a spirit festival.

Ouch, I said it. Spirit festival.
Ouch, I said it again.

You're probably thinking "Why is that" and the mere echo of your thoughts leaves me feeling cornered. I'll oblige you with an answer.

It is nowadays impossible to walk up and down Ubud without crossing path with several members of the new-age yoga tribe. It is, on the contrary, perfectly possible in some areas or establishment to walk around and see nothing but.

Now, before you accuse me of hippie-hatred (why, never!) or being an agent 666 (or something), let it be clear that, fundamentally, I have nothing against our oh so colorful bohemian flower-childs. After all, you and I are dreamweavers of the totality... Nonetheless, not dissimilar to the everlasting vibrations of our co-creating energies, the new age trend is wrapping itself around the town's reputation like an opaque yet floral curtain.

As to be expected from a large concentration of the same interests, poseurs, quacks and random bullshiters are now on the rise around the perfectly sociable core of the community they pretend to belong to. As a result, some 'profane' blood is now understandably starting to boil in the view of 'sacred' menstrual cycle rituals, several kinds of 'sacred' lovemaking and other third eye openers.

Things being what they are (and even more today than they were before), the same people rise their voices against the fall of Mother Logic and the gradual association of Ubud with a number of those nonsensacred practices. Then, tend to rant and go home, not knowing how to sort out all those blasted dropouts when we're not even done with the hipsters yet.

Here, at Ubud Sans Yoga (cue the family factory somewhere in the Alps), we provide them, you, ourselves, solutions to voice out your concern. You can contact me on my Facebook profile http://www.facebook.com/brutal.opinions should you wish to contribute as much as I wish you to do so.

Ubud is, as said earlier, much more than its yoga/new age crowd and I feel that a blog dedicated to Ubudian's experience about everything BUT new age is the best way to let the world know about how fucking awesome the place is.

Oops I said fucking.
Well, it's a sacred thing by someone's standards... we'll survive.


PS: I'm not selling anything, stop looking.