SpiceLines

SUNDAY

4:17 PM: Hard, tropical rain shrouding half-empty downtown streets, New England clapboard houses, tiger lilies.

4:26 PM: We've arrived. Up the curving drive, past huge trees with gnarled trunks, old stone walls, a manicured sweep of emerald grass. Ex-Gilded Age estate, ex-summer place for Andrew Carnegie, ex-Jesuit seminary. Now Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health.

Serene Bodhittsava welcomes crowds of guests climbing out of Priuses, Range Rovers, assorted other vehicles with New York, Vermont, Massachusetts plates. Everyone’s wearing super casual yoga gear. I’m in my uptight, citified boyfriend jacket, Tory Burch flats. Driver sends water splashing over my suitcase as he whooshes down the driveway.

5:28 PM: I love my spare monastic cell—the latest in green luxury—even if it did take two replacement key cards and an arduous trek through basement corridors thick with cooking smells to get here.

What I really like: Cheery Marimekko poppy pillows on bed, raw concrete wall and ceiling, cool glass panel dividing bathtub from sleeping area, which means you can take lavender bubble bath and gaze out of far window. No TV, no radio, no icky carpet.

5:31 PM: And no closet either. Try to open strange panel on wall, then see message in very small type instructing me absolutely not to attempt this. Behind it is a passive condensation system designed to remove clouds of humidity from bathroom.

Year-old, architect-designed green building, aka The Annex, is all about sustainability, small carbon footprint. Radiant heating and cooling, ducts that emit fresh air (and windows that actually open), external wood slats harvested from Katrina demolition….say what? Aren’t we um, in the Berkshires of Western Massachusetts, about 1,200 miles from New Orleans?

Note to self: Suspend judgement. Stash Blackberry in safe, hang clothes on short rod over two little drawers.

6:15 PM: Four, maybe five hundred yogis/yoginis thronging the huge dining hall. Get in vegetarian line to make up for excessive mojito and sushi consumption in Boston last night.

Now eating cucumber-yogurt soup with mint and avocado, mysterious plate of greens mixed with white beans. Very bland.

6:17 PM: Violent choking on not-so-bland peach chutney spiked with ginger and cayenne. Tablemates avoid eye contact.

7:23 PM: “Come back next week and in the meantime, don’t think of elephants.”

It’s Meditation 101, and Baghvani, imposing woman with a cap of silver hair, is explaining what not to do when you’re sitting in the lotus position.

Naturally my left foot falls asleep, starts tingling, then my forehead starts itching. I shake my foot, scratch my eyebrow, try to focus on sensation of breath going in and out of nostrils. Wonder what B is doing right now, maybe he’s eating that tongue he cooked the day I left, or maybe he’s having dinner with…stop! Re-focus.

Eons later a woman pipes up, “My nose was itching like crazy, but I didn’t scratch and eventually it stopped.” Bhagvani nods sagely: “Meditation can provide insight into how we lead our lives. Maybe we don’t have to take action to fix everything.”

8:08 PM: Ethereal view from front terrace: Layers of silken fog nestle between dark tree-lined ridges. Run to get camera before light fades.

MONDAY

7:38 AM: Silent breakfast. Chink of spoons on crockery, chairs sliding in and out, mostly quiet. Surprisingly good quinoa and amaranth hot cereal sprinkled with toasted almonds, sweet strawberries in tangy biodynamic yoghurt.

Catch myself zoning out over a cup of hot mint tea.

9:07 AM: “There are ticks around here, so be sure to put on some of this all natural repellent,” says our guide. I'm secretly prepared, already sprayed head to toe with dastardly DEET-laden Deep Woods repellent.

Nine of us are going on a nature hike, one of the perks of the Retreat and Renewal program. Everyone else is wearing smiley faces and making best friends with the guides. I'm feeling grouchy, wishing I were back in bed.

Down the hill and into the woods. Suddenly I'm in a dark, magical forest of old-growth maples, feathery hemlock, soaring oaks. We clamber around granite boulders, over streams trickling through lush banks of ferns. Raindrops spatter on leaves forty feet overhead, but down here it’s dry.

For the first time in weeks I'm really looking at things. The forest floor covered with soft brown pine needles, clusters of pale mushrooms blasted by yesterday's harder rain. A red eft slithers across my path.

Wavelets lapping against the shore. We've come to Stockbridge Bowl, a peaceful lake (also known as Mahkeenac) where trees go right down to the water’s edge.

9:50 AM: Sounds of flutes and trumpets tuning up in the practice barn. We've crossed into the old Tappan estate, aka Tanglewood, where James Taylor and Carole King are appearing next weekend. Past the red farmhouse where Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote The House of the Seven Gables and on to the Victorian house where a Chinese boy is playing the violin. He stops and puts his instrument away as we peer through the wavy glass window.

