Fast Life
Photo by Ryutaro Uozumi on Unsplash
April 2022
Early in my fatherhood journey, several parents warned me that parenting was not going to get easier, and they were right. Before Taishan learned to crawl, I carried him on my body almost every waking hour of the day. Soreness in my neck and back became my new normal and I fantasized about a day when he could roam free range without being carried by his personal sherpa. After his first birthday, he rapidly developed the ability to walk and climb. I instantly longed for the days when I could keep him nestled against my body. All of a sudden, I was living in a warzone. My nervous system became permanently activated as I scanned the landscape for potential hazards. Taishan was magnetized to items like pruning shears and paint thinner. When I removed the desired objects he responded as if I had just amputated one of his limbs, screaming hysterically and often rolling on the ground in agony. I was fighting a war on two fronts. To the East, I was protecting Taishan from irreparable harm. To the West, I was protecting my fragile ego from the onslaught of vehement objections coming from Taishan every time I asserted a boundary. My mental faculties were monopolized by a petty algorithm; does the potential danger of Taishan’s behavior warrant the emotional turmoil that setting a boundary will incite? It was an unwinnable war.
I was building resentment towards my son for the intensity and consistency of his expression of needs. My lifelong pattern of not clearly communicating my own needs was being painfully reflected in each of Taishan’s tantrums. Every time I set a boundary and met his wrath, a dry log was heaped upon a bonfire of anger that was searing me from the inside out. It felt like any incident could be the tipping point that would burn down the forest. It was time to literally look in the mirror.
One day, after a particularly upsetting confrontation with Taishan about a forbidden object, I stumbled into the bathroom to splash some water on my face in an attempt to calm down. I dried my face and took a deep breath, gazing at my reflection, and attempted to give myself a pep talk. “You’ve got this. You can handle this!” I couldn't focus on the message because I was so struck by the grayscale bags under my eyes. It was the first time I genuinely examined my face since Taishan was born. I saw a burnt out, middle aged man with wrinkles spreading across his forehead, and long, unkempt hair. My hairline had receded like it was running away from my face for dear life. My hair, which looked like a habitat restoration project, was the most obvious signal of a man in disarray.
When Maya got pregnant, I decided to stop cutting my hair as an act of solidarity. As her belly grew, so did my hair, a constant reminder that life was indeed changing. Even though there was no human being incubating inside of my body, on most days, when I looked in the mirror I remembered that I was also undergoing a process of transformation. Initially, I envisioned cutting off my hair when Taishan was born, but by the time he arrived, I had become quite attached to it. It served a practical purpose of keeping my head warmer in the winter, and as I approached the age of 40 it felt like the last opportunity to let my hair grow wild before it all falls out. So, as Taishan went from a ball of human flesh, to a crawling worm, to a stumbling toddler, my hair continued to grow with him.
As I gazed curiously at the hair that was now well below my shoulders, I realized that I was carrying 2 years worth of baggage on top of my head. Hair is a storage unit for emotional energy. In this case, it was an Amazon fulfillment center of drama and frustration. It began with a foundation of fear, thinking Taishan and/or Maya would die in childbirth. Then, I added the layer of terror that Taishan would die in infancy and that it would be my fault. Meanwhile, I was navigating the collective consciousness of humanity which was saturated in a paralyzing fear of COVID. My hair acted as a powerful antenna that picked up every signal of distress being generated from within and without. I knew what needed to be done. It was time to let go.
I did everything I could to ritualize my haircut as yet another rite of passage. As if my day to day life wasn’t challenging enough already, I decided to fast from food for 72 hours, leading up to the moment of releasing my hair. Maya and her mother understandably tried to talk me out of it. I appeared to be barely clinging to sanity, and the thought of me navigating the taxing role of caring for Taishan while hangry was terrifying. My intuition was uncharacteristically vocal; I was not turning back.
Before this experience, I had fasted as long as 24 hours on several occasions. In a fasted state, I remembered feeling more focused and connected to something greater than my own individual body. To the logical mind, it felt paradoxical to seek out greater energy by not eating, yet I knew that this unorthodox approach could create the seismic shift that was needed for me to persevere as a parent. So, I leaned into faith in my right brain and decided to voluntarily abstain from eating for 3 days. I prayed to tap into a deeper source of power to fuel my ability to father and to let go of all the emotional pain that was preventing me from excelling at my job.
