Warrior Pose (57 page)

I thought it would be a great struggle, but after a few weeks, veganism isn't as daunting as I feared, especially because I've turned the entire process of creating a meal into a meditative ritual. I thank Mother Nature as I choose each vegetable or piece of fruit at the store. Slicing into a banana or a zucchini is an incredible wonder. I notice the color, the texture, the aroma, the seeds filled with intelligence and potential. Once the meal is ready, I say a silent prayer of gratitude to the earth, water, and sun that have joined forces to produce this miracle of nourishment. I contemplate the fact that this food will soon become me, that we are merging as one. I deliberately take smaller portions, eat more slowly, and savor every bite as delicious, healing medicine, being as fully present to the experience as possible.

I periodically fast for a few days at a time, and always fast one day per week. Before this, the only time I ever went more than a day without food was in the mountains of northern Iraq. It wasn't by choice. I just couldn't catch the chicken. Now, fasting is a central part of my plan. Every Monday morning I have a breakfast of fruit and grain, then make Morgan his favorite organic pancakes with maple syrup. I skip lunch and dinner, drinking only warm water with lemon. The
following morning, I have no breakfast, then break my fast at lunch with a light, organic, vegan meal of steamed vegetables, rice, and some salad. This gives me a twenty-four hour period without food but still provides some nourishment each day. The first few times I do this I think I'm going to die of hunger as images of steaks, pork chops, and salmon smothered in raspberry sauce float through my brain, taunting me.

Within a few weeks, however, my weight is plummeting like never before and I feel radiantly healthy. Still, hunger pangs arise almost daily. When I contemplate the hunger, however, I realize it's mostly a result of habit. I'm not really as hungry as I feel. All I need to do is slowly sip herbal tea or lemon water while visualizing that it's providing everything my growling stomach needs. It works most of the time, and soon I'm past the cravings for meat or fish—but I have to admit that instead, I now have periodic visions of heaping portions of brown rice smothered in stir-fried vegetables and a plate piled with fresh, ripe fruit that dance through my mind when I haven't had food for a prolonged period of time.

I rinse my sinuses with the water every morning. Once a week, I shorten my nighttime practice and head upstairs to the bathroom for the more radical procedures of regurgitation and enema. These practices still repulse me and I have to summon all my mantras, remind myself of my commitment, and compel myself to do it. I never get used to it, but I realize how purifying it is, especially on one occasion when I fast for four days and am amazed on the final night when I do an enema and continue to release waste materials even with no food in my stomach.

There's more. A practice I haven't mentioned. The
Pradipika
also maintains that drinking one's own urine can effect great healing.
Oh, ancient sages, how could you do this to me? I've totally bought into this science on every level, and now you want me to do this?
The
Pradipika
says it has profound effects, especially on cancer, but I can't imagine anyone remotely considering such a repugnant idea.

I think about it for weeks on end.
Go for it
, I tell myself every morning.
You must be kidding me
, another inner voice chimes in.
This is as gross as it gets
. Finally, I get the courage.
I'm all in
. I get a glass,
go into the bathroom, and fill it half way. I hold it in front of me. I'm totally disgusted. A deep breath now. I begin to bring the glass to my lips. Then I freeze.
There's no way
.
I'm all in
—
except for this
. Even a fanatic has his limits. I just found mine.

The
Pradipika
also confirms what all my Yoga texts agree on—purifying the mind is as important as purifying the body. With all the noise of society—busy highways, bustling cities, mass media, and television sets blaring everywhere—our minds can't help but be highly agitated and polluted. I now avoid all this as much as humanly possible, especially the television. Whenever I walk into a room where one is on, it feels abrasive, unnatural, and unhealthy, almost like an assault. It's now hard to believe that I was a reporter on television for more than two decades.

Along with avoiding sensory overload, I speak less and spend more time in silence communing with nature. I choose my words more carefully with Morgan and invite him to explore the silence with me. Tonight, as I'm readying him for bed, he jumps into my arms and says, “Daddy, carry me downstairs. Let's go sit on the front porch and listen to the dark.” It inspires me that he would come up with such a beautiful concept. I bundle a blanket around him and we tiptoe down, slip outside, and sit on the front stoop.

Without speaking a word, we cuddle together and “listen to the dark,” feeling the gentle breeze on our faces while gazing at a sky splashed with stars. The silence is like a symphony. Our closeness is beyond words. When I sense Morgan is drifting off, I carry him to bed and slip back into my cave. This is when my emotions feel most at ease, my mind stills more quickly than usual, and my evening practice becomes even more sacred.

