on retreating

and not eating (and loving and hating and living)

I am on a retreat in the Portugese mountains outside Faros, a heavenly place called Moinhos Velos. I have not eaten food in three days. I have practiced hours of yoga and meditation. I have swum many cool, slow lengths of a blue-tiled pool and sweated in a wood-fired sauna and walked for miles through a red dirt valley under whispering conifer pines. Yesterday I wanted to kill people. Not just the people on the retreat (who are all very calm and friendly and kind, which of course is why I wanted to kill them) but all the living creatures in the world — excluding a small herd of goats and a few obedient wood nymphs to milk them. I wanted exile.

The goats got me thinking about chevre. Chevre on baguette with tomato. Linguini with chevre, lemon, garlic and basil. Gooey chevre omlette with chives. The omelette fantasy made me realise I would need chickens in exile but I dislike the idea of raising chickens almost as much as I disliked the idea of people — at that particular moment in time. Then I got a caffeine-withdrawal headache and felt very sorry for myself.

In other words, it was a typical Day Two on a yoga-fast! I’ve done a few of these things before so I know how it goes. Day Two is the day you hate everything and want to blow up the world.

Now it’s Day Three and I feel boundless love for all of god’s creatures. By ‘god’ I mean the sweet glistening particles of pulp in my orange juice.

At breakfast I bonded with my newfound retreat friends. (They are all so calm and friendly and kind! We have exchanged emails and will know each other forever!)

I sat in the sun and enjoyed the pleasant sensation of orange pulp furring my tongue. The fruit sugar was restored my energy, the light that produced it flowed into and through me. I felt myself being nourished by the minerals of the earth which sustained the roots of the mother tree that birthed the oranges. I went to yoga and wept in corpse pose. Great heaving sobs of empathy for the people I love and who love me back honestly with open hearts. I experienced a profound sensation of completeness with the universe. As I wept I did not worry about puffy eyes because in the afternoon I was booked to have my lymph nodes massaged.

So… a regular Day Three then.

It’s good to go on these yoga-fasty things in the woods once in a while if you can possibly swing it (this one is good and not particularly expensive). They don’t force you to do anything you don’t want, apart from chanting and blessing the juice and juice-makers (Om shanti shanti). Retreats really do change you. I went on a lot of them when I was in my 20s, not because I’m particularly hippy or rich but because I worked as a style columnist and there was always some retreat or other that would host a journalist for copy. Back then I was always trying to lose weight. Not because I needed to lose weight but because I grew up in the 90s and photos of Kate Moss looking depressed in boys’ Y-fronts formed my neural pathways. Eventually I grew up and understood I did not need to lose weight. I started running and doing yoga and had two babies. Motherhood cured me of hating my body, not because I felt like an earth goddess (I felt like a leaking bag of milk) but because babies are exhausting and so is body-hatred. I had limited energy — something had to go. The babies were cuter.

The first day here I had a health check with the retreat nurse, a smiley young Dutch woman with the eyes and legs of a fawn. She took my blood pressure then frowned.

Hmmm, she said. Bit high.

I looked at the numbers and saw that she was right. Not just a tiny bit either. A solid bit. A real bit.

Well it’s hot out, she said. And you just walked down a hill.

I nodded. Shall we wait a few minutes then?

Same result.

I sometimes get anxious in doctor’s offices and hospitals, I said. You know ‘white coat syndrome?’

She nodded. From the corner of the room a fat, smug Buddha grinned. A wind chime tinkled in the breeze. The nurse did not bother stating the obvious: we were not in a doctor’s office or a hospital. She was a registered nurse but she was wearing cut-offs and a tank top from a festival.

Well you’re not overweight, said the fawn-nurse. Do you exercise?

Yes.

And your diet?

Fine. Good. I mean… yes, generally fine. I could cut back on salt. And wine.

And stress?

Normally okay. Bit higher than average lately. The past year or so.

How high?

Too high.

She smiled. Right then.

I stood up. Muttered something about going for a sauna. The nurse asked if I wanted to take the blood pressure machine back to my room with me to monitor myself hour by hour to get a clearer read. I said no thank you, I’m fine. I’m fine.

Don’t worry, she said. It’s a bit high but I’m not going to call the paramedics.

(That’s how I understood she could see the fear in my eyes.)

There are lots of ways to bring it down without medication, she said. We can help you here.

I nodded.

I trudged back up the hill for the Netipot demonstration, blood pounding in my ears. The whole way I thought of my heart, by which I mean my sons. I am all they have at the moment. I am it. I’m The One. I have to live a long time. They’re not as cute as they were as babies but I still love them like mad. I’d still choose them over hating my body in a heartbeat. I thought I stopped hating my body but maybe I didn’t? Maybe I just stopped worrying about my weight. Maybe there’s a difference between not-actively-hating your body and actually being kind to it?

These yoga-fast thingies are good to go on occasionally, if you can swing it. You think they won’t change you but if you’re lucky they just might.