Flicker

A faint flicker of light dances through the darkness from the direction of the hospital's temple catching my attention this morning. My curiosity takes me there. It's before dawn and I see little stirring within the temple walls. I see the source of the light that brought me here. A large metal bowl of oil with a long lighted wick. A sign tells me the flame always lives as the bowl is continually replenished.

Near the back, there are curtain-drawn rooms for the priests. I see a young priest (the same one who visits our cottage every day with an offering of flowers on a banana leaf) emerge from a room, yawn and stretch. Our eyes meet and we share a namaste. I continue my walk through the temple--my bare feet loving the cool stone floor. Watching with complete reverence, my curious heart observes an older chubby priest as he chants poojas in monotone for healing. Simply clothed in a white linen loin wrap and orange shawl, he sits cross-legged on the ground, and his body sways as he feeds the fire. An older couple sits and prays with him. A lone man also prays with them and struggles with the smoke coming from the fire, coughing and blinking his eyes. More people gradually join the group and then the kirtan begins.
 
All these people, coming with hope for healing whether it be for themselves and/or their loved ones. So much heart and faith. I say a prayer for healing for them, myself and Mahesh. On my way out, I pass the light that drew me here today and gave thanks for the lessons learned. May we also always have oil in our lamps.

Play

Many women here in the south of India tie garlands of fresh fragrant jasmine flowers in their braided hair. This is me trying to fit in. =)

Glimmer

Nearly every day, I watch the action in the hospital grounds from my little perch. Though I meet only a few of my fellow patients here, I feel I know all of them as I see them evolve through their gaits. I see them get weaker and then stronger as the treatment progresses. I get concerned when they disappear or stray from their routines and relieved when they return.

I often see a certain distinguished man, perhaps around 60, strolling through the gardens, hand in hand with his adult son who is clearly developmentally delayed. Though the father appears tired while he carries a concerned disposition and hunched shoulders, I feel he radiates a patient heart.

Today, he pauses to speak with Dr. K who just so happened to be rushing by on his rounds. His son (I'm guessing around age 35) wiggles away from his father's hand, points at the doctor and starts jumping up and down full of glee. Perhaps all of Dr. K's patients get similarly excited to see him, but thanks to, or unfortunately for, (depending on how you want to look at it) our frontal lobes, we suppress such emotions from displaying themselves for fear of social embarrassment.

Though I never meet this family, I imagine a story of their life. Perhaps, they have gone to all the allopathic doctors who say "we're doing all we can do to help your son". But this does not satisfy the father. He craves answers and a better way. Perhaps, they learn about Ayurveda and the doctors here. I imagine how the father brightens with hope, but then the hope is dashed as he considers the time commitment of the treatment here and must go on leave from his job. "It doesn't matter...you can't put a price on health" he would say after much deliberation. The sacrifices he must have made during his life overwhelm me. But at the same time, I also consider the beautiful lessons learned and the grace I imagine he feels. They arrive here full of hope, an essential part of any healing process.

Even if throughout the day, events cause hope's light to dim and fade, it rejuvenates anew at dawn. It's as if our soul has travelled to some wonderful healing place while our bodies slept, bathed in the ocean of hope, and then returned to our bodies as we awake, armed and ready for a new day. Call it temporary amnesia or absolute wisdom, hope shines, even if for a moment before our mischievous-at-times intellect reminds us of something difficult and our light extinguishes itself. I consider the difficult but not impossible task of calming such negative thoughts which smother even the slightest glimmer of hope in our souls.

So many stories here. So much hope. I'm grateful to all the patients here. Though I haven't met each one, their presence alone reminds me of the healing power of hope.

I wonder what you, dear reader, hope for.

Mornings

Quiet morning.

I race to our veranda (armed with mosquito coils and long sleeves) to cherish the first most special moments of the day. Love this routine. It’s still dark and the wind…calm. A few birds begin to awake and then go back to sleep. I meditate on love and the gift I give my body by being here. Happy birthday, self.

The wind picks up speed…about the same time each morning, bringing with it that fresh mountain air that I just can‘t get enough of. More please! The breeze carries a slow lone chant from the temple. I join in with my own hushed OM. The faint scent of jasmine comes and goes. I beg for it’s fragrant return. A goat’s cry in the near distance moves me - something so sad about it - such a gentle creature. If only humans could recognize the strength, wisdom and freedom in being as gentle. Lokah Samasta Sukino Bhavantu.

One of the first movements before each dawn (besides medicine-delivery man) is a graceful woman with her long braid (nearly all the women here have long braids) in her green sari uniform carrying a cardboard box full of brightly colored chalk powder. I watch her go from cottage to cottage dropping, instead of drawing, beautiful designs with the powder on each stoop and doorway of the compound.

The sky begins to turn gray and then blooms into pink. I take in the natural rhythm of the day. The birds, now fully awake, flutter about full of fresh energy, circling the compound. Their nearly deafening chatter begins to bring life, consciousness and movement to the day. Patients stumble out of their cottages to breathe in the morning with a stroll through the gardens. I wonder what this day will bring. I wonder what these eyes will see and what this body will feel today.

Jelly

The pharmacy of this hospital is the gardens themselves.

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Most unusual is this beautiful dominating tree bearing these bright green pods, which are larger than plantains.

Sanskrit name: Moca, Salami
Tamil name: Illavu
English name: Red Silk Cotton Tree
Important uses: healing blood impurities and wounds

My body is feeling like jelly this week as I am going through the "intensive treatment" segment of my stay here. I feel high on endorphins from the Dhara and Pizichil treatment.

The Dhara is a procedure where cool medicated oil from a pot above the head is poured in a steady lullaby-like stream onto the forehead for an hour by 2 therapists. The oil absorbing into my head and the gentle rocking motion activate the nervous system. The doctors say the results are permanent in conjunction with all the other lifestyle changes we make here daily.

Simultaneously, the Pizichil treatment involves 4 therapists squeezing warm medicated oil from cotton cloths onto the entire body from a certain height and then rubbing it off.  This is done with 3 liters (yes) of medicinal oil that has been formulated for my ailments. I'm basically swimming in the oil. The oil is continually warmed, squeezed and rubbed in for one hour. It's not really a massage - it's more of an oil application. The nature of the oil is to penetrate through the skin and through all the bodily tissues and eventually into the bones and blood. The effect detoxifies and thus temporarily weakens the immune system so the impurities can come out.

Yes, do the math - that means 6 women are working on me in my little loin cloth at the same time - a bit awkward at first, but then I just surrender to it all.

After my treatments, I feel euphoric as prana flows, unblocked, through my body. Very powerful. After my first day of the treatment, I sat on the veranda and stared at a tree for about an hour completely relaxed. Present yet wonderfully "zoned-out".

During this intensive treatment (7-10 days for us), we are restricted to our cottage and veranda as our bodies become very weak and we could catch illnesses very easily. This uhhh...."quarantine" is fine by me because I've morphed into an incredibly tired zombie in a blissful trance. So tired, weak and relaxed. Stairs are difficult, even for someone as active as me who's used to jogging and doing yoga daily. The weakness is temporary during this part of our treatment. I'm drinking in all these changes in my body and the toxins freely come out. Let's hope the stay out. Besides, at least hubby's enjoying the entertainment of watching me in my stupor-like state stumbling around the cottage and running into walls.