www.solbeam.com

So originally I thought to document a day-by-day account of my rollercoaster ride on the detox train. But as anyone who ventures on an extended cleanse quickly discovers: this is hardly a log ride on Splash Mountain were the participants all experience the same dips, soaks and screams at the same time. Quite the contrary and much more like a marathon, each is on her own individual adventure of fasting highs and lows, hills and dips, all of which are easily empathized but never identically experienced by the faster running in front, behind or next to her.

So instead, I'm going to tackle the mysterious lingo of which I, initially, eavesdropped upon and eventually added to my own dictionary through the process of direct experience. That way I'm not presenting a recipe, but only the ingredients, allowing each to himself to sort out his own way of putting it all together.

Let's get to it.

Detox Camp Dictionary

Detox: Now anyone who has walked through an airport terminal or supermarket checkout counter has probably noticed this word making regular appearances on the faces and front pages of our nations least reputable reporting network; the tabloids. So let us first DISPEL the myth propelled by our favorite socialite and celebrity icons that a detox is:

1. An easy ticket for anorexics to legitimize eating disorders.

2. A weekend vacation from a regular scene and schedule of party drugs.

3. Proof for the judge that one is, "cleaning up," and doesn't need to serve time.

4. A standard stop, before the tailor, on the way to the Emmy's.

Yes. It IS a "secret of the (skinny) stars" to check into a five-star California-based detox center. But while the staff at such a center may assist with, and even clean up after, colonics (which, please, any earth-grounded human being should be quite capable of doing him/herself), they can never assure the "right intention" of the guest, which may be why just as often/quickly as we hear headlines of celebrities checking INTO a detox center, we hear news of them, "breaking out."

Let's return to Thailand.

Back in my days of irrationally fearing colonics, I asked of the Wellness Centers' staff, "but what is natural about pushing 5 gallons of coffee through the end of your body that is made only for exits?"

And the answer, I had to admit, was good:

"It's not natural. But neither is the diet of modern man. If we humans ate as our bodies intended, a diet comprised of mostly raw and organic vegetables, fruits, nuts, seeds and even, moderately, meats, then there would be no need for cleansing. But what is natural about the pesticides, medicines, hormones, preservatives and the other chemicals that the 21st century human being ingests, thrice-plus, daily? Nothing. And what the human body cannot process, it stores by lodging itself, conveniently, in the crevasses of our bodies, particularly in our intestines. What a colonic is doing is nothing more than helping to clean out the dump of unnatural toxins we have already accumulated in our bodies. Cleansing is how we get our bodies BACK to a "natural" state."

Yes. That's a good answer. But even better is their final disclaimer:

"Listen. We don't want to tell you anything. We want you to both question and figure it out for yourself. And there's only one way to do that."

Ah. A direct hit on the nail-head of one of my favorite life mantras: "learn through direct experience."

Detoxification, ultimately, is a word directly linked and respective to what a person has already ingested; it's a personal interpretation. And for that reason I have to leave the definition of "detox" up to each individual and his/her direct experience of it.

Don't worry. The rest of the terms have a lot less outlets than the intersection that the word, "detox" just ran me in. :)

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*sol bows her "namaste" and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

It's not the first time I've sunk my feet into the warm white sand of Haad Tien beach on the Thai island of Koh Phangan. Three years ago, at the tail end of an extended adventure in India, I found my breath as shallow and cramped as Delhi's traffic and, sucking the last of my air in, I high tailed it for the nearest island on a rumor of the existence of a tropical heath & yoga center where I could feast on organic goods in a bamboo bungalow perched on a cliff over the Gulf of Thailand.



The rumors all proved true; I quickly found my breath again, mostly in the form of heavy hammock-wrapped sighs, sunset gasps of awe and a snorkel mask's air tube.



As I continued to explore the hills of the jungle surrounding my "island-on-a-island" (after all, the neighbor of THIS beach is none other than Haad Rin, home of the legendary and monthly, Full Moon Party)...



... my curiosity eventually led me to the subject of much of the vegetarian restaurant chatter: the "Wellness Center," located discretely and quietly across a bridge from the Sanctuary Resort.

Barefoot and relaxed, I crossed the bridge from my "resort world" and let my whim take a lead in wandering me in. Immediately, I felt myself an outsider to the unusually calm and skinny crowd sucking on identical and strange-colored sludge drinks that I suspected came from the posted menu of fasting cocktails.



