Doors Left Open

Our last week in Bali passes in a blur of tropical Christmas madness! Christmas. Films. Badminton. Family meals. Secret Santa. Laughter. Lovely rituals of being together in a clan in a totally different place.

I feel at home here. My feet like this soil.

And then, suddenly, it’s time to go south again. Back toward the airport. Back toward departure. Back …. home.

We teeter on the edge of leaving and time feels strangely elastic.

“I can’t tell if we’ve been here for ages or it’s gone really quick,” Reid frowns.

“Same,” I reply. “Time seems to have lost its meaning completely!”

The books I read on the plane as we flew to Bali now feel like they belong to another lifetime. The person I was when I arrived feels like a self from old movie that I no longer live in. I can feel what’s changed, even if I can’t articulate it yet.

“Are you excited to go home?” John asks Reid, which is a daft question as Reid gets his “English” Christmas with his dad on the day we get back. He’ll have Christmas dinner, crackers, presents and festive movies all over again!

Meanwhile, I’m just quietly open to see how all of this will land in my life. And, if I’m 100% I am also a tiny bit reluctant to leave.

The British bubble feels so different to what I’ve become used to here. I love the English land, the trees and nature and of course my family and community, but after weeks of moving within the rhythms of Bali, some of the narratives, media focus, mindsets and values of the UK feel heavy.

I’m not entirely resistant to returning … but I am also not dashing back with the same enthusiasm of my 11 year old who is about to open all of his belated Christmas gifts.

Our final night is spent in Jimbaran, South Bali, close to John’s brother and his wife so we can say goodbye to them properly. We eat pizza and gelato at a tiny, perfect place, then wander back to the place where we’re staying.

Outside, our little teak house, two rescue dogs lie sprawled on the steps.

I sit down beside them and start stroking th smaller one. Her name is Annie. She’s old, soft and has the loving, grateful warmth that appreciative rescue dogs seem to emanate.

As I fuss Annie, an elderly woman with sharp red lipstick and bright, watchful eyes inches toward us down the path. Pausing by our step, she leans on her stick and introduces herself as the owner of the place - and Annie. The woman tells us she’s lived here for years.

Rain pours down as she talks, warm and insistent, and she tells us stories of the land, the business, the slow rhythm of life here. I listen, feeling oddly at ease, as if I’ve known her a lot longer than half an hour!

The next morning, the rain is falling again; heavy, cleansing, almost ceremonial. The air feels washed clean. Bird of paradise flowers sway in the garden. Huge, waxy leaves glisten. A golden spider sits perfectly still in its web, poised, patient and - as John points out when I provoke it with a small leaf - most probably capable of jumping on my face.

Leaving the spider in peace, I lay out the last of our canang along the edge of the step. Light the dupa. Let the smoke curl upward.

Kneeling down, I set an intention … to return.

I’d like to return for six months, perhaps. Longer, maybe. I hold the thought that if Bali wants us back, and if we are meant to come, the way will open.

I offer thanks by placing down flowers … to all of the containers and guardians and wisdom I’ve encountered here. The places. The land. The rhythm. The unseen architecture that has held us for all these weeks.

Then it’s noon.

Time to call the car.

We pack slowly. Say goodbye to the dogs. Say goodbye to the girl at reception. Luggage scraped along the path, life folded (squeezed) back into bags.

As we’re about to leave, the owner calls out from the end of the hall.

“You off then?”

I go over and pull out a chair. John joins us. Reid too. As we sit for our car, we talk about living here again, about how challenging it is to leave when you’ve built something, especially a business.

“I’ve got the dogs, the land, the business. I’ve got the responsibility of it all,” she explains. “And at my age it’s tough. I’ve got things I need to do elsewhere now. Especially with my health and that of my husband’s. We need to go back to get treatments, here and there.”

Without quite planning to, I hear myself say, “If you ever need to leave for a while and need someone to look after the place… John and I could do that.”

The old woman looks up sharply. Then smiles. Nods. Smiles again,

“I know your names now, Bethan and John,” she says. “And I’ll keep those names to hand. You never know.”

As we walk back to the car, John laughs quietly.

“I was thinking exactly the same thing. I was about to say we’d come and look after her place - then you said it first.”

As we drive away, rain streaking the windows, I am content. It feels like that conversation was the final part of what is needed for us to go home.

Maybe it will happen and she will contact us.

Maybe she won’t … but the door has been left open.

And now its time to return home and step back into the laboratory of life.

To take everything I’ve absorbed here and begin experimenting with it in the real world.

Who knows what will happen when I bring this lens home - when the mischievous colour of Bali meets the sharp edges of the West. When ritual meets routine. When intuition is allowed to sit beside intention.

I’m interested to see how these worlds will fuse … whether the old patterns will creep back in, or whether something new has taken root quietly enough to endure.

I want to see how my own way of working evolves, how my understanding of deepens and my relationship with the unseen continues to unfold.

Whatever comes next, I’m walking back into it with a new lens … lighter, clearer, and far more alive to the quiet intelligence of the world around me. That’s exciting!

I also have the sneaking, delightful trust that Bali hasn’t quite finished with us yet. Yes. The door very much remains open.