Avoiding media and overstimulation, eating vegan and organic, fasting, performing daily purifications, and practicing advanced
Pranayama
are cleansing both my body and mind. It's easier now to slip into a state of meditation and be fully in the present moment. I feel a sense of calmness and inner balance that are deeper and
richer than anything I've ever experienced. I sense an inner harmony in my organs and tissues—even my bones—that seems to whisper to me that a great healing is taking place.
This is it
.

In the “Himalayan Cave.”

CHAPTER 38

Sacred Science

I
WAS MESMERIZED by Van Morrison's song “Into the Mystic” when I first heard it back in the 1970s. Now, all these years later, I feel something deeply mystical during my practice. It's beyond words, inaccessible to the intellect I've always relied upon to define my vision of life, and yet palpable—like something in the atmosphere that can almost be touched yet remains ethereal and elusive. It's the same sense of approaching life as a sacred, metaphysical journey that permeates the ancient texts of Yoga and offers a vision of inner exploration and transformation.

The original manuscripts are called the Vedas, which are estimated to be as much as nine thousand years old. The Sanskrit word
Veda
means knowledge, and it's said the Vedas were divined by sages who spent much of their lives meditating in caves in the Himalayas and ultimately accessed this knowledge deep within themselves. The Vedas speak of the mystical powers of nature, cultivating harmony between the mind and heart, the importance of being simple and humble. The teachings are organic and holistic in that they weave all aspects of a conscious life into a tapestry of balance and harmony. The wisdom is deeply embedded in metaphor, imagery, and symbolism, and it stirs my Soul.

A subsequent great text of Yoga, the Bhagavad-Gita (often shortened to Gita), is much easier for me to grasp than the Vedas. Some two thousand years old, the Gita is one of the most widely read spiritual texts in human history. It's set on the eve of a great battle as the hero, named Arjuna, takes his chariot to the center of the battlefield to view his enemies. Gazing out at the cousins, uncles, friends, and acquaintances in the army he must face in the morning, Arjuna despairs, telling his chariot driver, Krishna, that he cannot slay those he holds so dear. Krishna, who is presented as an avatar of the Divine, admonishes Arjuna, telling him that he must stand in Yoga and be a warrior. This conversation forms the Gita.

Although it's filled with wisdom and speaks deftly on the pitfalls of greed, self-indulgence, anger, fear, attachment, and ego, I'm taken aback by the imagery of the battlefield and human conflict. I thought Yoga was about inner peace, stillness, and silence, not the slinging of arrows and slaying of soldiers! After several readings, however, my understanding deepens. The Gita is an allegory for the ethical and moral struggles of all human life. Each of us is Arjuna, on the battlefield of our own lives, struggling with our inner dilemmas, facing our dark sides, and seeking to be the best person that we can be.

Each of us is also Krishna, who to me represents our higher Self. Therefore, the Bhagavad-Gita is ultimately a story of finding one's own power and living one's truth through the spiritual science of Yoga, which ultimately means unifying ourselves with our higher power. Arjuna's battle is a metaphorical one of transcending the ego, slaying self-centeredness, anger, and greed while learning to live in greater integrity. I know this struggle well, and each morning in my practice I strive to release my baser emotions and come to a place of inner peace and deeper truth. When I think about it, the irony is inescapable: I've gone from being a war correspondent covering external conflicts to standing on the battlefield of my own life. I now have to be a warrior in the quest to reclaim my Soul. This, too, is a central part of my organic chemotherapy: seeking to heal myself on all levels of body, mind, and Soul.

These ancient teachings are a completely new way of viewing life for me, but also connect me to one of my first childhood heroes,
Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi stood strong in his truth, was completely peaceful in the nonviolent resistance he organized against the British, called
Satyagraha
, which means “Persistent Truth,” and ultimately prevailed against seemingly insurmountable odds. In doing so, he not only liberated India from colonialism, he inspired the world. I remember the first book I read about Gandhi when I was in eighth grade. His life impressed me deeply, but what astonished me the most was a photo toward the end of the book that showed Gandhi's possessions at the time of his death. He was the father of modern India, but he owned less than ten things. They included a bowl, his sandals, reading glasses, and a copy of the Bhagavad-Gita.