I picked up a leather bound information book, walked under a sign that read, "Out of respect for our fasters, please do not eat here," and took a cushioned seat near a place where I could conveniently overhear this strange community in conversation. There I overheard a mix of the standard traveller lingo and questions, yet interspersed with some especially foreign terms, like, "bentonite," "colonic," "mucloid plaque," "healing crisis" and "Bali body wrap." And as I flipped through the pages of information, I also noted the curious spelling of, "disease" as, "dis-ease." Yes. These were all interesting clues of an unsolved mystery and, interest piqued, I took my questions to the fasters' bar manned by a staff of this supposed, "wellness retreat."

"So you don't eat anything of substance for 7 entire days? And you say that the colonics are really a necessary part of the fast? And this -- this not-eating -- it would cost a person how much?"

Far from being persuaded, I walked out with some sort of self-rationale that the human body should be quite capable of cleansing itself; after all, it has done so for millennia, without the aid of organic coffee colonics and clay shakes, no? But my health motivation WAS reinvigorated and I did spend the rest of my week eating only from the special pre- and post-fasting raw food menu of the resort restaurant. I retired to my hammock with a book where I spend most of the rest of my week, going only a little out of my way to respectfully keep myself, as an eater, out of the fasters' club's way.



Now. Fast forward three years.

Life being oddly inclined to spin us humans in such circles, I find myself, AGAIN, at the tail end of a year of adventures in India and desperately in need of a similar dose of the good health, fresh perspective and renewed balance that the sea's infusion has proved its ingredients of consistently delivering.



This time I save myself the clumsy and wet entrance of my 3-year-prior arrival by holding my shoes and rolling my pants up to my thighs before jumping out of the longtail boat.

I don't know why I did it. All I know is that I didn't hesitate for a minute. I just looked up the website (http://www.thesanctuarythailand.com/) and sent an email asking to confirm my, 7-day "master cleanse" booking and 11-day stay (including my pre- and post-fasting).

As I heavy-step my way across the hot, white sand, I fondly note my favorite hammock where I read a half dozen books during my last visit.



And then I walk right past it, past the resort, and past the restaurant. I follow the sculpted path, carefully inlaid with seashells, and cross over the bridge.



I enter the bamboo thatched roof hut underneath the hanging painted sign of the, "Wellness Center" and drop my bags;



"Yep. I'm here. Reservation for 1."

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*sol bows her "namaste" and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Well, I've finally got myself that cup of coffee and computer time that I've been craving. As well as a messy pile of stained notes and unorganized photos documenting my day-by-day account of the adventures unfolded in rural Dolpa; all to be composed and posted soon. But first, as we rewind, I'm gonna pause on Thailand and do a quick "detox camp" debriefing as it's also a story worth sharing. And then, if we fast rewind all the way back to where the tape snaps off, you might even remember a trip to Peru, around this time last year, where I helped document a community service trip by talking to a camera and taking notes (reflections of which are posted here as well as published in the beautiful new, World Nomads Book of Travels). Well I've just learned that that Peru footage is now being played on National Geographic Adventure (but have yet to sort out the TV schedule) as well as many airlines in-flight programming. The man behind the camera and production, a Mr. Trent O'Donnell (pictured above), quickly became a favorite friend, and has PROMISED me that I look wise, witty and beautiful (and also that he edited the toilet bits documenting my bouts of parasite-infested intestinal disease). I have yet to see the documentary, but if you happen to catch it, do let me know if all he claims is true.

And that's the mixed snack bag of future, past and present. Now let me get to my coffee and serving something we can actually bite into...

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*sol bows her "namaste" and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

A four a.m. ramble chasing a case of insomnia...

