During the Siau Island trip, I was so focused on navigating each day—soaking in the adventure while staying (mostly) safe—that I barely had time to reflect. Between the nonstop activity and a brutal 14-hour time difference, sleep became sacred.
Only after I got home did it hit me: I snorkeled in pristine coral reefs, swam through crystal-clear waters, and visited an uninhabited island four times—once even staying overnight. At night, I watched a volcano launch molten lava into the sky, followed moments later by a thunderous explosion that felt like the earth was answering back.
Yes, I missed the dogs. A lot. Being apart is never easy, but the reunion? Worth it. I always try to make it up to them—both before and after trips—by taking them to the offtrail mountain meadows and ridges they know best, where the world is familiar and I’m forgiven.
Last week, I jumped right back into life—dancing on both Thursday and Saturday after flying 8,000 miles. But this week? Slower pace. Hard to say if it's jet lag catching up with me or just the standard post-travel blues. I still start each day with a morning walk and breakfast, but after that, I'm totally okay with doing less and letting my body recalibrate.
The good news: the teachers are already scheduling times for me to share stories from the trip, and that’s something I genuinely look forward to. While I’m traveling, I’m always half-thinking about what I might bring back to the classroom—details, images, the kinds of stories that stick. I think they’ll be especially fascinated by how close I got to an active volcano. It’s not just the drama of lava and smoke—though, yes, that too. It’s the resilience of the 60+ villages on that island, and how they live in the shadow of potential eruptions while also depending on the volcano. The soil there is volcanic-rich, perfect for growing crops—especially nutmeg. So the volcano is both a threat and a gift. Destructive, but also life-giving.
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Another beautiful night of dancing at The Rose. After weeks away on the other side of the world—traveling through Indonesia, soaking in its rich, layered culture—I couldn't wait to return to that familiar stretch of hardwood. The rhythm, the energy, the swirl of country twostep, swing, and fast triple steps—it’s more than just a pastime. At this point in my life, it’s part of what keeps me alive. I’ll be 74 in three weeks, and every night I spend dancing feels like a small, joyful act of defiance against the idea that life slows down just because the calendar says so.
There’s something deeply life-affirming about being out there in the music, surrounded by dancers much younger than me, yet all moving to the same pulse. And sure—I won’t deny that it’s a thrill to dance with younger partners. It’s fun. It’s energizing. But the real joy comes from connection, not age. I keep an eye out for the ladies who haven’t been asked yet—the ones standing at the rail or sitting quietly at their tables—and I make sure they get their turn under the lights before the night ends. That’s not a chore. That’s a privilege.
The fast triple steps still light me up from the inside out. By the end of the song I’m breathless, flushed, and grinning like I just pulled off a heist. Those are the dances that keep pulling me back to The Rose every Thursday and Saturday night. But as we creep toward midnight, I always hope for something slower—a mid-tempo blues or a soulful country tune that lets you settle in and really feel the music. There was only one like that last night, but my partner and I fell into step so easily, so naturally, it felt like we’d been dancing together for years. Might’ve been the best dance of the night.
click---------> https://journeywest.co4/20251103SiauandBunakenIndonesiavideo1.htmlOn fast songs like "Nothing But You" by Leaving Austin, I slip into my old-school triple step, moving counterclockwise along the outer edge of the dance floor. When there’s space, my partner and I mix in swing moves—fluid, familiar, and full of life.
And sometimes, if the floor isn't too crowded and the music hits just right, we land in that rare, electric moment. The emotional energy in the hall rises like a tide, almost too much to hold. That’s when the years fall away. I’m not almost 74—I’m just a cowboy dancer, lost in rhythm and gratitude.
After nearly 35 years of spinning, stepping, and swinging in this place, I still feel the blessing of it. Each Saturday night, I pull on my Wranglers, boots, and western hat, and walk back into a life that feels anything but ordinary.
And no—the years haven’t gone by too fast. Not when you dance through them.
click---------> https://journeywest.co4/20251103SiauandBunakenIndonesiavideo2.html
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I can be having a brilliant night—music’s pumping, I’m out there dancing like gravity has no jurisdiction over me, maybe even holding my own alongside people who think turning 30 is “scary old.” And then I make the critical error of walking into the restroom and locking eyes with the mirror.
That traitor.
One quick glance and it’s like the mirror hisses, “Aging detected. Confidence revoked.” It’s wild how age hides itself when you feel good, your joints are lubed up with endorphins, and you’re dancing with women who probably weren’t born when your favorite album dropped. But then—bam—mirror. Mood assassinated.
Mirrors aren’t for truth. They’re for adjusting your collar and pretending time hasn’t noticed you yet. Honestly, they should be labeled like cigarettes: Warning: May cause sudden awareness of aging and fleeting nature of joy.
But then the music calls me back, like a reminder that the present is louder than any reflection. Ten seconds after walking away, the mirror’s opinion becomes irrelevant. All that matters is the rhythm and whether someone wants to share it with me.
Most nights, they do. That’s enough.
The best dances are the ones where I become so lost in the music and the connection with my partner that I almost forget myself. Everything falls away—and what’s left is just the movement, the feeling, and the rhythm of the dance.
And similarly, I feel it when I tell stories in the classrooms. A good story pulls me in so deeply that I stop thinking about how I’m being perceived. I’m caught in the rhythm of the words, the arc of the plot, the silence of listening faces. I’m not just telling the story—I’m inside it. And for a while, that’s all there is.
That state I enter—where self-consciousness disappears, time bends, and I’m fully present—is called the “flow state.” It’s when I’m totally immersed in the dancing or the story, and nothing else interferes.
Hitting that flow state is close to the best moments of life—the kind that slips through your fingers when you try too hard, but settles in when you let go.