On Fasting

One of the most frequent things people ask me when I tell them I'm fasting is "Why?" and in this country and at this time of year many will say, "Oh, like for Lent?"

Then I giggle a bit because I want to answer them in a stern, mournful deadpan, "As penance for my multitude of sins." or perhaps, "In memory of Him that died for me." or even, "To steel myself against the devil's tricks" or some other catchy iambic statement of pious angst. It would save me from explaining the real reasons, which are more complicated and, I'm sure, incomprehensible to most of the people asking.

The first, of course, is health. Fasting is an ancient healing practice, used to cleanse and renew the system. Giving your body a vacation from the enormous task of digestion allows it to concentrate on other things, like repairing damaged tissues or removing intestinal plaque. (see why i'd rather pretend it's for Lent?) After about day 3, your body starts a process of autophage or self-eating, and usually the body (in its infinite wisdom) picks off the old, damaged, tired cells to consume first. Of course, some muscle mass as well as fat is digested, and the metabolism slows to a crawl, which is one of many reasons I never recommend it as a weight loss method. More often than not, you gain back quite a lot of what you lose during a fast. The real medical benefit has more to do with detoxifying, regenerating, and reducing dependency on various stimulants. (not at all a coincidence, Lent happens over the spring equinox which is a particularly beneficial time to renew your body with fasting. but really most of the easter observances are pretty darn pagan).

The other set of reasons has a lot more to do with the equally ancient tradition of fasting as a spiritual tool. There is an intense solitude in fasting. When I walk around during a fast and see all of the restaurants, cafes, pubs, grocery stores and produce stalls I feel somehow otherworldly, indeed alien. There is a compulsive pseudo-intimacy in eating and drinking, perhaps nowhere more so in my experience than in England--where no one really knows what to say to anyone else without a pint or two inside them. So in the beginning stages of a fast I become keenly aware of all these social rituals and dependencies--of how cultural habits convince us that daily use of alcohol and caffeine are perfectly normal signs of civilization, how natural we think it is to associate every major holiday with massive desserts and more massive hangovers, how constant seems our preoccupation with food and drink.

Then I start to notice my own internal compulsions-- how so many of my dietary habits are a way of comforting, appeasing, rewarding or entertaining myself. How I break up the day into chunks between meals, and smaller chunks between cups of tea and snacks. How most of the time I ever give entirely to my own company is either cooking, eating or cleaning up after a meal, or sitting down for a cozy cup of tea. It's a way of *doing* something whilst getting just close enough to rub up against silence, but never really enter a state of meditation or being without wanting.

So when I am fasting, sure I get hungry sometimes (there are moments lately when my fantasies about ripe avocados dance a thin line between lustful and downright violent) ...but deeper and more intense are the emotional cravings. I feel sad or overwhelmed or tired and often my first thought is of what food or drink or treat might make it better; gradually I become aware of how of often-- like an exhausted parent frantically holding up every possible curative for a child that won't stop crying--I give myself whatever I think might make it all okay , I leap to hush and coddle even the slightest hint of wanting.

My evening calendar clears; my ambition to do anything extra wanes; gradually I am living extraodinarily simply. I do not crave the company of others; mostly what I crave is quiet time alone without bullying myself into constant productivity. Imagine being in a marriage where almost all you ever do is work or talk about work. Then you go on a date with your partner where neither of you is allowed to say anything, or watch anything, or listen to anything either. It's just the two of you, hours of inescapable togetherness without the convenience of words, the shorthand of sex, or the novelty of others. That's what this aloneness is like within, it is a profoundly intimate solitude.

So many people fast to lose weight and then they hate it-- I honestly can't imagine embarking on this process from such a state of discontent. It would be like punishing someone I can't stand by forcing them to spend time with me. Fasting is about solitude in the inner wilderness, graciously willing abstinence, and the clarifying of consciousness. I suppose in a way I really am atoning for sins, for the sins I visit upon myself when I try to quiet the cries of depression, anxiety, frustrated ambition, doubt, fear, self-hatred or simple loneliness by stuffing my mouth full of food--in that sickly sweet evil stepmother way, grinning as she says "it's your favorite, isn't it?"

It's an odyssey of inner oceans; it's a romantic cabin in the woods for one; it's a reckoning, a renewing, and an invitation to intimacy in solitude. It's a subtle adventure, and sometimes it's a private hell to hear the noise of your own cravings as you pretend that this glass of lemon water is actually a massive, ripe, voluptuous avocado -- but it also isn't forever. Within the gift of a fast is the promise of reentering the world with a new sense of what a wonder it all is-- how indeed we do not live by bread (and avocados) alone, how the monstrosity of life eating life to perpetuate life is also its glory, and how much more infinitely vast, deep, patient and strong you are than you ever imagined.