Walking With Intention Day 27 by Badfish

Miracles of Intention 

by Badfish of Badfish Out of Water

Some days have a way of turning out differently than you intend. Some people might call this luck. Some people might call it coincidence. Others, serendipity. And some call it karma. The short, secular definition of karma is simple: “cause and effect.” You do something bad, you receive ‘bad’ payback in return. You do something good, you receive ‘good’ payback. Some wise men say that the cosmos does not care what you “intend” to do; the only thing that matters is what you actually do.

I may have gone a tad guantanamo on my persuasion strategies while trying to train the smallest-sized ants (out of the seven varieties sharing my rental house in Ubud) not to use my kitchen counter as their personal highway to some ill-perceived gastronomic nirvana of theirs. I don’t like killing ants. I don’t kill many living things. Sometimes when I slice a tomato, I imagine it feels my knife. But I wouldn’t make a good Buddhist because I will kill a mosquito or a cockroach, and feel no guilt. In the jungle in Bali, I’ll share a house with various creatures: spiders, geckos, birds, dragon flies. I’ll allow ants to walk on the floor, I’ll allow them to climb the walls. I’ll share the shower, the hallway, the stairs. I draw the line at the kitchen counter. But how do you train a jungle-wild swarm of ants to understand that “the kitchen counter is off limits, a danger zone and do not walk here, please”…unless you lay down a bit of collateral damage is all I’m saying, god.

I’m riding my motorbike, hoping to discover the road that leads to the far side of the Sungai Valley, which I overlook from the balcony of my house. I’m searching for the path that runs atop the opposite rim of this ravine. Though I’ve been to Bali numerous times, I’ve never seen that particular area before, never driven into that lush jungle nor past the few houses clustered along the rim. From my balcony, I’ve seen a couple motorbikes cruise slowly across that ridge, so there must be a path of some sort, but the Ubud locals who live near me, and the waitress in the Yellow Flower Café, cannot explain how to get there. But I intend to locate it today.

Long story short: I find the road that leads to the path on the rim across the ravine. I photograph Villa Setia—the house I’m renting—from the far side, and then ride my motorbike further down this unknown path, which leads through luxurious vegetation into vast, open rice fields. Most “roads” that lead into rice paddies in Bali are merely dirt walking paths, centuries old, built long before there were machines and motors, or the word “tourist.” The path I’m riding on is a freeway by comparison to most paths; this path is made of concrete, wide enough for one or, in places, two motorbikes. The concrete is bordered by rice paddies on either side. The path was originally narrower and dirt, so the path plunges abruptly, vertically, on either side and descends directly into rice paddy. Fairly precarious, but at least it’s better than a narrow dirt path.

As I round a curve and maneuver past a low-leaning coconut palm, I feel a nasty sting on my calf. An ant is chowing down on my skin. We’ll call him Arnie, after Schwarzenegger, because this ant definitely found a stash of steroids somewhere during his previous meanderings. He is larger than the largest of the seven sizes of ants sharing my house. Arnie is so big, I can see his eye glare at me as I lean down to brush him off. I feel his solid body thump against the back of my hand. I rub my leg, sit upright again, grab the handlebar.

If I were taking a selfie at this moment, I imagine my eyes wide as saucers. My front wheel hangs in mid-air as the bike sails right off the concrete path in slow motion, and soars straight down into the rice paddy. There is no time to feel fear, or to think of much more than one four-letter word, maybe twice in quick succession. Woosh, thump, splat….effing ant karma.

The mud is so thick, it holds the motorbike upright. The bike sits exhaust-pipe deep in watery, muddy muck. The field is lying fallow before planting—so, thankfully, no rice has been destroyed. But the rice paddy stinks. And when I say “stink,” I mean the most awesomely-horrible-fertilizer stench you can imagine. Not that long ago, the Balinese used human dung to fertilize their fields. Supposedly, they no longer do. But if you’re sitting tailpipe-deep in a paddy, you may have cause to ponder the possibilities, or wonder exactly what a water buffalo eats.

