Peter appears to have many pretty, young female friends. I swear, I have not met so many young women in the last two years as I have in the last two weeks. Well, but Peter is a very friendly, very outgoing fellow. He connects with people easily (especially young female people, I guess). Despite the fact that he is 68. But the point is, he is not shy about taking that step that is so difficult for many of us, to go beyond the passing nod or the polite smile. And Peter is not trying to be anything other than friendly, nor does he see any barrier in age difference.
So it happens that I have most recently been introduced to Irena. An up-and-coming 21 year old. Irena is perfectly fluent in English and smart as a tack, ready at the drop of a hat to express a well considered viewpoint on just about any subject--Balinese culture, lucrative business practices, academic studies, even Donald Trump and American politics. Doesn't like Trump, to put it mildly. Thinks that I look like Bernie Sanders. Likes Sanders, but worries that he is too old to do the job. Feels that Biden is nice but dreary.
For some reason, in the course of a long conversation, we ended up talking about the Balinese tradition of burying, after the birth of a baby, the umbilical cord and other products of conception (called Ari-Ari, a term that includes the amniotic fluid, umbilical cord, placenta, and blood). This is not only a Balinese practice, but occurs in various forms in many cultures around the world. I was aware of it vaguely, but had never understood what they were up to. It is very strange to an American or to a westerner, isn't it? To us, these products are no more than garbage to be disposed of in decidedly unceremonious manner.
In Bali, and among Hindu cultures in general, the products are buried in a very deep hole. The hole is filled in and a mound of earth is fashioned atop the hole. On this mound, various symbolic offerings are placed and a chicken coop, fashioned from bamboo, is constructed on top of the mound, to include chickens. All of these buried birth products are considered siblings of the living baby, the first family members who helped the baby grow in the womb.
Various other symbolic practices attend this burial site as the child grows and finally leaves home, still connected not only to his or her family members, but to those first siblings now resting in the earth.
Plain superstition, we in the west may say. And yet, does it not seem infinitely more respectful, more reverential than simply tossing the stuff in a sterile waste container? Is it all black and white, all cut and dried, or are we, blinded by science and sophistication, missing something of critical spiritual importance--a reverence for the life by which we were made.
So it happens that I have most recently been introduced to Irena. An up-and-coming 21 year old. Irena is perfectly fluent in English and smart as a tack, ready at the drop of a hat to express a well considered viewpoint on just about any subject--Balinese culture, lucrative business practices, academic studies, even Donald Trump and American politics. Doesn't like Trump, to put it mildly. Thinks that I look like Bernie Sanders. Likes Sanders, but worries that he is too old to do the job. Feels that Biden is nice but dreary.
For some reason, in the course of a long conversation, we ended up talking about the Balinese tradition of burying, after the birth of a baby, the umbilical cord and other products of conception (called Ari-Ari, a term that includes the amniotic fluid, umbilical cord, placenta, and blood). This is not only a Balinese practice, but occurs in various forms in many cultures around the world. I was aware of it vaguely, but had never understood what they were up to. It is very strange to an American or to a westerner, isn't it? To us, these products are no more than garbage to be disposed of in decidedly unceremonious manner.
In Bali, and among Hindu cultures in general, the products are buried in a very deep hole. The hole is filled in and a mound of earth is fashioned atop the hole. On this mound, various symbolic offerings are placed and a chicken coop, fashioned from bamboo, is constructed on top of the mound, to include chickens. All of these buried birth products are considered siblings of the living baby, the first family members who helped the baby grow in the womb.
Various other symbolic practices attend this burial site as the child grows and finally leaves home, still connected not only to his or her family members, but to those first siblings now resting in the earth.
Plain superstition, we in the west may say. And yet, does it not seem infinitely more respectful, more reverential than simply tossing the stuff in a sterile waste container? Is it all black and white, all cut and dried, or are we, blinded by science and sophistication, missing something of critical spiritual importance--a reverence for the life by which we were made.
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