"Where is my Village?"

This week Chuck and I had one those "aha moments," a surprise in the middle of a planned trip. During a taxi driven tour of the island of Bali, we stumbled upon a big Hindu village ceremony with yellow banners lining the streets. We parked, put on our sarongs, and sat down in the back of the temple where the entire village was gathered. Three generations of villagers were gathered. all dressed alike in white hats, white shirts and colorful sarongs. We were warmly welcomed, the only White people in attendance, and proceeded to watch the celebration for hours. Groups of men played gamelons and sang tales of good and evil with brightly colored faces and costumes as "the evil ones." Women carried tall offerings of fruit and flowers to the altar. All villagers smiled, laughed, and cheered. An English speaker explained that this special ceremony occured once every 50 years and everyone born in that village returns to celebrate together as "one." Love was shared throughout the ceremony.

So, I was left with the question, "Where is my village?" Is there one place I can call my home where everyone knows me and my past? Being an Army brat, we moved every 3 years from one base to another to houses which all looked alike. Most of my American friends are transplants as well, moving many times in their youth and often across the country.

Now I call Portland my village, but it is not the same as that Balinese village is for its members. I know half of my neighbors but know very little about their early lives or their parents' lives. We in the West are missing this feeling of "my village" and have lots to learn from these Balinese people who have a true identity and sense of real belonging in this one place called "my village."