The bike is sitting in the muck; I’m sitting on the bike; the motor is still running; the exhaust creates ripples in the water, and white smoke is rising from the tailpipe. When I stick my feet in the muck to climb off, I sink knee deep in the stuff. I lose both thongs with sucking, squishy noises. And they are not dollar-a-pair thongs, they are pricey Crocs thongs.

I try to drive the bike out, but the back wheel spins as though sitting in a slippery pile of manure, which it quite literally is. Imagine, if you want, a string of words I might hiss at a time like this. Imagine me wondering just what might happen next. There are no AAA tow trucks here. There are no road-side-assistance patrol cars cruising here. There is no garage just down the road. There is no road. They don’t call it the third world for no good reason: it’s two whole worlds away from what we call home.

Imagine me standing on a crude concrete path, arms akimbo at my side, staring into the watery mess where my bike wallows and snorts like some brooding wild beast. Long story short: a good-Samaritan with a Swedish passport, but Vietnamese ancestry and stature happens by with his girl (she has a similar background, an interesting story for another time). His name is Thanh, which means “delicate sky” in Vietnamese. He’s an Asian-thin man and maybe five feet, three inches tall. A good six inches shorter than me. Delicate is right. Why couldn’t he be like seven feet tall and named Thor, Mac Truck, or Mountain. Delicate Sky?…come on, god.

Delicate Sky and I look at the mud. We look at the bike stuck deep in the mud. We look at each other. We know we are not exceptionally large men. Although we know we will not be able to pull that bike out of there, we shrug our shoulders with intention. Thanh’s girl covers her mouth with both hands; I’m not sure if she hides a giggle, or dismay.

Thanh grabs the handlebar end, I take the tail end, and we lift that machine straight up out of that mud and set it on the concrete in one swift motion with such apparent ease we stun ourselves. Then we all three burst out laughing. Thanh’s girl has a gap between her two front teeth, and radiates beauty and a warmth you can almost feel. Thanh is no delicate sky.

Anyone would have guessed that it should have taken many more than two small-boned men (a midget and a geezer, for crying out loud) to pull that bike out of there. Even small-engined motorbikes are not lightweight pieces of machinery. They are difficult to hoist on dry land. Try lifting one end of a 125cc motorbike sometime when there’s no muck sucking it down, when you’re not bent over and barefoot and unsteady and leaning into a rice paddy where your Crocs lie buried and stinking.

Some invisible angel bestowed another miracle is all I’ve been able to come up with. Some may argue there is no such thing as miracles. Some may argue there is no such thing as karma. Yet others might argue that sheer will power — the intention, even of small men — wields enough juice to bend the laws of physics.

And perhaps, those wise men were wrong: perhaps, what you intend can manifest karma on the physical level. My sister believed that. She used to say that I could “fall into a pile of shit and come up smelling like a rose.” But she was wrong. There is only so much an angel, a miracle or intention can create on the physical level. A rose is not what anyone smells like after wallowing in a rice paddy in Bali.


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always finds himself out of water.
He tends to a hermit crab,
downs Haagen Dazs,
travels the world,
collects sunsets,
moves on,


Written for Walking With Intention.  Leave a comment and let Badfish know what you thought about his take on the subject, and then be sure and visit him over at Badfish Out of Water.

About the author

I am a King without a Kingdom, in a world with many masters, wrapped in the spoils of a jealous heart, and my people’s callous laughter.


  1. This was a really fun article. I was right there with you in the mud. I could definitely smell it and feel your pain. And I’ve been there, not in the mud, but with the miracle of intention, having the strength to do something that I had no business doing. It was a great take on the prompt. Thanks so much for being a part of the series.

    1. Sreejit, first, thanks so much for manifesting this month of Intention. You’ve gathered some very interesting stories here. Second, I’m so sorry you found yourself right there in the mud with me…smelling stuff!! But thanks for being there.

    1. Judah…thanks so much for being here, and reading and commenting. Just shows that what we first think is a mess turns out to be something else entirely, maybe?

  2. This was a great story to read. I’ve been stuck in mud and I know that feeling. I’ve also experienced the unknown force that let me be stronger than I am. This is a great addition to the series.

