Worth the Squeeze
"When can you eat?" the shopkeeper asked as I plucked my 6-pack from her mini fridge upon finishing a CBD pop-up.
Right now if I wanted to, I thought, glazing over the assorted snacks in her office. Instead I answered, "Tomorrow," thus breaking the 5-day juice cleanse. I was choosing not to eat. Paying, in fact for 6, cold pressed juices per day. Though I have a fridge full of food while refugees flee their homes with little more than a rucksack.
Why, then, to subject myself to such masochistic torture? To follow the Ayurvedic teachings of a yearly, spring fast; to give my overworked digestion a break; to exercise mental fortitude; to heal my relationship with food. I wasn't noticing food's presence in my life. Scrolling on screens at lunch, staring into space with handfuls of granola, oblivious to textures, flavors, the joy of eating. What became jarringly apparent was food's absence. My jaw and teeth softened from non-use. The once mundane routines of peeling carrots and waiting for boiling pasta evaporated as I reached for another juice, cracking a plastic cap my only meal prep.
Of course, I was expecting the ubiquitous fogginess of prolonged fasts, lower physical energy and mental processing power as my body adjusted to the shock. Unexpected, however, were the benefits. As energy had become a precious resource, I focused on each stair ascending the case, hoping I wouldn't have to make a return trip for a forgotten item in my bedroom. No longer could I multitask: text and small talk with my mom, plow through an audiobook while on a walk, search Spotify after departing the driveway. That too changed. There was no energy for irritation, much less road rage, for the motorist cutting me off, my emotions maintaining an even-keel. Though, perhaps I'd surpassed miserable hanger to a point of desolate surrender as the UPS clerks botched my printing job with a grunted apology.
Like in a large microdose state, my senses heightened. Musical beats became captivating, the treble feeding my Spirit. The aroma of fried chicken spurred saliva (bizarrely, for a vegetarian), my Stairmaster neighbor's sickly vanilla perfume repulsion. The soft glow around certain objects entranced my eyes. Was that a hawk flying onto a tree? No, just a mirage of branches. Time for a hit of fructose via juice #4.
How quickly though, my body adapted to not eating---that routine (rarely a ritual) I've been addicted to my entire life. After passing the initial hump of headaches and fatigue, days 3, 4, and 5 were comparatively breezy: never thinking about what I would eat next; if the fridge had ginger for dinner's recipe; longing for something sweet or salty (though a curious craving for umami, specifically wasabi, persisted). I floated through the day, existing a step out of sync with everyone else, it seemed.
What I didn't want to face were other addictions, noticing my increasing screen/scrolling time. On Friday night, I fancied a stroll through Marshalls, feeding an addiction to fast fashion and Korean facemasks. It was reminiscent of Sober October, as I replaced wine with ice cream. Why, then, didn't I want to acknowledge my addictions? Perhaps because googled synonyms for the word are "weakness" and "slavery". "I" can't fathom being a slave. "I" wants to be in control of it all, live like a queen with a crown of sand, since that's where its head is buried.
In past juice cleanses, I'd supported myself with cannabis, alleviating mental strain and physical discomfort. Of course, avoiding unpleasantness is our natural human reaction. A thorn in the thumb is swiftly plucked. And addiction is defined as "physically and mentally dependent on a particular substance, unable to stop taking it without incurring adverse effects." But is this discomfort an adverse effect? Or is it an opportunity to lean in, swim through obstacles and from the experience gather medicine for self-healing? Because, like everything else in the universe, discomfort changes, passes, morphs. Or maybe just my attention does. Perhaps the issue here is patience, sitting with the uncomfortable stillness and silence to learn its lessons.
After training patience all week, I flexed it at the grocery store upon seeing so many snacks, colorful packaging, flavors begging to be taken. But we were there for broth and veggies, prepping a celebratory soup that I'd otherwise deem bland. It was curated with more care than the murder mystery dinner I'd co-planned in high school. The knife's slap on the cutting board excited my ears; the scallion sizzling a glorious chorus with no need for superfluous music. I admired the broth's glinting oil like the Milky Way on a summer night, and the rainbow spectrum of greens from bright lime edamame to jungly bok choy. Even washing dishes was a refreshing joy, evolving to sacred ritual. Seeing the soup served in bowls brought a cheer from my beet juice-stained lips. I got to use a spoon! I blessed the basic veggies. Savored the warmth, the juicy explosion of zucchini, the fun of slurping noodles as a primal stress melted away to relief.
Centered again.
I'm sure the mindfulness will dull. That I'll have lunch next week with a side of screens. That I'll forget the joy of using bowls and peeling potatoes. Maybe that's why the Ayurvedic diet also recommends a weekly, 24 hour fast, keeping the focus and discipline sharp. As for now, I'm too excited to go honor some soup and use my teeth.
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