the lenten bent

I’m a pretty sorry excuse for someone who was raised Catholic in the eyes of religion. As noted by a Facebook status update last week, it was the arrival of pączki to a Polish bakery shop window that alerted me to the approaching Lenten season. (I also gave a silent “yay” to open boxes of Cadbury creme eggs arriving on deli countertops citywide.) On NY1, in reverence to Ash Wednesday (the official kick-off to Lent) a local Archbishop spoke,
"We take on those ancient enemies of sin, selfishness and Satan and eternal death, and we do it, that battle, in union with Jesus on the cross.”

I know we’re all using different routes to approach a common goal, but wow, Catholicism. Dude, you’re harshing my buzz. I think everyone’s looking for a little bit of peace of mind and a connection to something more beautiful but I personally never found bloody violence to be an inspiring motivator. It’s not that I have a gripe with the core of Catholic teachings, which all point to the same Truth, or the metaphors inherent in its stories. Catholicism at its essence is shiny; I’m just not wild about their current marketing director. Grandiose ideas of Satan and selfishness never quite translated when I had other details of life to consider. The phrase “Battling with Satan” does not make for an attractive letterpress inviting peace and harmony with oneself and humanity.

All that aside, the Lenten season is a sacred time for Catholics and is supposed to mirror back to us Jesus’ 40 days in the desert, so that we can reflect and learn from his turning inward. One traditionally gives something up, and as a child in Chicago, the community wide, adhered to ritual at the time was no meat on Friday. Or, in my family, Fish Stick Fridays every week for 40 days. That would hardly be considered fasting by current detox trends, but for a mother with two screaming marginally violent little girls in a household that daily served ham or kielbasa, Mrs. Gorton’s was the wheatgrass equivalent of 1985.

Although I have yet to meet a Catholic that has a Lenten intention deeper than giving up sugar or not lying for 40 days, of course they are out there. As I was growing up, even through years of Catholic school, the spiritual principles of fasting were never flushed out to the extent that I ever understood WHY I had to give something up during that time other than I was “supposed to.”

Ironically enough, these days fasting for spiritual purposes has become one of the foundations of my practice. (Pączki and Cadbury crème eggs aside… literally.) Obviously not something that can be done on a daily basis, “fasting” can be defined as any variety of deprivations. A person can go on a media fast or ‘brahmacharya” in Indian tradition is choosing to withdraw from sexual activity. (And no, not having any action for a long while does not designate bramacharya… yes, I asked.) For my purposes here, I’ll follow in Jesus’ footsteps (for once in my life) to discuss abstaining from food.

The way I learned it and the way it continues to unfold for me is that a fast is used in times of change or even as the seasons merge to the next by providing clarity, stillness, a deeper connection to the world around as well as a reconnection to that quietest part of oneself. Not to mention, it’s like the best thing ever for fending off illness and disease. (Also, reveling in a super tight body a couple of times a year and going extra deep in those yoga binds aren’t unwelcome side effects.)

These days I’m a superfan of the new Blueprint Cleanse, a juice fast (they also do raw detox cleanses) which is so sexily marketed and easily delivered that it is a no-brainer for busy Manhattanites (and they Fed Ex nationwide, people—a vegan juicer musical director friend tells me BPC saved him on tour when he was starved for nutrients while traveling.) Although there are infinite ways to fast, I have found that a person needs to be doing it for the right reasons and with some guidance the first time around.

My virgin voyage was with the hottest woman of all time. (Which can’t be said for many of my virgin voyages, so already I was off to a good start.) My friend Melina is a ridiculously gifted Chilean painter. She has blond hair down to the small of her back, a tattoo that stretches from the (always tanned, yogic firmed) said small of the back up and around to underneath her breastbone. Hot. Yes, Melina is sexy, but it is her spirit that makes her shine.

Without getting into messy details about that first time, I’ll say it was a week water fast and colon detox. If I didn’t have Melina to explain why or how we were doing it, it could have been easily the most miserable week of my life. (This was done supervised in what would be loosely labeled as a healing center. Lest you get any ambitious ideas about embarking on a water fast solo: don’t. That must be overseen for safety reasons.) The major obstacle in any kind of detox or fast is overcoming those first few days of self talk where your mind will go anywhere from “what the f*&* are you doing you crazy sh*&%$^& lunatic.” To “who do you think you are, you’re not strong enough for this” and “(whimper) mommy… mommy… pierogi…” The other prominent roadblock is the "healing crises' or discomfort of actually detoxing, for which I continue to use the following mantra: "Mags, you've had hangovers WAY worse than this."

That first go around, with Melina as my fearless guide, we just kept moving.

“You can’t think about it—we have to stay in motion.”
She would hop on her motorcycle, I on my scooter (so not as cool) and we’d drive half an hour to a remote beach of Goa, where we’d lie listless for hours taking turns to get more water. We went trance dancing. Other friends smoked pot and drank beer. We drank water and I was flabbergasted to learn that I was somehow ok with it. It felt triumphant.

The world was a different place. Slower—you have no choice but to move more slowly and therefore pay attention to every movement. Clearer. Sparklier. I felt connected to some secret universe I usually could not see, as though pizza in the belly was some kind of roadblock to it. I’m not saying there weren’t some weak or miserable moments, there were, but the depths of revelation and peace I sank to were so profound, they far outweighed them. What Would Jesus Do, indeed. I was hooked.

My friends are now used to my sporadic cleanses in the city. I’ve been seen going into a speakeasy on the Lower East Side or a Union Square movie theatre, turning down vodka and popcorn respectively, as I hold a green juice or murky lemon and cayenne infused water in my hand. Fasting is like a reset button for my body and mind. Dare I say it? For my soul? There’s a framed fortune cookie paper on my desktop that cites: “There is no fear for the one whose thought is not confused.” When things seem a little muddied, cleansing provides that clarity.

Fasting is a strong spiritual tradition in almost every major religion, and although juices delivered to your doorman probably don’t fit within the designations of Ramadan or Yom Kippur, it is nice to see New York and even the nation getting hip to this centuries' old ritual. Blueprint Cleanse showed up at Fashion Week backstage as the refreshment for Jill Stuart’s show and in the Village Voice blogs last week. As with everything in New York, make it underground, make it sexy, make it hip, make it convenient (that’s the “if you build it”) and we will come.