    1. Dan
      I’m glad you found the piece interesting. Sorry to hear you were stuck in the mud (literally or metaphorically), but apparently you made your way out of the stuff! Thanks for being here and reading…

  3. “perhaps, what you intend can manifest karma on the physical level.” This is such an incredibly awesome write. I believe that if you believe in miracles then they are surely bound to happen.. as it did with you when you were stuck in the mud 🙂

    Thank you for sharing this amazing post with us 😀
    Best wishes!

    1. Sanaa…I’m a believer in miracles. I used to say I couldn’t get through a day without one. Little ones. And they appeared. The one in the rice paddy…well, that was a big one. I suspect I have a bit of a debt to pay the universe for that one?! Thanks for sharing your thoughts here, and thanks for your piece in the series, as well. I loved it.

    1. Karen, I’m so glad you enjoyed the ride into the third world, and I truly appreciate you taking time to read and comment. I can tell you this: there is a lot to love about third worlds. And a lot to learn. And…keep your eyes open when riding a motorbike.

    1. First, I love your gravatar! SEcond, thanks so much for riding along on the journey. I’m glad you enjoyed the sites, but sorry you about some of the smells.

  4. I sent this to a friend, Skip Buchanan, who wrote a little book called
    “Motorcycle Rules to Live By”.

    I think he will enjoy it.

    Me? I laughed out loud…several times. Hope that’s an OK response to your misery.

    My superhuman moment was tumbling down a long flight of stairs just before passing out from an extremely elevated fever. The miracle part was that I was holding my tiny baby son and we both reached the bottom completely undamaged. Witnesses called it a miracle.

    1. I love that you shared this with someone who might also enjoy it. I googled his title, but only came up with rules for riding bikes on some Army Post in Texas or some place. And, yeah, laughing out loud is one of the correct responses to apparent misery.
      OMG…falling down stairs is one thing, one could understand how you could survive. But with a baby in your arms! Yikes, I would have to call that a miracle, too. The angels are watching out for you. Stairs scare me. I’ve never fallen down any, but they seem lethal in every way. Cheers to superhuman-ness everywhere!!!

    2. Hello Badfish, Throughly enjoyed your letter. What I enjoyed most is a glimse into a man whose dance is about questions.

      A friend of mine, Kathie, emailed me your contact .

      skip buchanan

      1. Hi Skp
        Yeah, she told me you wrote a book. I googled, but didn’t find you??? Thanks for reading and commenting here. And…hmmmm…a dance about questions. Right, because I surely have no answers, or not the right ones anyway!! Thanks again.

  5. I greatly enjoyed the sense i got of you being very present with your environment and all the beings contained therein. Your detailed descriptions had me right there, maybe not in Bali where i have never been, but definitely in India, Mexico and Central America. From the lush landscapes in the bright sun, to the overpowering stench and being stuck in the muck one thing that touched me was the absence of judgment as in wrongness about any of it. Not in yourself, others, the ants, the muck, the stench… None. A sense of being… of being in acceptance with what is…..
    And finally with the lifting of the bike came a sense of a gift of ease from nature, from the earth. Although i admit that after reading your description of yourself and Delicate Sky i had a fleeting thought that the girlfriend was the levitator!

  6. Arati, so glad you enjoyed the ride and were able to sense my presence in that environment, so you could re-experience your time in other countries. Bali is a lot like those other countries you visited in many ways, and different in other ways. LIke, there are no tacos in Bali. And the aromas are different, but part of the experience. And you know, now that you’ve mentioned it, I’m wondering if his girl didn’t have something to do with the whole thing! I love your name.

  7. Reblogged this on chosenperspectives and commented:
    I have heard some of this story before and maybe it’s because I’m having the mother of all insomnia attacks this week, but when I read this version of my favorite blogger’s story, I belly-laughed several times. This will either keep me awake even longer, or will have exhausted me enough to finally sleep. Either way, I hope you enjoy a Badfish Adventure as much as I did.

  8. OMG BF I just found this! Brilliant story telling. I laughed out loud a couple of times and will pass it on to Don. Amazing what you and Delicate Sky did! Sometimes there are miracles. Really. I’m a believer 🙂
    I hope you get this comment so long after the fact. I miss your blog 🙁

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