I’ve been miserably sick with an ear infection for a week, along with feeling saddened by the recent events in nearby India. “Write about something that cheers you up.” Yui suggested, as I began to function well enough to fire up my brand-new Mac Book Pro. OK, then. How about: the arrival of the cruise ship “Diamond Princess” in Kota Kinabalu. . As I looked out of my condo window this morning, in she sailed. An ocean-going Star Trek-looking vessel, complete with an impressive bridge and engine pods. Basically a floating luxury hotel, big enough to hold 2,600 guests, four swimming pools, internet cafe, casino, and all the luxury extras. Only four years old and built in Japan, she weighs 113,000 tons and is 290 meters long. That’s a big four-year-old.

I’m not usually a cruise-lovin’ person, except for a small longing to sail up the Nile one springtime with my Asian wife, and see me some pyramids. But as the Princess sidled sexily up to the docks below my apartment complex I found myself pining for exotic lands far away.  And, later this evening when Yui and I returned home from dinner we drove past the Princess, lit up like a Christmas tree. Yui made fun of me checking out Little Miss Nautical Hottie with my binoculars before she sailed away into the night. Clearly, I was feeling better.

I wonder how much a cruise up the Nile would cost us?

Since my last blog entry the world has continued to change rapidly, leaving me feeling like a passenger on a small boat, tossed around by the waves of fate. I’m finally back in Borneo, after a long teaching trip to Japan. Concluding the fourth in the series of my Tokyo public seminars, Yui and I then made our way to Kyushu, the third-largest island, in the south of Japan. We enjoyed a hot spring spa writing retreat after which we headed to our final destination: Kyushu University, where as a visiting professor I taught a one-day course on relational therapy to undergraduates.

Returning to the world of news I was happy to see the oil price had dropped and was staying low, but less than happy to see gold slump into unexpected (and manipulated) lows. At least Iran has not yet been attacked, an outcome that may have been shifted into the next few months. I caught up on my reading about the so-called US financial bail-out (looks more like a bank heist, to my eyes) forced upon an unwilling American populace, an event then followed in rapid succession by the election of now President-Elect Obama. I am a little concerned at my own cynicism with Mr Obama, though. I guess after witnessing many of these political “changing of the guard” events in the past I’m less impressed by the rhetoric of change, more impressed by radical departure from the status quo. Thus far, Mr. Obama looks like political business as usual, albeit marketed to us with a likable and charismatic smile. Choosing Rahm Emmanuel as his Chief of Staff sends quite a Zionist signal to the world. Anyhow, like most of us I’m just delighted that the Bush Administration is almost a part of history. They can’t do any more damage at this point, can they? Well, just don’t bet the farm on it.

But the main reason for a low incidence of recent blog entries, my traveling notwithstanding, has been the relocation of this web site to an Australian server, in anticipation of possible problems with the US internet backbone. Time will tell whether this is a prescient business move or just a waste of time, but at least my Australian and Asian readers will enjoy faster download times compared with my previous US-based server.  I’m grateful to Bradley Spencer, my WordPress consultant and SEO professional, for all his work in making the server transition go smoothly. So, now I’m back on board the Internet again plans are afoot for more web site articles, as well as a series of education audio programs teaching how to use energy healing for self transformation and relationship health.

I love open-air Asian markets. It’s fun for me to join the throng of a gentle crowd, moving slowly among the tables (or wares displayed on the ground), each radically different from the previous one, maybe a local food, or craft. As I compare my retail experiences in American shopping malls with this moment I recall the cool, disinterested distance between myself and others. But here in this street market I am flooded and enveloped with a sensory contact with other human beings. The locals flow past me, shopping for family needs for the coming week, or looking to mingle, drink coffee, or hang out with friends. It’s not just shopping; it’s a community event.

This Sunday morning market in Kota Kinabalu, Sabah displays the eclectic mixture of cultures living here, each happily coexisting with each other and thriving in the economic emergence of twenty-first century Malaysia. Even the inconsiderately cleavage-exposing Western tourist is tolerated without hostility, despite the presence of some local women in modest Islamic clothing. But the market people don’t mind; tourists spend big money, and that’s just fine with them.

Occasionally in the fish-shoal experience of navigating through the market stalls  I’ll lose Yui, as something interestingly edible catches her sharp, almond-shaped eyes. I happily wait to one side of the ambling crowd, people-watching until she re-emerges into view clutching a new discovery, no doubt some fried rice something, or a banana leaf-wrapped goodie. Then we continue on in that non-goal frame of mind, wandering in blissful silence amidst the hustle and bustle.

