I was at my cousin Jerry Sorkin’s funeral. He had fought a death sentence of Stage IV lung cancer since August 2007—cancer created by the treatments necessary to cure the Hodgkin’s Lymphoma he overcame in college and before that as a teenager. The first-year survival rate for Stage IV lung cancer is 2% or less; he lived nine years. He was someone who faced pain and suffering on a level I can’t even begin to comprehend and soldiered on positively to enjoy a standard of life unheard of with his diagnosis. He organized the first (now yearly) Breathe Deep fundraising walk on Washington for LUNGevity to bring that foundation’s cause to the national stage. He became the President of his synagogue; the synagogue for his service was packed wall-wall. He had gone to law school and studied in the same peer group as President Obama, and Obama himself called Jerry’s family to offer condolences. Jerry had obviously meant a lot to a lot of people whom I’d never met.

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I got catfished once in Positano, Italy.

I have a habit of taking solo trips to destinations chock-full of honeymooners. As a single gay man, it drives me insane. I don’t know why I repeatedly torture myself.

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I’m laying on a yoga mat; my mind is going insane.

I’m caught in-between being over-gorged on a buffet dinner I’d went to town on (eating tempura after tempura at the time felt so good, justified cause I’m on vacation, happy-happy-joy-joy), being bitten alive by mosquitos swarming over the parapet, alternating cold and hot, torn between action and inaction, and randomly lying next to some creaking wooden window frame that is driving a hard wedge between me and mindfulness everytime the wind blows.

This is me at the sacred Tibetan Bowl ceremony at The Yoga Barn in Bali.

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Coming off my three week adventure to Bali, I can admit: returning to New York City haunted me the whole time. Not only because I faced a 28-hour flight (with eight-hour layover in an obscure Southern Chinese Airport where the barely functioning WiFi restricted all access to Facebook, Instagram, or the New York Times). But because it meant that fairytale, find-your-soul, fun time would be over, and I would be faced with the question: “So, do you feel refreshed?”

And: “Are you ready to get back to work?”

I like checking things off lists.

It could be a learned habit. My mother would usually do laundry while we watched movies as a family. Whenever I asked her to just sit and watch the movie with us, she would snap, “I’ll relax when it’s done.” She was the queen of multi-tasking. I have open three Safari tabs set to the NYtimes, Medium, and Facebook while I’m writing this, as well as my email client, Spotify playlist, imessages all open and I’m on hold with Chase to cancel my lost debit card. Taskmaster.

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The Mountain

Mount Agung — a volcano standing 3031 meters (9,944 feet), the highest point in Bali. Mount Agung — a 6 hour hike up to the summit (and 6 hours down), begun in the dead of midnight to see the sunrise at 6 AM. Mount Agony — a trail that went mercilessly straight up from the start. A trail of scrambling for purchase on pebbles and gravel, clawing hands into muddy embankments, hauling up lava rock on all fours.

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My dog is named Star. Star is the Magical Dog of All!

I participated in a sacred, heart-opening Cacao ceremony earlier this week in Bali. One may Google the details of what goes into a Cacao ceremony; this is a story about what I learned. It’s a story about feeling like a victim.

The ceremony began with that stereotypically ‘calm’ voiced Shaman inducing us to open ourselves to the divine Goddess, etc.…my New York cynicism was in full throttle. When I teach, my every aim is to not sound like I’m trying to fog up a window.

Incense burning in the low light, we were asked to set an intention. I wasn’t sure where to begin until an image of my mother floated into my head. I decided to go with that — I would intend to come to terms with her. She was my destination.

She is also dead.

How I met the Balian Medicine Man

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I visited my first Balian healer today.

I’d sought out mystical healers before. Kurt Hill, an energy worker and spiritual guide I used to regularly see in Chicago, once told me, “Life isn’t about how much you can take on; it’s about how much you can let go.” I think that he said that four years ago…still waiting for that train to roll into the brain station. I came to Kurt at my lowest point, a month after my mom died, after weeks of moving as fast as I could, working non-stop, bearing a feeling of melancholy but feeling no grief. I was numb, I was manic, and I was going insane.

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I am in Bali. I am in paradise. And not four days in, it has brought up a shitstorm of painful emotions up, right away.

People I’ve met here have told me Bali will kick your ass like this. It’s not just the whirlwind feeling of being a fish-out-of-water in a new country. There is something churning here under the surface.

I went to bed very early my first night in a gorgeous villa, draped in a mosquito net, thinking about whether I should leave. A massive storm raged around me, the sliding doors wide open (and yet no rain coming in at all… these villas are built for windows to always be open). Just the sounds alone of the pouring rain in the rice patties…this island may be the most special place I’ve ever been to. And part of my mind knows this, and the other half rages rages: Why can’t I slip into peaceful stream of this island.

When I began writing this note at 6 AM on my second day, while the sun was rising, I felt wrong — I should be meditating, should be quiet. But these thoughts intruded no matter how many times I tried to breathe them away...