I Am You, You Are Me

"Tat twam asi.” This is one of the last things he said to me before he fell…

I met Wayan and Ketut during my first week at a yayasan in Tulamben, Bali. I was there to teach mindfulness and meditation to children, teachers, volunteers and staff. On my first day, I had the opportunity to talk to Wayan. She and her husband Ketut, along with the Foundation that supported them, had started this school dedicated to giving the children of this area English skills — skills that would keep them in school and open the door for college or jobs in tourism, where English is a must. Without this yayasan, most of these children would stop their education around middle school and go to work, but with the promise of a better life, they stay in school.

My daughter had been asked to intern with the Foundation that supports this yayasan, and in the course of her conversation with them, she mentioned what I do for a living. Since fourth grade, she has been the biggest champion of my work, I teach mindfulness meditation at Charlotte Meditation and co-founded Youth Meditation, a non-profit that brings the same practice to communities of children and adults. She has been the source of so many wonderful projects, and a month teaching meditation and mindfulness to adults and children in Bali would be no different.

I asked Wayan what motivated her to create this yayasan. She told me her story and of the loss of her father when she was young. Her mother had been a capable, bright, strong woman - somewhat culturally defiant in a society that demanded its women be demure and obedient to tradition and husband. When her father died, her mother wilted. This culture does not look kindly on widows, as their fate is tied to misfortune and lost status. Wayan told me her father's greatest wish had been that his girls be educated, and her mother saw to it. Wayan and Ketut want the same for their three daughters, — and for the children of their community, boys and girls alike — while relaxing the oppressive edges of gender tradition and keeping the generative heart of their culture very much alive. On first meeting, a hug isn’t customary. Wayan hugged me as we recognized each other in our stories.

That same week, I also sat with Ketut, and he told me about his culture’s relationship to death. He explained the ceremony held to release the spirit from the body, blessing it to move on to the afterlife. From a very young age, most children engage with the dead body as it is taken to the home to be cleaned and cared for. He showed me photographs of these ceremonies, decomposing and decomposed bodies among them. As he explained that the soul is no longer there, that what remains is just a body, something in me eased. I wasn’t afraid to look. I needed to look. It was time to understand the cycle of life as more than an idea I’d kept at arms length.

The following week, I sat with Ketut again. This time to talk about meditation. I wanted to be sure that I was teaching this practice without the influence of American values. I wondered if it would translate to the children of another culture the way it translates to American children. My time at this yayasan had already answered this question: this is a human practice. It helps us all, regardless of culture. Ketut confirmed it again with one of the last things he said to me before he fell:

"Tat twam asi."

In Sanskrit, this means "You are that." His own translation was simple, "I am you, and you are me."

I didn't know that he was telling me exactly what I would need to remember twenty minutes later.

The kids started screaming and crying; volunteers and teachers were running everywhere — for Wayan, for a car, for help, for anything! Calling an ambulance isn't something one can do out here. Ketut had fallen from the mango tree, a freak accident. My daughter (who was interning with the foundation) was right there and saw it all. As I saw her frantically pull the children back from the scene — the ones who had seen and the ones that wanted to — I knew I had to look. Normally, I’d have stepped back and let the people already in motion handle it. This time was different. I needed to see what she had seen if I was going to help her process it.

The man I was just talking to was on his back on the pavement, his eyes open, blood and spinal fluid pooling beneath his head. He wasn't moving. Wayan flew past me screaming his name, sliding down beside him and holding his face in her hands.

I could feel the tears coming as it sank in. As I held my daughter who was feeling the weight of prior loss while simultaneously processing what she had just witnessed, I had to process myself. I could not have just witnessed Wayan being widowed. Those little girls could not lose their father. My mind was racing — because this was my story, her mother's story and my daughter’s story. These were the conversations we had just had. This fear took center-stage.

Then one of the Foundation leaders found me. “Angela — all the kids are shaking and crying. Can you lead us in a meditation to help everyone calm down?"

"Of course”, I said. The tears would have to wait, but what could I say when I was shaking, what could I do to help them when I wanted to cry? Pak Ketut, Pak — an honorific for a respected man — was like a father to these children.I heard my own teacher's voice: “breathe”. I took a few deep breaths, and Ketut's voice came back to me — "Tat twam asi," I am you and you are me. Believing it wasn’t going to be enough. I had to act on it as Truth.

I asked the children to breathe — one breath, then another, then another. I told them their thoughts are energy and that they are connected to Ketut through the bonds of love that nothing could ever break. We would breathe together, calm our bodies and our minds and in meditation, see Ketut healthy and happy. We would feel that joy and share that energy with him. I led them into a silent meditation. When we opened our eyes, the children were still, calm, and some are smiling. I ask them to remember this every time they think of Ketut, because what he needed from us now is our strength and our joy, not our fear.

This was what we did in the days that followed while news of his condition came in spotty and conflicting. When word finally came, that he'd had surgery to relieve the bleeding in his brain and that he was lucid and talking — that is when I let myself feel it. The tears, the fear, all of it finally moved through me.

I don't tell this story for us to claim a part in Ketut's healing. I tell this story in humility and gratitude for a practice that doesn't just change how I see everything — it helps me see things I couldn’t have seen at all.

When there was nothing we could do, we could still help ourselves. And in helping ourselves, I believe we helped Ketut and everyone else. We won't get everything we want in this life — I should know — but if we are connected to ourselves, we connect to each other, and we can find a way forward, in support of one another and in joy, through this cycle of life.