It’s been many years since my nervous system has been this relaxed, I now realize. My emotional body began unwinding over the past fourteen months since leaving San Francisco for Hawaii, but it is here in the market that I am deeply aware of the impact left on my auric system of twenty-five years living in America. The dialectical motifs of US culture - “Right” versus “Left”, conservative versus liberal, support-the-troops versus tell-the-truth, corporate agendas versus the needs/legal rights of the citizen - continually erode meaningful human contact, sadly encouraging a soul-sapping suspicion about other people. While this cultural distancing clearly supports the corporate and political agendas in the United States, it doesn’t make for an ideal life for their citizens. Here in this simple, open-air market the populace is happy. Islamic woman walks safely by Christian man, Borneo tribal man walks respectfully by Western woman, and life goes on in a wonderful way. When I leave the market I am filled with the sights and smells of all humanity. I am enriched, and at ease.

Maybe I’ll stay awhile.

After several days in Japan, and a few weeks hiatus from my healing practice, we are now in the eastern Malaysian State of Sabah. I used to tell my friends it was the northwest tip of Borneo (which it is) but most people associate Borneo with, well, the end of the earth. True enough, we had to fly via Seoul from Japan to get here, but arriving at Kota Kinabalu airport was a frequent traveler’s delight. Those of you who have jetted into a relaxed and tropical vacation airport (minimal security and hassle) know what I mean.

The local East Malaysian people are wonderful, and the food is great. Our taxi driver was born to a local tribe and assured us his people had stopped head hunting a while ago. Good tourism move, local people.

The economy here seems to be good (despite high inflation and a recent petrol hike), because the shopping malls are full, day and evening. Or, like me, maybe people are desperately seeking air conditioning and a cold drink. I suspect both are true. The financial investors around here must feel bullish about Sabah’s future, because there is a huge Hypermall (1Borneo) almost completed just north of Kota Kinabalu. This thing looks like the size of a small American town. Oh, boy.

Yui, of course, is in Asian food heaven, buying up every local delicacy - sweet or savory - she can get her hands upon. Occasionally I will make the mistake of parting my lips during one of our market outings, and she will attempt to sneak something unknown past the guardian taste buds in my English mouth. Before I know it I’m chewing on something suspiciously lime green, vaguely moist, and covered in coconut flakes. I contemplate the sensation a few seconds, and then decide to take a chance and chew, usually finding it not so bad after all.

Curious? Of course you are! Go here for some photos of Sabah and Sarawak.

I’ve resumed my private telephone healing practice, and the phone lines to the rest of the world are as clear as if I’m calling from Japan. Despite a twelve hour time zone difference between Bor.., I mean, Sabah, my working life is back to normal. Now I’m here it seems the end of the earth is no longer so far away.

The final island on our three-island vacation tour is the incredible Yakushima, which lies to the south of Kyushu. The center of this eco-paradise island is covered in dense forest with spectacular waterfalls, and the coastline is a combination of Hawaii and Northern California. We’re here for two weeks, and I’m very excited to be exploring the hiking trails and meeting Sugi (old growth Cryptomeria trees). Blog postings until we leave for Tokyo will be sporadic; it takes forty minutes to come to the internet café, and then back again. And, I’ve got a two thousand year old Japanese Cedar to meet before it starts to rain!

Here’s a link to a wonderful blog posting, with great photos of Yakushima. Thanks to Jonathan (a fellow Brit) for his photo blog.

We’ve rented a cottage on Ishigaki Island for a few days. Our arrival yesterday on this, the second of our three vacation islands over three weeks, was uneventful, except for the bumpy, engine-roaring landing by the small commuter plane bringing us from Okinawa. After a morning bath it’s time for me to make my breakfast, which means overcoming the challenge of the cottage’s modern Japanese-style kitchen. As you may imagine, everything is small, which means Yui and I can’t comfortably stand in it, side by side, and cook. “Japanese men don’t cook, so there’s no need for a lot of room in the kitchen.”, Yui enlightens me, after listening to my pithy observation about how size really matters. I reach for the fresh eggs we bought before our arrival yesterday, and extract a frying pan from the slide-out rack built into the cooker that reminds me of something out of the Bat Cave. Everything in this vacation cottage kitchen has been well-thought out, designed by someone who wants you to have everything, but not have to look at it all the time. Western kitchens, by contrast, are big on display. In my Maui home the kitchen was as big as many Japanese apartments, and you just had to put out all your gadgets, storage racks, and kitchen implements to make it look homey. Not so here, or in any of the other Serviced Apartments we had occupied in Tokyo.

To cook my scrambled eggs I first have to turn on the burner. I scan the front of the cooker, whose buttons and displays look like they could launch a cruise missile towards North Korea if I choose unwisely. Yui’s psychic sense picks up my silent confusion from the living room where she’s watching the news, and she squeezes past me to punch three buttons - and we have liftoff. My pan begins heating the oil (there’s a butter shortage in Japan), and now I need to find the salt to add to my egg and tomato concoction. Fumbling around with Japanese-labeled containers while searching for the familiar sight of little white crystals, I feel like an alien fallen to Earth, unable to fit in like everyone else. My grumbles are growing in volume; I just want to cook eggs like any other adult, and to do so with a minimum of fuss. Now, where is the damn spatula? Like a genius I suddenly remember I’m in Asia, and I reach for the cooking chopsticks. Soon I’m stirring away at my scramble, in unusual contact with the eggs via the chopsticks, and wondering how I’m going to be able to turn the oven off without Yui coming to my rescue one more time. A lucky stab at a button, and the power dies with a happy beep. I’m convinced that the next generation of Japanese cookers will audibly thank me for cooking safely, and then wish me a happy day.