Art is the greasy thumb print left on the sliding glass door through which we see our life. The artist is innate in every human being as lines to every hand. Arts expression, its imprint, needs only the "called upon" material through which it can reveal its contour, its consistency, its shape and form in our life. The specific material (of which there are as many sorts as there are people) will call, and attract, the artist to itself. Like beads of mercury, the two are hungry for reunion. Every artist starts as an amateur, and it is the duty of the amateur to actively listen for the call. To "actively listen," means to wander around and follow your curiosity. "The call" is not a voice, but the ringing, of something that feels familiar; a ringing that makes your insides vibrate excitedly, like the inside of a rung bell. Art is not so much a paintbrush as it is a poem, a play, a fort, a flower, a healing, a home, a picture, a meal, a sentence, a scribble, a swirl made in the mud, a song, a dance, a child, or any other interpretation of a dream of ones reality. Art wakes up for breakfast, when we lay down to sleep. It paints the pictures of our dreams, but it's up to us to interpret even our own inner Art's meaning. Which we can do. For our inner Art works primarily with that with which we expose it. And so likewise it should be the work of our day to expose more and gather the new supplies of Art's needed raw material: the leaves and sunsets and laughs and seasons and time spent with living creatures, which are all only a few of the finest of ingredients. But also the mistakes, the mud puddles, the bites, the spiders, the swearing and the struggles -- for the light of our work will only be as bright as our shadows dark, balance will be essential to the overall composition, and the seeds of new inspiration are born like tadpoles only in the shady, dark pools where mystery is inclined to breed. Without our indentions, how would we ever leave any impression? On the sliding glass door?

(The problem is that my blog is a mass of congested intestines in need of its own colonic! Again, I have daily notes on the entirely of my 7-day "master clense"; a story I will type out and post just as soon as I have the chance to sit in a proper chair with a cup of coffee and do it. But for now, out of guilt for lack of live action on this site, I post another clip from an email to another beloved friend of mine. Don't worry. I'll try to stop this nasty habit soon.)

*****

...and I'll end with a story and token. A real token. Maybe a trinket. But a trinket that I will transform, by the very act of alchemy (!), into a magic amulet! (That sentence is meant to be read in the ridiculous voice of a circus ring master). So I had your name on my mind like a mantra. And I happened to walk into a Tibetan shop where I met a beautiful woman covered in turquoise with a fall-colored striped smock who proceeded to pull out the contents of everything on the velvet underneath her glass case. And so my eye is pulled in the direction of one particularly unnotable and cheap looking trinket which she holds up and says..."Tibetan medicine! Made of many metals. To ward off evil spirits and inspire good healing and health. You can hold on your wrist or put under your pillow." And so I buy it. At the exaggerated price that I allow all Tibetans to charge me. And then we sit and talk and as I proceed to tell her the story of my pilgrimage in Dolpa, she says, "I can't believe you've been to Dolpa! I was there! When I was 8 years old. My father and many family were killed by Chinese and so we ran away from Tibet and crossed the mountains and reached to Dolpa. Oh. Such beautiful wild flowers like I've never seen! Only in Dolpa. Did you see the yellow ones? Near the rivers? You did! So beautiful! And have you seen the women there, how big their gold and turquoise earrings are? Oh, how beautiful I thought they were! I used to run down to the river, and pick those big yellow flowers by the stream, and stick them behind both my ears, and wave my head back and forth and look into the stream and pretend like those yellow flowers were big golden rings..."

As she tells me this story, she puts her hands to her head and tucks the imaginary gold flowers behind her ears, and then she closes her eyes and swings her head back and forth, laughing like an 8-year old.

And I suddenly am SO happy for the Amchi and Alchemist that has given me this amulet; for the 8-year old girl that found flowers and gold in the midst of death, danger and exile and for the same power that, in her touch of this amulet, she transpires to you. I imagine all the people that I will ask to hold and put their good energy and prayers into this for you, but I know it is her hand, and her story, that transformed this trinket, by her alchemy, into an amulet.

Internet on this island costs a much as a small island, so instead of a proper update, here's a simple clip from a letter to a dear friend:

Hello Love!

I hope you are well, I feel father away now that I'm on an island with distanced communication and also immersed into this friendly little fasting community.

I come to you from my "fasters dorm", which is an air-conditioned, partitioned and Zen little place with dim and sunlit lighting. I've been eating only raw foods the last two days and passed something called a "PH test" yesterday which cleared me for my "masters phase" 7-day fast which I started this morning by swallowing a clay and bentonite "shake" at 7am (stuff that absorbs the toxins in your body that you release during fasting so that you avoid all those nasty symptoms of detoxing like headaches, hunger, etc.)