Suddenly homesick when I see a handsome springer spaniel in a Volvo station wagon.

11:55 AM: At lunch, collecting yoga tattoos, of which there are many. (It would have been really rude to take photos, so I'll just have to tell you about them.)

Here's what I see: A sea turtle swimming up a man’s arm in an ocean of deepest blue. Serpents coiling around elbows. A lotus flower blossoming at the top of a spine, peeking out from a racer-back tank top. Arms constricted by tattooed bands, third eyes staring from biceps. OM, Hindu symbol of the absolute, adorns multiple body parts. One woman has an elaborately feathered wing on one shoulder and a leafless tree on the other.

Maybe these are tribal tattoos, identifying the individual as a committed member of the yoga family. The dining hall is a buzzing hive, swarming with true believers in stretchy tank tops and flip flops, all speaking a language peppered with words like “transformation,” “healing,” and “energy." At my table two therapists chat about yoga for soldiers with PTSD. A silver-haired woman says, “It’s a subversive way of undermining the U.S. military.” She pauses. “I mean the U.S. military-industrial complex.”

What I’m eating now: Dragon lemongrass soup, plain vegetable broth with floating chunks of carrot, potato and pineapple. Cafeteria-style pad thai, noodles, a few snow peas and peanut butter sauce. Maybe this is a test, getting me to think beyond my tastebuds.

4:15 PM: Lurched out of a stuporous sleep and ran to Gentle Afternoon Yoga where Jennifer is leading us through a dreamy series of easy stretches. No downward dog, no plank, no cobra—perfect for my bum shoulder. Fall asleep (again) during 30 minute savansana. Immediately go to store and buy both of her CDs.

6:05 PM: Here’s one thing about vegetarians, I’m discovering. They eat a lot of starch: Mountains of chips, big bowls of brown and white Basmati rice, vats of lentils and chickpeas, hillocks of bread. A curly haired guy ahead of me is ladling a quart of guacamole into a bowl. He sets it down on his tray amid a pile of tortilla chips stacked 4 inches high. No plate required.

On my tray: Costa Rican black bean soup, a dab of guacamole and pineapple salsa, and quinoa with cilantro. Cumin-laced soup is watery, guacamole is bland—did I actually see flour on the ingredients list?—and the quinoa is plain, very plain.

So why am I going back for seconds?

7:28 PM: Skip “ancient, empowering and joyful” Drum Circle in lieu of sitting on terrace to read William Dalyrymple’s Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India. Almost bitten by yellow jacket hovering in clover around my ankles. Retreat to room.

TUESDAY

6:52 AM: “Let your arms be like windshield wipers and move them back and forth. Imagine there’s a ray of light extending from your heart through your arms, all the way to the wall, now to the ceiling, into the sky, on out into the universe. You’re cleaning the windshield of the universe with your arms. Now squeeze a little loving kindness out of your washer fluid. There are some strange bugs out there, splattered on the windshield of the universe…”

It’s Gentle Morning Yoga with Randall. Outside two men in a rumbling forklift are replacing windows. “My personal belief is that the reason for hip and back pain is a not-strong-enough core,” Randall says. On the way out Sinatra sings “Love is Here to Stay.”

8:15 AM: Fire alarm in my room is beeping and flashing wildly. Still wet from long, steamy shower, I pull on yoga pants, top and flip flops and go outside. Lots of disconcerted, irritated people standing around.

8:19 AM: Fire alarm stops. Four maintenance guys are standing outside my open door. “Were you taking a shower with the bathroom door open?” asks the tall good looking one. “Um, maybe,” I say. He points to the smoke detector on the ceiling. “See this? It’s right outside the bathroom door. Steam sets it off.” Really?

9:18 AM: Chastened by my encounter with the shower police, I decide to walk down the hill to the labyrinth. In Greek mythology, the labyrinth was a maze concealing a monstrous Minotaur at its center. But these days the labyrinth is more of a personal meditation tool, a single circuitous path that spirals in, out and around until it leads you to the center where you'll find the answer to, well, whatever’s on your mind.

A while ago I was obsessed with putting a labyrinth in the woods behind our house. One bone-chilling February afternoon Alicia and I laid out a seven-circuit pattern I'd found in a book. Afterwards it was obvious that the only way to clear a path was by chopping down, oh, half the trees. So I pulled up the flags and started this blog instead.

Kripalu’s labyrinth is in an open field and the seeker’s path is edged with small conical firs, bright yellow rudbeckias and orange tiger lilies. When beginning the walk, it's good to start with an intention, or least a question.

My question is: “What is the path to an open heart?”

