Poisoned By Pollution

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Contents

Acknowledgments......................................xiForeword.............................................xiiiIntroduction.........................................xviiPART I: ILLNESSWorlds that Shatter..................................3A New Building.......................................12Set Adrift on Wild Seas..............................21Lifting the Fabric of Life...........................31Trying to Tend a Garden..............................41Gifts from the Seas..................................53Some Small Fireworks.................................62PART II: DIAGNOSISListening to the Experts.............................81Finding the Energy Within............................96East Meets West......................................107A Small Body of Hope.................................120The Biggest Challenge of All.........................128A Simple Twist of Fate...............................144One Final Trial......................................149PART III: HEALINGThe Unexpected Spiritual Journey.....................163Afterword............................................177Selected Readings....................................193

Chapter One

I smell a croissant and suddenly I am 20 again. When I take the first bite, its crisp exterior shatters into tiny, layered, individual worlds, which transport my body and mind into some distant dream. Its subtly rich aroma speaks immediately to me of some older world, one of elegant ornamentation. But it also offers an intense private moment of indulgence that has been so long in the making. The flaking croissant at this moment becomes an emblem for a sensuous life reborn.

Croissants were often weekend breakfasts for me when I lived with the Dondey family as a college student in Paris. I loved how their buttery perfume would curl up my nostrils and flow through my mind and body like a fragrant river. In Paris, I learned that a croissant could quickly become a lesson in sense experience and pleasure. As this young woman, intoxicated by the sensations of that city, I was constantly reminded that our lives are made up of such sensual moments, that we are complicated and restored by our sensual interactions with the world. It was that heightened sensuality of France that beckoned to me when I could first contemplate a holiday abroad after having lived housebound for 14 years - that and the chance to see the Dondey family once again.

I am standing in line at a bakery in Paris, astounded I've been able to make such a trip. My world has been barren for so long. I have been so bereft of sensory pleasures that every remembered detail now hurls itself at me until my head throbs like a drum beat: The aroma of fresh yeast mingled with newly baked bread and pastries drives me a little wild, the baguettes standing at attention in proud wooden racks, below them, the pistachio escargot buns lined up like serene rows of seashells beneath the gleaming window of the case. I see this all so vividly now. The white tile floor is worn thin by the history of customers queuing up for their daily bread. A woman is standing in line ahead of me, with her child tugging at her skirt, begging for some special treat, it seems. They are chattering away in a language I have not heard in far too long.

I drink all of this in, as if I had been starving through a famine for 14 years, and then suddenly, I am brought to a rich brocade of a room, and in it a banquet table is laid out with sumptuous foods just for me. I want to hold this moment forever and never leave this spot. It remains so ordinary, so much of the daily routine, yet so very miraculous to me as well. I have missed moments like this and the heady stimulation of a place with so much texture. An unbridled joy begins in my mind and wells up in my throat. Tear pools gather in the corners of my eyes. I feel resurrected from the dead.

* * *

I arrived in Paris originally as a junior in college, lugging my suitcase up a tall flight of stairs. I couldn't find the elevator because I was so nervous about meeting my host family for the first time. The door opened to my wide eyes, and before I could stammer out my pre-rehearsed introduction in French, Dr. and Mme. Dondey, along with their five children, spilled into the entrance hall from every direction. Immediately, they put me at ease, showing me to my room, and then teaching me how to make crpes for dinner. That night I climbed into my bed grateful that I had come to France and hopeful for what my future there held.

My early Paris days became a pleasant ritual of attending classes scattered throughout the city, followed by evenings with the Dondey family. Dr. Dondey would arrive home from work around 8 p.m. He would slip on a velvet smoking jacket and we would gather for drinks in the living room. Dinner would follow as a kind of leisurely tourism: A multi-course meal was always thoughtfully paraded before me, which ended with a plate of various cheeses and a fresh sliced baguette. I have no idea how long we spent at dinner each night except that by the time we rose from the table, it was nearly time for bed, and soon the ritual would begin again. Looking back, I appreciate better the rhythms of this existence, the careful attention paid to smells and tastes. Life was a repetition of the senses, so to speak, but it was never boring. Little did I know then that in the future I would eventually lose hold of this simple, daily sensory feasting, and long for its return.

Beyond our daily forays into food and drink, my Paris life was a sensual feast in other ways as well. On weekends we sometimes piled into the car and drove to a movie on the Champs-lyses. Or I might sit as a model for Dr. Dondey, who painted in his spare time, as Mme. Dondey read aloud passages from a Marcel Proust novel assigned to me in class, translating into English some of the passages I had trouble with. I remember one particularly vivid Saturday when we drove to the small town of Honfleur for the day, where we ate lunch at an outdoor restaurant, situated on a farm, with chickens bustling about beneath round tables draped with blue-and-white checkered tablecloths. Our table was set with thick white china and cloth napkins and our bottle of white wine sat chilling inside a silver bucket. We began the meal with a platter of oysters and shrimp and snails, and secretly fed bits of it to the Dondeys' dog underneath the table. Afterward we strolled into town and Dr. Dondey set up his drawing pad and charcoal pens on the stone wall that lined the waterfront to capture the light of the day, as the rest of us wandered around town, taking in its simple serenity. A faded white wooden sailboat lapped gently at the water's edge, basking in a mirror of water that reflected the rows of gray and white and ochre townhouses clustered like a necklace along the quaint harbor.

My year in France taught me so much about myself, my senses, food, art, and numerous other things. This was the year I sat in cathedrals for hours on end, researching Romanesque and Gothic architecture. It was the year I walked everywhere, more than I ever had in my life, for I was taken by the city's beauty and did not want to miss one bit of it. It was the year that awakened in me a love for food that would never leave me. It was the year I would repeatedly fall into bed, exhausted...