I spent the last two days flipping through piles of pages of books on whole food health, the medicinal benefits of fasting/detoxing, the corruption of the medical industry, and learning, in detail, the geography and functions of my body: intestines, liver, colon, stomach, etc. None of this is totally new to me, which is good less I thought myself entered a cult, but it is the first time I've really just SAT in a hammock for hours and looked closely at the information, and it's REALLY refreshing to see that there is solid backing and science behind a lot of things I knew intuitively or through experience, already, about my body.

It's all women here, mostly older. And it's nice to be surrounded by their wisdom, life stories, and support. It's a relief for ME to be the younger one who gets the guidance, mentorship and elder advice!

The "Wellness Center" does a really good job making sure your days are TOTALLY full here, knowing well that one of the hardest parts of fasting is the boredom left in the absence of eating. So they have a pretty strict schedule that keeps you hopping from one place to another. My day starts with waking at 7am and making myself my first of three daily clay shakes. Then there's a stop at the, "fasters bar," for my first set of vitamins and glass of tea (with a whole ginger root in it!), then one of two daily organic coffee colonics (which, yes, does involve a tube, your butt, and 5 gallons of water cycling through your body; I'm definitely a little nervous about that). I have an hour and half session of yoga today, one hour at the spa getting a body scrub/massage and wrap, and then an hour in the steam room, which smells like cinnamon coffee cake. I like to plunge between the. "coffee cake room," and the, "fresh river water pool" – which creates the most amazing sensation on my skin that might have ever felt. Yesterday I spent two hours simply sighing between the two.

The rest of my time I just swing in a hammock, swapping my hours between serious literature, health books, and metaphysical books. I've, thankfully, already read half the metaphysical books on the shelf and am happy to have finally exhausted myself, mostly, of the subject. But also happy that the my metaphysical life interest survived, and has renewed itself in something calmer, something less ambitious, something more experiential, and something...of a middle path. This must be the new phase of my life. The one that also wants to plant gardens, have a dog, and practice making really nice meals to share with my family, friends and loved ones...

Anyway. That's probably enough from me today as I don't want to bore you with more of my bathroom details (the subject of every table in this place), but just give you a glance into my window.

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*sol bows her "namaste" and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

Well it appears I've attempted to climb, just beyond my body's reach; I fainted, for the first time in my life, in a Bangkok dentist office today.

The stupid part is that it was bound to happen and ALL my self-neglected fault. I've had fever for three days. Barely eaten anything. And as the detox center, in which I have a reservation for next week, sent strict instructions to eat only raw fruits and vegetables as part of my pre-fast, I'd only subsisted on salads since my temperature went down. This all on top of a night of insomnia where I spent multiple midnight hours researching the effects of "silver" (ie. mercury) fillings in teeth.

By the way, my advice is to NOT get ANY new metal (amalgam) fillings in your teeth. The stuff is already well on it's way to illegality in a handful of the most respectable (in terms of consumer rights) Europeans countries and EVEN the FDA (for whom I haven't an inch of trust) has updated its website THIS month, with a drastic change from a decades-old-stance defending the safety of analgam fillings, to reflect a suddenly new (precautionary?) neutrality on the issue (in light of new studies about to hit press?). It even went so far as to issue a new warning on the toxicity of amalgam (a metal mix which contains mercury) fillings. Okay. I'm the village idiot on dental care. But don't they call in something equivalent to SWAT teams when a mercury thermometer breaks in a school? So just whose idiot idea was it to drill the stuff into the recesses of our TEETH? Well, if you have a mouthful of the metal, you can join me on the highly toxic band wagon. I'm not racing to get it all out (as that reportedly releases even more of the toxic metal into your system), but I'm going to slowly make the switch over, starting tomorrow, assuming I don't fall into another fainting spell. Anyway. You can do the research yourself and make your own decision. I found Wikipedia to be the most updated source of info, links, and references:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dental_amalgam_controversy.