At the center of the labyrinth, I find a tattered prayer flag and a pole inscribed with wishes for world peace. On the ground a laughing Buddha surrounded by a tennis ball, a poem by Rumi, a Santa Claus Pez, discarded name tags, a wadded up dollar bill, a Scotty dog key chain, a handwritten letter. But no answers for me.

11: 47 AM: “For you, nothing salty, sour or spicy! And no tomatoes or citrus or ginger! Especially no chiles or chocolate!” “But that’s everything I love,” I wail. “Yes, because you are Pitta. You crave these tastes, but you must not eat them!”

Rosie, a pretty, olive-skinned Ayurvedic consultant, looks at me sternly. She takes my pulse in both wrists, examines my tongue and my nails, and glances briefly at the diagnostic form it took me hours to complete. “You are Pitta-Vata,” she declares. “No coffee or alcohol for you.”

Ayurveda, a 5,000-year-old school of medicine from India, is based on five elements: ether, air, fire, water and earth. These combine to form three “energy archtypes” or doshas. All of us are Vata, Pitta or Kapha—or some combination thereof—depending upon temperament and physical characteristics.

Trouble begins when the doshas are imbalanced. Pittas are prone to digestive complaints, Vatas to insomnia, Kaphas--well, I can't remember. Part of the cure is to eat foods that rebalance the constitution. For me: sweet fruit, such as melons, cooked vegetables like chard, only white meat and fresh water fish, a very reduced palette of spices. On the approved list: fennel, cumin, coriander, cinnamon, saffron, turmeric.

There's also the question of bedtime. “11 PM to 1 AM is much too late," says Rosie firmly. "That is Pitta time, but your fire never rests. It is always burning.” I really like staying up late, actually. Rosie continues: “Drink boiled milk with turmeric. Rub warm sesame oil into your scalp…” What? “It’s a bit of a messy, but you can wear a cap and put a band over your eyes, and you will have a wonderful sleep.”

12:22 PM: I stagger into the dining hall. What to eat? End up with sautéed kale, carrots, sprinkled with almonds, stirfried sweet peppers, and some basmati rice (“easy to digest”). Discover that the woman sitting across from me is an acquaintance’s ex-wife. “The most awful thing happened this morning,’ she says. Someone taking a shower set off the fire alarm. My left ear is still ringing. “ I choke. “Really?”

3: 25 PM: Collapsed on my bed, quaffing a quart of coconut water.

Recovering from Creative Core where, instead of “”graceful yoga-based movements…calming the spirit and soothing the mind,” the instructor, who had a wicked glint in her eye, took us through a sweaty, exhausting 45-minute flow using all the body parts I'm not supposed to.

“Dare to go through the fire. Dare to see what’s on the other side,” she exhorted us. I know what's on the other side and it's not pretty.

5:47 PM: Reduced to eating bowl of beige lentils since there is tomato sauce on everything else tonight. Talking to a pleasant woman from Maine who has brought her adorable Chinese daughter to a 4-day Circus Yoga class. They are learning to juggle and balance on some kind of line. Sounds like fun.

Some classmates walk by. "How was the chocolate excursion?" she asks. Sigh.

7:20 PM: Visualizing the cosmic loop:

Starting at the sacrum, golden energy flows up my spine, circles around my neck and head, then flows back down the front of my spine. That is, it would if it didn’t keep getting caught in my throat. “Perhaps there’s something you’re repressing, something you need to say to be your authentic self,” says Elizabeth, a sincere brunette who is giving me a private meditation lesson.
Um—

[A page is missing here.]

WEDNESDAY

11:37 AM: “There is no pain without Vata involvement,” says Hilary, director of Kripalu’s Ayurvedic program. Madly taking notes, filling in what I missed with Rosie yesterday. “Vata is overly active, mobile, subject to excessive stimulation, especially from computers, TV, too much travel.”

Uh, oh. Maybe antidote is slow travel. Visions of walking along Turkish highways, overrun by big trucks. Scratch that. Maybe I need to spring for a terrace with a view of Bosphorous—perfect for lazy hours of boat watching. Doesn’t the Four Seasons spa have a meditation room?

To balance Vata, you apply opposites: “heavy, warm, moist, smoothness, stillness.” OK, forget the $1,400 a day hotel. Maybe just eat oatmeal for breakfast. “Establish good routines,” she adds. “Vata likes to be all over the place. Calm your environment." And no more standing up while eating oatmeal.

2: 48 PM: Lying on padded table in concrete block room painted color of heavy cream. Every inch of my body is slathered with Tridosha sesame oil. It’s “a bit of a messy,” but I’m feeling positively blissed out.