Out on the porch I settle down to my hard-won food, and begin to watch a video on my MacBook Pro laptop. The sun is shining, crows are noisy, the goat next door bleats in the background. Out on the road an elderly and hunched-over Japanese woman pauses to admire a flower growing opposite my deck. She sees me, and bows. I smile, and bow back, forgetting my foolish kitchen pride in her simple act of courtesy. After all, it’s the start of a beautiful day, and the eggs actually taste pretty good.

“Are you going to be OK?”, asked the Okinawan woman, in blunt Japanese. Yui and I were finishing our lunch in the southernly village of Chinen. My chicken curry dish had been uncharacteristically huge (by Japanese standards) and was left mostly unconsumed. Of especially concern to my caring hostess was the large amount of rice I was rejecting. Rice is more than one of the staple foods in Japan; it is the very “meal” itself.

” Thank you. We’re fine. It’s just that my husband doesn’t eat much rice”, explained Yui, attempting to soothe the situation as we paid our bill. I smiled and nodded supportively, not understanding the words but feeling the meaning behind them. As we slipped on our shoes at the exit, the woman rushed forward and pushed a package of Okinawa’s famous fried doughnuts into Yui’s hand. “My mother made these”, she said. A parting gift from the grandmother to the strangers who don’t eat enough. As a symbolic act it caught my attention - and moved my heart - especially as we were on our way to Sefa Utaki, an important sacred sites in the Ryukyu kingdom. You see, here on Okinawa, the local shamans are all women.

Entering the site at Sefa Utaki was stepping back in time, when it was the natural sites that held power for humans, not a constructed temple or church. The climb up the hill is paved with cobblestones almost impossible to walk on, twisting your ankles back and forth, resisting traction. It was initiatory just to climb to the sacred sites, as is often the case with the old religions worldwide. But we managed to make it to our first stop in ten minutes, to one site where the head shaman priestesses still perform their ceremonies. It was an ancient rock slab jutting out of the mountain, in a grove surrounded by trees and a few shrubs. I nervously took some photos, and began to approach the ceremonial slab for a closer look. But I had to stop, as the pressure inside my brain increased, and a quiet voice asked me to stand still. I felt the energy of the air around me shifting frequencies, washing through my system, a feeling both clearing and potent. Female spiritual energy is fundamentally different, in my experience, seeping its way into those parts of our energy bodies malnourished, ignored, passed over due to other interests. But here, standing opposite a rock face, in the presence of ancient spirit, I gave thanks. I waited. In those minutes of contemplation I ate my energetic “rice”, the meal, accepting the invisible nurturing that we Westerners reject in exchange for material comfort. When we finally left Sefa Utaki an hour later I was filled, contented, and sincerely grateful.

Tomorrow we leave Okinawa for Ishigaki, the main island of the Yaeyama Islands between Japan and Taiwan.

It’s been several weeks of work, to pack up and leave our rental home on Maui. We flew directly to Tokyo, and then I taught two separate Relational Healing classes, followed by a week of private sessions. All in all, we are both tired. “Let’s go to Okinawa, and rest for a while”, says Yui. She has all the best ideas, so I wholeheartedly agreed. A few days later I find myself boarding a Boeing 767 bound for Japan’s outlying island. I’m suddenly, and unnervingly, surrounded by huge numbers of children, and their young families. “It’s Golden Week”, my Japanese-born wife informs me, knowingly. “Okinawa will be crowded.”

I’m excited to visit Okinawa, partly because in my youth I studied Shotokan Karate, a martial art that originated on this island. My brother and I spent two years punching and kicking our way to brown belt level, and still joke about it today, in the way brothers do as they bond over shared - and happily distorted - memories.

I grunt uncharitably, as I squeeze myself into a tiny Japanese aircraft seat that makes me feel as though I’m seven feet tall. Then, my eye catches a colorful curtain in front of me, looking like a young child’s bedroom wallpaper. There is something odd about this aircraft, as though it is designed just for kids. I see the flight attendants are all wearing matching kiddie-colored aprons, handing out kiddie-colored pillows for the two-hour flight. A quick consultation with Yui and I’m told.. we are flying on a Pokemon jet!

My Western desire to appear adult in situations like this melts away, and I regress to six years old. Not a stretch for me, by the way. I look out onto the tarmac, and there, in perfect synchrony, two runway workers are waving the jet on it’s way. Around me, real six-year olds are smilingly waving back to the men, as the big jet moves away from the terminal.

Ah, Japan. What’s not to love..