So the notches inching up my fainting ladder already include ill health, starved stomach and American corporate conspiracy nightmares. And on the last rung, is my general dentist/doctor anxiety. I don't actually remember the story myself, but my older sister reports it as follows: "Mom had sent me out to the car to get something. When I reentered the hospital, I heard this kid screaming bloody murder, and I walked down the hall and was petrified to enter into the very room at the source of the violent wailing to find out it was none other that my little sister, you." The only thing I remember, in my dramatized 6-something-year old memory, is being held down by what seemed a baseball team of nurses, equipped with bat-sized syringes. In reality, it was probably one nurse with a TB test prick. But nonetheless, every time I receive a shot (and given my global travels, you can rightly guess that my yellow card is long), I have to brief the attending nurse with this disclaimer: "I'm not afraid. And I know it won't hurt. And I've never passed out. But every time I do this, my hearing and sight wane. So take what precautions you should." They usually lie me down next to a can of some sticky soda, and all is well.

Well, with no needle in sight, I forgot to brief the sweet Thai nurses of my uncontrolled response to the proximity of medical tools. And it was just a matter of bad timing that they had both disappeared behind the protective x-ray shield and were unable to hear my weak plea of...

"Um...could someone...please..."

And that's the last thing I remember before swirling blue images and a lot of rushing and sweeping-like sounds, all strangely reminiscent of a peyote trip I once took in Ecuador (but no one caught me when I fell, so god knows what got knocked around). And, then, clear as crystal, a voice in my head, practically hysterical with laughter, saying..."You fainted! You totally fainted! Wow. Look at all those faces looking at you. Had you any idea how many people worked in this office? Hey. They look really concerned. Say something to them. Say something to them. You're freaking them out. You better say something. What's this? Cinnamon smelling salts? Ummmmmmmm. That smells nice! Hey, look at that, you're coming to!"

To whom I attribute that totally conscious and wry voice of reason, I have yet to discover.

But that's my story of the day.


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*sol bows her "namaste" and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.

I think it was this photo.

... that made me and my girlfriend change our plans, mid-sentence from...

"Let's just go. We've been planning this trip to Kashmir for months!"
to...

Fresh protests erupt in Indian Kashmir

"Hum. Maybe not."

And suddenly I find myself in Thailand; sweltering under both monsoon heat and the trail end of a three-day 102 degree fever.

Don't worry; the fever bit is just my body's fiery way of detoxifying what's left of a country in me right before I leave it. You'll find records of these repeat incinerations throughout my archives, in the sweat soaked and twisted sheets of the airport hostels in Madrid, Antiqua, Calcutta and Bangkok. It's a fact of my body/travels with which I've been forced into a delirious peace treaty.

So. Temperature at a steady and un-medicated 99 (yea!) with street-stand Thai-iced tea in hand I, today, come to you. Forgive me my delirium-ramble, as I'm still spinning from the surprise severance of my South Asia adventures, which was as blunt as the fever hot. In response to the baffled stares of the hostel staff downstairs, I have quickly relearned to rename "curd" as "yogurt" and "motor rickshaw" as "tuk tuk." May you, as well, practice patience with me as I stutter through these sentences and this transition.

Tibetans identify this state of being by a word I (probably inappropriately) use and (perhaps unhealthily) spend a majority of my life in: "bardo." Which means something like, "liminal passage, intermediate state, the state of consciousness in the course of migration between death and rebirth." Yep. That's what I'm putting on my next immigration form in the box asking for, "country of permanent residence."

Now, I haven't posted in over a month and I've got years of editing and entries to catch up on, which is about to change as I devote the next five months to exactly these creative pursuits. Writing. Posting. Not traveling. Because the realization has only JUST dawned upon me (I'm slow!) that remote travel and the processing/posting of its inherent experiences are two circles that are close to mutually exclusive. I know. Mind blowing realization for me to have just stumbled upon. But yes. I have to sit. In one place. At a computer. To put it all together. And that is the plan. (But don't hold me to it, because as you well know, sometimes I'm all talk.)

What I have not yet confessed is that sometime in the spring of 2003, while deep in pilgrimage along the Camino de Santiago, I pulled a pen out of my red bandanna and wrote the following into my journal:

"7 Years of Movement; 7 Years of Stillness"

As with many of the sentences that I hastily scribble down, I wasn't sure what it meant, or what seed, exactly, I had planted into my life path with that statement. But here I am. At the conclusion of what I estimate to be (an accumulation of) 7 years of travels abroad.

And for the FIRST time in my life, I am ready.

Ready for what?

Stillness, friends.

Stillness.


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*sol bows her "namaste" and gratitude to World Nomads Travel Insurance, ThinkHost and Merc for their ever-supporting roles in the realization of her dream.