What Nourishes by Lexie Wolf
There is an Ayurvedic center here, with a couple of doctors on staff, and they’ve been kept busy during our training. Fifty-four of us from all over the world converged this January to live and practice together, which includes strong breathwork practices in tight rooms… what could possibly go wrong?
I was one of the first to fall. By day four or so I was in bed shivering and sweating with what felt like a serious fever. Bill sweetly nursed me in between sessions, returning after that day’s morning journey—our amazing daily ninety-minute practice—elevated and sweaty, cleansed and clear. My head felt like it might split in two, but I was still able to summon quite a bit of FOMO. And then again later, when Bill came back from satsang looking inspired and blissed out.
Ayurveda is something of a sacred cow here, and perhaps for some of our yoga community back home as well. I’ll admit I remain a little skeptical—not dismissive, just discerning. Yoga’s understanding of the nature of the universe has been extensively supported by modern physics. The ancient yogis’ understanding of the mind has been largely affirmed by neuroscience. Yoga’s sister science, Ayurveda, turns its attention toward the body—nutrition, digestion, physical health—and it’s perhaps unsurprising that modern medicine hasn’t been quite as validating of all of its principles.
Still, Bill knew I was feeling pretty bad when I asked him to fetch an Ayurvedic doctor to the room.
She came, looked me over, and handed me some mysterious green tablets. She prescribed turmeric added to the steaming ginger tea we drink all day here (which truly is amazing), and salt and lemon to gargle with. NO FRUIT! she admonished, when I told her all I could keep down was the pineapple from breakfast. Kitchari only for two days—a soft yellow porridge of lentils, rice, and spices.
Bill and I had a giggle about my being sentenced to two days of kitchari, since I’m not terribly fond of the beautiful, wholesome, healthy (and, to my taste, bland) Ayurvedic food they serve here. I dutifully tried to choke down what the kitchen sent. I’m afraid I was non-compliant with that request and soon returned to eating the forbidden fruit my body seemed to be requesting.
And yet—when I woke up the next morning, I felt immediately that the dragon had left my body. I had tears of gratitude streaming down my cheeks, which I know was a little dramatic. I also understood in that moment that I hadn’t missed a thing. My own little epic journey in miniature was exactly the experience I needed to have.
It’s more than a week later as I write this, and I’m told that fully half of us were needing to be seen by the Ayurvedic doctors. They handed out mysterious little bitter fruits they call gooseberries to support immunity. Bill and I even saw them growing wild on the grounds. Turmeric, salt, kitchari and little green tablets were flying around campus.
We’ve been tending to one another and tending to ourselves. The doctors eventually started handing out masks—and in a few cases, antibiotics. We’re all getting better.
Over the last couple of days, we’ve largely been learning and practicing sacred mantras. The head that began last week wanting to split in two is now being offered a beautiful kind of nourishment. I can feel my menopausal brain sputtering back to life as we’re given complex mantras to absorb, memorize, and chant for hours.
Mantras carry profound vibrational signatures. They help us access particular fields of awareness. Practiced in the right context, mantra is a kind of food too—subtle, intelligent, deeply nourishing. My body needed rest, warmth, and care. My brain is being offered something to wake it up, to feed it. And somehow, between ginger tea and pineapple, gooseberries and chanting, my system remembers how to heal.
