Self-healing diet

Two months ago, I had confirmation from a doctor of oriental medicine that I have some kind of imbalance - energetic or otherwise - with my gallbladder and liver. Western tests and ideas about how the body functions revealed nothing amiss. Two ultrasounds showed no gallstones and my blood work proved to be at normal levels, except for a slight vitamin D deficiency. 

The cure she suggested includes Chinese herbs (Free and Easy Wanderer, to deal with liver chi function), along with a strict adherence to a low fat, especially minimal saturated fats, vegan diet, which I have followed from day #3 after the visit. This information precipitated a few days’ panicked binge, and I ate several pints of Vermont ice cream, movie theater jumbo sized quantities of buttered popcorn and at least one burger with fries before I acquiesced to reality. 

The first week challenged me to create meals, snacks and even beverage options that complied with the guidelines I found in Healing with Whole Foods by Paul Pitchford. During the transition from content omnivore to healing myself vegan I understood I would probably feel better if I ate in a different way but occasional temper tantrums erupted about having to make such a radical shift. Still, the desire to be free of constant pain kept me moving forward, reminded me that I had 10 years of vegetarian cooking under my belt, and led me to find recipes online, cookbooks at the library and on my own shelves. 

One of those books is The Self-Healing Cookbook by Kristina Turner, based on macrobiotic principles. The inscription, dated February 2001 and written in my own hand, says “Sara Jane, heal thyself. Love to you and scrumptious food.” I reclaimed this book, which I had gifted my sister Sara, the horrible day my mom, sister, brothers and I cleaned out her apartment, post her funeral in November 2005. 

During the long years she struggled with addiction, depression, mental illness and a thorough lack of hope that she might someday shed some of the burdens and scars she’d collected over the years, I maintained hope that something might lead her to recovery. However, I doubt she glanced through its pages once: her relationship with food was tumultuous, from a childhood as a “picky eater,” to an adulthood when picky became anorexic, compounded by insulin dependent diabetes.

I share this because the struggles of one reflect the struggles of all, even though it manifests in a different way from one person to another. I know that the pain I’ve felt for four years is diet related, but it’s also the result of years of unprocessed emotions and high levels of stress. Chinese medicine attributes the negative emotions of anger, lack of courage, and indecisiveness to dysfunction of the liver and gallbladder. I tend toward road rage and jaw clenched intensity, I’ve wanted to be a writer for forever and feared to do so, and I have lost count of how many times I’ve said “I don’t know what to do” since emotions became physical symptoms.  

The book I gave my sister to heal her body has become a tool to heal my own. I eat to transform my health and in two months I have had a 50% reduction in pain and shed 20 pounds, so now I’m moving into the second and third components of this healing mission. Stress, anxiety and anger are on the out and I am focused on calm, cool, quiet mind and peaceful heart. I have rescue remedy in the car and I’ve started riding my bike around town, which is almost as fast travel as driving and great exercise, another de-stresser. This aspect of transformation challenges me, just as altering my diet has, just as will part three: forgiveness of myself and others who contributed to my imbalance. 

Cactus spines and the wrong shoes

I've already made it to the car and have the keys in the ignition when I remember the one last thing - shoes - a tradition of sorts to bring me back into the house to retrieve that final, forgotten item. I grab the cleated shoes from the shadows beneath the table and head out. From our neighborhood to the Rift Valley trail head it's a ten minute drive, the bike clamped into the rooftop rack, the sunroof open and the stereo blasting tunes over the howl of the wind.

Once there, I remove the bike and replace the front tire, then collect gear to prepare. The essentials, like backpack with hydration bladder and snacks, a helmet, ipod and headphones, and... my man's biking cleats.

In my hurry to get moving forward I neglected to verify whose shoes I tossed into the car, and now I have three choices, none ideal, so I go with more immediate gratification. I can return home and collect mine, wear these or go rugged in the flip flops I have on. Or, as the owner of the shoes tells me later, I could have returned home and rode the trail near our house, which never crossed my mind. I had a plan and shoes seemed inconsequential.

Another ride on the same trail I also forgot any cycling footwear and did wear the flip flops. That's harder than it sounds, given the construction of the clip-in pedal, a miniature egg beater centered in a small rectangle platform.

I shrug and pull on socks and slip into the cleats, assured that although two sizes too large, the velcro straps will pull snug enough to keep my feet from moving in the confines. I finish dressing, snug earbuds and set off to the tune of Modest Mouse. The trail is dry, despite the evening showers that have rolled through for the past few days, and my heart shouts out joy to see how verdant the valley looks in the morning sun.

This joy escalates as I gain speed on the first section of a gentle but continuous decline, and I buzz past sagebrush and cacti in bloom. I realize right away, though, that the shoes don't fit well enough to release contact with the pedals with any speed. I remind myself to clip out well ahead of need, and that works until I reach a place in the ride where I'm challenged.

Switchbacks, a tight elbow that brings the trail from one trajectory to another, are my current nemesis. I struggle to maintain the body position required for balance, and falter in my speed, not to mention confidence. During one tight spot I fail to slow down, shift down, and the pedal clings to my foot, so down I go, to the inside of the turn, the bike still attached to my feet.

It's one of those slow motion moments, where I have time to see that I'm falling into sage - poky but not prickly - and then I'm almost to ground and I notice the prickly pear huddled beneath the sage. I'm going to land in the cactus, face first except I throw my hands in front of my head.

Cactus spines prick both palms in just a few places, but sharp fur covers the skin along each finger, a fuzz of impossible to remove irritants. I untangle my legs from under the bike, lurch upright, duck into the shade of a piñon and pull the spines out. Teeth and massage therapist blunted nails manage to remove the majority of the prickles, and I ride the rest of the trail with the remainder a reminder of my failure to commit to the moment. I crash when I shy away from the turn, obstacles or challenge.

The theme I carry through that day: life is best lived with a fearless (not lacking fear, in fact, just not petrified by it) movement forward. When I stall out because I'm afraid of what comes next, I lack the momentum to make it through gracefully. Commitment, whether or not success ensues, at least aligns me (and the bike,or whatever vehicle I'm traveling by) with a greater chance of victory. Or less painful failures.

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