For 3 days I consumed nothing but water, which I drank in copious amounts. Every time I felt the rumble of hunger in my belly I downed a tall glass of water like I had just emerged from being stranded in the Sahara. This led to shocking amounts of urination and surprisingly kept the sensation of hunger at bay. As often as possible, I stood with my face to the sun and my bare feet on the soil and prayed for the energy I needed to be present.
The most challenging moments were watching Taishan eat, something he does with sensual gusto. He devoured handfuls of fruit, gyrating his hips in delight, smacking his lips, and punctuating each bite with a chorus of “mmmm, mmmm, mmmmm!” He insisted on sharing his food by shoving it in my mouth. I called upon my full capacity for restraint in turning down those glistening blueberries and calmly explaining that I was taking a break from eating.
36 hours in, I went through the climax of the fast. My mother in law Irit pulled me aside and said I was being irresponsible, neglecting my family, and should stop the fast immediately. This felt like an insurmountable roadblock. I revere Irit as a wise elder and a living saint. Going against her opinion would be like dismissing a personal recommendation from the Dalai Lama. I was tempted to revert to my pattern of pleasing others and cave in to her demand. However, the clarity of my intuition demanded that I follow my conviction. I knew in my heart that I needed to persevere to reap the mental, physical and spiritual transformation that would be generated by the fast.
I told her “I hear you. And, I need to continue.”
I kept going. I told Maya that if I ever felt unable to show up for her or Taishan, I would pull the plug on my fast. That point never came.
As I entered the final day of the fast, my energy began to fade like a black T-Shirt that had been washed a few dozen times too many. Engaging in exercise or any kind of superfluous physical movement became inconceivable. Keeping up with Taishan, whose energy seemed to be increasing exponentially by the day, was a daunting task. Yet, I somehow felt more capable of being present with my son than ever before. I felt a heightened sense of awareness as my body channeled my remaining energy towards sight and sound. I was struck by the vivid colors in our garden and the distant sounds of birds that would typically evade my awareness. I suddenly understood the wisdom of people fasting before hunting, not just to increase the motivation to succeed but also to enhance sensory perception. Most importantly, I was flooded with a new capacity for patience. As Taishan went about his usual behaviors of trying to eat cat food, playing with electrical outlets and diving head first off the sofa, I found myself responding with an unprecedented reservoir of calm. Maybe I was too tired to get triggered. Whatever it was, I felt like a jedi master as I deflected each potentially upsetting incident as easily as if I were shooing away a fly, and I moved on. Whereas I was accustomed to spending many hours of my day reliving upsetting moments, I now found myself floating in a river of acceptance, where each obstacle arrived and then disappeared as soon as it passed. My prayers and intentions were manifesting.
Another reason I was compelled to fast was to reinvigorate my relationship to food. Since becoming a father, meal times had become one of the most stressful portions of the day. What used to be one of my favorite parts of being alive in a human body had become a time of dread.
I wondered, “Will Taishan eat enough food? Will he throw everything on the floor and all over my lap? Will he complain and whine and scream because we are focused on our food and not on him?” I became a robot, shoveling food in my belly as fast as possible, barely pausing to notice what I was eating or what it tasted like. I longed to return to the days of sitting in silence before every meal and giving thanks to the miraculous cycle of life that had produced the food on my plate, eating slowly and being able to recognize when my belly was full.
With each missed meal I felt my nervous system recalibrating, unlearning the neural pathways of hysteria that had been forged around the dinner table over the previous 16 months. Alongside the growing sense of calm there was excitement building in my cells as I envisioned my next bite of food. Not eating for 3 days made me look forward to my next meal in the way that people in Minnesota anticipate the end of winter.
I broke my fast with a modest bowl of miso soup. My body’s reaction to this humble offering would be best communicated by a symphony - words are inadequate. Maya graciously took Taishan outside so I could fully bask in the moment. I sat alone at our dining table, gazing out the window as the sun was beginning to set through a vast network of scattered cloud formations. When I first tasted the broth, the sky parted and a beam of light entered my belly. Every cell in my being lit up and said “mmmmmm” in unison. I have never enjoyed a culinary experience more than that spoonful of miso soup.