Lauren, a serene, preppy-looking brunette wearing a business-like white apron, has been massaging me from head to toe. It’s part of the Shiro-Abhyanga-Nasya, or Ayurvedic Sinus Treatment, “a great treatment for those of us who are bombarded with pollutants, sensory stimulation..." Ah, now she's working on the soles of my feet...

First there was a gentle head, neck and shoulder massage. Lots of oil rubbed into scalp. Next snorted sesame oil, followed by a ginger concoction. Sinuses on fire, but suddenly I could breathe again. Draped in white sheet, inhaled eucalyptus and lemon vapors, almost keeled over in the heat...jerked myself awake. Finally, full body massage with Tridosha, Ayurvedic oil for balancing all the doshas. It’s full of mysterious herbs, takes 30 days to infuse, comes from India.

3:20 PM: Glance in mirror. Yikes! Hair looks like Medusa’s writhing snakes. Put on sunglasses and slink back to my room.

3:45 PM: Showered to “rinse off toxins.” About to fall asleep.

5:12 PM: Shampooed oil out of hair. When dry it feels like a silken waterfall and looks like thick, luxuriant TV hair. Note to self: order Tridosha oil at once.

6:36 PM: Dinner. Oh, never mind.

7:34 PM: Have waited all week for Kirtan, “heartfelt evening of ecstatic call and response chanting, devotional music and sacred song.” Everyone else looks fairly ecstatic: A white-haired, bearded guy is dancing with arms raised in the air, a brunette, possible escapee from Real Housewives of New Jersey, is sitting with half closed eyes, a smile playing around her lips. Lots of swaying back and forth, nodding of heads, rhythmic clapping.

“Jaya Jaya Gurudev.Ganesha Sharanam Sharanam Ganesha. Sita Ram” Love the chants but can’t handle the 70’s pop rock guitar-strumming that goes with it. CDs available in the shop, of course. I stay for 30 minutes, then slip out behind mother with squirming son.

THURSDAY

9:52 AM: Last morning. Yogic breathwork with Allison. This is the heart of Kripalu-style yoga. Handout says: “Breath control (pranayama), and a variety of techniques are give to manipulate the body’s energy (prana) via the breath,” Georg Feuerstein, yogic scholar and expert.

Prana means air or life force, yama is to restrain. So basically you work with yourself, or your energy, by manipulating your breath. “The ancient yogis used breath to consciously alter the flow of energy,” says Allison. “Why do it? To feel more vibrant and alive. To be more whole. To move closer to the raw truth of ourselves as animal beings.”

Well, I love getting in touch with my animal self.

First the 3-part or “complete yogic breath” (dirgha pranayama), deep inhalations and exhalations that completely fill and empty the lungs. Next comes the really cool “ocean-sounding breath” (ujjiauyi pranayama), a deep, almost horror movie-scary sound made by contracting the back of the throat while exhaling. Somewhere between a breathy hiss and a roar.

Now to work up some energy: “Skull polishing breath” (kapalabhati) is a powerful exhalation through the nostrils followed by a passive inhalation. Getting a little giddy after a minute or two of this. Then we raise our arms and clench fists for “bellows breath” (bhastrika), thrusting arms up and down with each strong exhalation and inhalation. Definitely dizzy now.

And last, the energy channeling breath. The “alternate nostril breath” (nadi shodhana), which involves closing off one nostril with the thumb or forefinger and exhaling/inhaling through the other nostril. Repeat on the other side.

Floated out of class, feeling calm, clear, deeply centered. It occurs to me that I've been holding my breath (not in a good way) for years. I’m definitely trying this at home.

12:15 PM: Last walk through labyrinth before leaving. Sun shining brightly on the flowers, walking through waterfall of grass. What is the path to an open heart? Even before I get to center, I know that love Is the answer.

Go here and look for the "Play this song now" button on the right, if you'd like to hear Weezer sing their version of "Love is the Answer."

12:27 PM: Now eating small square of "pizza" with fig and mozzarella. Tomato sauce, but I just don't care. It tastes wonderful. Start to go back for seconds, but notice that I'm full.

1:55 PM: On the terrace a striped chipmunk emerges from a hedge and looks around. A rabbit hops out and looks back at him. They gaze at each other for a moment, then return, quietly, to their respective parts of the hedge.

The girl returned to civilization feeling a new sense of contentment. Oh, the first thing she did was order a lobster and a daiquiri, neither on the approved list. But in the days that followed, she found herself moderating her diet, eating cooked cereal in the mornings and having fennel seed tea in the evenings. She looked forward to her 15 minutes of meditation, and was exhilarated by her forays into pranayama. She even found a gentle restorative yoga class that made her happy.

Look for posts soon on saffron, coriander seed, fennel and all the gorgeous herbs now growing the garden.

Namaste.