Does Dewi Sri make a sound when she walks through her rice paddies? I listen for the rice goddess in the rustling of the stalks and the humming of the cicada. Do her footsteps resonate up and down the rolling hillside or does she move quietly between the rows? Am I imaging bare feet getting stuck and unstuck in the mud? Lost in thought, I reflexively swat away the hundredth mosquito of the day and go back to scratching the red lumps starting to form on my arms. I wait for her, my goddess, to bring me a moment of nirvana. While patiently waiting, I reflect. Should I quit my job where I have become complacent? Why do I not miss the man I left behind? Could I really master headstands if I move to Bali for yoga teacher training? Thoughts run over each other and get jumbled together into one tangled mess. A vast network of knots that seem to have no start or end. I look over the fields and make a silent prayer to any nearby deity willing to listen to me. A small ask to let me know I’m going to be okay. That I don’t need to panic about the mistakes I’ve made, replaying endless mishaps and misspoken words. That sometimes, when I find myself sitting among rice plants and coconut palms, I appreciate the moment. To help me be thankful for all that I have and to forget what I do not. How I don’t need a list of accomplishments or checks in check boxes to feel fulfilled. How, really, all I need is a way to escape to a small island trapped between the Indian and Pacific Oceans to sit on a bench and just listen.

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