With my belly feeling content and my arm muscles properly nourished to handle a small power tool, I was ready for the main event. I retrieved my electric razor and scissors which had been laying dormant in our bathroom cabinet for over 2 years. I stood cautiously in front of the mirror, said goodbye to my hair, and restated my intention to let go of the fear and anger that were preventing me from being the father I want to be. With each careful snip, I watched 2 years of tension fall to the floor like leaves on a tree exposed to a gust of autumn wind. At the completion of this phase I looked like I had ripped my hair out with my bare hands in a fit of rage - ready to be institutionalized. I quickly proceeded to the electric razor, whose familiar hum brought me back to the days before fatherhood, when I used to cut my own hair frequently and tended to appear presentable when going out in public. This brought my hair to a uniform, military length. For the final stage, I switched on the electric razor which I use to shave my beard. I cleared away the remaining stubs of hair and left my head completely naked and exposed for the first time since I was a newborn. I was reborn. I gasped in horror at the ghostly condition of my scalp which had never seen the light of day. My face was even more skinny than usual after the three day fast. I was a walking skeleton. I washed my body and swept up a mountain of discarded hair, which I deposited at the base of a jujube tree we planted in our garden. I prayed that my follicles of fear might serve the roots and be composted into new life.
Even though it was a lukewarm spring day, the breeze on my head and neck was now bone chilling. I covered my scalp in a baseball cap and wondered if I had made a horrible mistake.
When I first exposed my bare head to Taishan, I wished I could pick my hair up and reattach it to my head. After being in his proximity for a few minutes, I cautiously removed my hat. The smile on his face morphed into sheer terror as if he had just been told that we were ending breastfeeding cold turkey. Tears tumbled from his eyes, and his body language said “Who the fuck are you, and where is my ada?!” He created as much physical distance between us as possible, hiding behind Maya on the other side of the room. I promptly returned the hat to my head.
Several hours later, the second reveal did not fare any better. Again, there were sobs of anguish, and he fled like he was being chased by a rabid dog. I wondered if he would ever accept me again as his father, or if I would now just be seen as a body snatcher who resembles the original but will never fill the shoes of my predecessor.
Luckily, in this case the third time was the charm. Over the course of many hours, Taishan had become accustomed to my presence, and as I made a game of slowly revealing parts of my head, he was less violently repulsed by my appearance. I convinced him to try taking the hat off my head and putting it back on which he seemed to enjoy. Then, I invited him to try rubbing my smooth head which actually brought a smile back to his face. It appeared we had made it through the death and rebirth process.
In the following months, I was an objectively different person. I reconnected with gratitude for food and took care to at least close my eyes and take a breath before eating each meal. This had wide ranging implications including improved digestion and decreased resentment for my son for feeling like he had robbed me of being able to enjoy the act of eating. I still felt triggered every single day by Taishan’s behavior, but I had tapped into an underground aquifer of patience, which I could draw upon as needed. I became much more adept at staying present to the reality of the moment and not dwelling on difficult interactions for more time than necessary.
I began instituting a lunar ritual to maintain my rekindled relationship with food and my ability to let go of fear with greater ease. At every full moon, I reflect on what I want to release and shave the remaining hair off my scalp with the intention that the discards will carry away my unwanted baggage. At each new moon, I fast for 24 hours with the intention to feel genuine gratitude for my food and to make space for all that I hope to manifest.
After making it through several moons, my scalp began to make contact with the sun and appear more alive. Each time I look in the mirror I am reminded that life has indeed changed. I am no longer the scared, frazzled man sitting in the birthing tub with my wife, paralyzed by the fear that she or Taishan would die. Gone is the overwhelmed, disheveled man caring for a fragile infant and needing to check if he is still breathing every 5 minutes. I am now a relatively presentable human caring for a small child who is healthy and thriving in every way possible.
~
For a musical exploration of my relationship to food, listen to ‘Fast Life’ by clicking the image below .
“My ancestors manifested dreams to see this country
What’s the price to pay for never ever feeling hungry
My life is paved with roads of gold I know I'm really lucky
It’s unfortunate how hard it is to be becoming
In touch with feelings no quadriplegic
Only nausea seasick trying take off my leashes
keep me tethered to my cravings they’re so hard to compete with
I’m surrounded by apples in the garden of Eden.”