flowers of bali

The market opens before the sun does.

By five, the buckets are already out. Yellow marigold, white frangipani, red hibiscus, jasmine in small tied bundles. Wet stems lie on wet concrete. The air is sweet, green, faintly fermented, full of flowers cut only hours ago.

The ibu who sells them has been here since four. She knows every flower by touch in the dark.

Flowers speak throughout Bali. Their colors carry meaning from one generation to the next, each one chosen for a particular offering, a particular place, a particular god. The ibu knows the language by heart.

Frangipani, jepun, carries purity. Its white petals rest on banana leaf at temple gates, warung entrances and the feet of old stone figures. The jepun belongs wherever a quiet blessing is needed.

Marigold, gumitir in Balinese, holds the boundary. Bright orange and yellow, slightly rough between the fingers. Long strands hang across doorways and ceremony entrances, marking the place where the everyday gives way to the sacred. Step over it carefully.

Red hibiscus belongs to Durga, the fierce protector. It appears at larger ceremonies that continue through the night, their music carrying across three streets. Its red has weight and purpose.

Jasmine rests at the top of the offering. Its light fragrance rises first, carrying the prayer with it.

Each morning, the ibu returns to a practice her hands know well.

She wakes before light and goes to the market. Her hands move quickly through the familiar flowers. Back home, she sits on the same step she has used for forty years, folds banana leaves with her thumbs, presses petals into place, adds incense, rice and small bites of food. Within minutes, the offering rests on the ground at the gate.

Once it is placed, she lets it go. The day begins.

Balinese people call this yadnya, a sacred offering made with full attention and released. By noon, motorbikes will pass, tourists will step around it and a broom will sweep away what remains. Tomorrow morning, her hands will begin again.

The petals wilt. Ants carry away the rice. The banana leaf darkens in the sun.

Its beauty lives in the care given that morning.

Before sunrise, someone made this by hand. Tomorrow, she will make it again.

The next time you pass a canang sari on the pavement in Bali, slow down for a moment. Let the fragrance and color meet you before you move on.

worn by the wonderer.

loustra.co