Day three of my seven-day fast. This morning I fainted at morning meditation, keeling over dramatically into the circle drawn on the sand. First I felt nauseous, then goosepimpled despite the heat. My vision went dark, I couldn’t hear, and I toppled over. Woke up almost immediately and crawled out of the circle into the shade of a palm tree, where the teacher revived me with coconut juice.
It was very satisfying, I must say. Irish Catholic girls have a self-dramatizing streak, as my friends know well. We are brought up on stories of various fasting and masochistic female saints, who lick pus from beggars wounds and flagellate themselves horribly for the love of Jesus. (When I found a major religion, it will have entirely different devotional requirements.)
After just two and a bit days without food, I had the joy of fainting in the quest for an enlightened state, and then being terribly brave about it while fawned over by people who murmured soothingly ‘It’s the toxins releasing.’ rather than ‘Get a grip.’ And all on a tropical beach.
This place is a trip. And worth it for the cast of characters alone.