Ayurvedic consultation

Like the rest of you, many times over the years I have tried to figure out my dosha. You know, my Ayurvedic archetype. There's vata, pitta, and kapha, and each represents a different combination of the elements, and shows up differently in each body. I've read a couple of books about Ayurvedic medicine, and taken all the available questionnaires to determine my dosha. But whenever I try to pinpoint my type, I'm left scratching my head (which, it turns out, is consistent with my body's dosha): I'm partly this, partly that. Apparently my mental dosha differs from my physical dosha, which explains something, but I will have to think about it for a long time before I understand what that something is, because that's just how my mental dosha works.

After hearing an interesting lecture on Ayurvedic medicine during my course at Kripalu, I decided to schedule a consultation with the Ayurvedic specialist on staff. I wanted to know how my furnace is doing. Essentially, we each are a furnace, and our fire is either burning efficiently (think steadily burning, warming fire), too quickly (think throwing dry paper onto that fire) or too damply (think wet leaves on the fire).

I filled out the six-page questionnaire that asked about everything from my sweat production to the rhythm of my "evacuation" to the speed of my speech. I'll spare you the details. Okay, okay: Scant to moderate; just fine, thank you; and erratic.

The specialist typed my dosha in short order by noting my general frame and assorted features, checking my Eastern medicine pulses, listening to my erratic speech. Vata, she says. Pola, you are very Vata, she says. Vata's elements are ether and air, and the energy is cold and dry. She gives me a little lecture about energy cycles of one's life, cycles of the year, cycles of each day. She and I are meeting in the cold and dry point of the day, the year, my life. It's hard to find balance in my energy when I carry my cold and dry Vata body through a cold and dry day in the cold and dry season of my life. My furnace is like that guy in the Jack London story who is trying to light a fire in the dead of winter; I can't get a good, steady flame going. I start to feel chilled just hearing about it, and zip up my vest.

She tells me I once basked in the warm fire of youth, which has more Kapha energy, but now I have entered my "wisdom years," which are all Vata.
"Wisdom years!" I chuckle. "I'll bet you learned to say that in this country."
"Yes," she confesses. "I once told a patient she was old, and she said that was offensive to Americans. So now I say 'wisdom years.'"
"Well, it's okay with me. You can say old."

So she does. She speaks frankly from that point onward: Your energy is cold and dry. Your body is drying up, pola. All right, already! Geez. You don't have to hit me over the head with it.

She gives me a long list of dos and don'ts. Among the many instructions for balancing Vata in a Vata time of life is not to eat so much cold food; she 'd like most of what I eat to be cooked. When my family has a salad for dinner, I should wilt mine, she says. Mmmmmmm, soggy salad. She's not wild about my kale chips, though, which are too dry and crisp, like me. I should eat smooth food, but not cold smoothies. She would prefer, too, that I warm up my gazpacho in the summertime. Yummmmm, warm cold soup. 

Laura is delighted with one of the Ayurvedic consultant's recommendations: that we turn up the heat in the house while I am in my wisdom years. I've conceded 4 whole degrees in the daytime, and we're now set at 66 degrees. The consultant thinks I should aim for 70-72, but she's not paying for the oil.

Speaking of which, among her strongest recommendations is that I give myself a warm (almond) oil massage twice a week. Not in the shower, where you might be able to stay warm and drip into the tub. No, you should do this some other time outside a tub -- dripping onto everything around you: your eyes, your clothing, keyboard, grocery lists, the dog--who is also in his wisdom years--as he wanders blindly by.

The instructions are as follows: Warm half a cup of almond oil in a pan. Pour half of it onto your head and massage it in. Rub the rest of the oil onto your body. Keep it on for an hour.

I feel like I am not deep enough into my wisdom years while I try this procedure. How one remains warm while covered with oil -- which is warm for all of a minute and then soon is body temperature, then soon after that is oh, about 66 degrees -- I cannot figure out.

But I am game, and I like that the Ayurvedic doctor promises me the oil will actually get absorbed by my skin and that some of the oil will nourish my brain. That I could use. I rub a quarter cup of warm almond oil into my scalp, tuck a towel into my collar, and try to continue my morning.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

I confess that I do not massage the oil all over my body. I am not up for being naked, cold, and slippery for an hour. Plus I'm thinking that if someone came to the door, it'd be both embarrassing and dangerous:
How'd she die? 
Doorbell rang. She slid straight into the door. 
Poor thing. Right smack in the middle of her wisdom years. Tsk.

There is a long, thoughtful pause before someone asks what they are all thinking: What's with the grease?