Every fleeting encounter in a café or on the street can be life-changing and meaningful. A fleeting encounter can grow into a long-term, nourishing and enriching relationship. But it may also simply be a significant moment from which you take away an emotion, a piece of knowledge or a subtle realisation that you carry with you and which supports your growth.
A Gentleman in Helsinki
Once, whilst in Helsinki, I was looking for a wonderful yoga school set up there by a lovely Estonian woman. I was on my way to a friend’s birthday party, and the yoga school was where we were due to meet. I believed I knew Helsinki well enough and that finding the meeting place would be no trouble. It was a summer weekend afternoon, the city was pleasant and peaceful, and I had set off on foot.
Suddenly, I was overcome by a niggling doubt as to whether I was actually on the right track. The pleasant, sunny afternoon began to be overshadowed by clouds of inner anxiety. At that moment, a truly gentlemanly man, who had evidently noticed my anxious demeanour, addressed me. He was wearing a stylish suit, a tie to match, and smart glasses. He addressed me in perfect English, speaking fluently, showing sympathy for my predicament whilst maintaining a distance that ruled out any intrusiveness. Having heard the reason for my distress, he looked around, surveyed the surroundings, and then pointed to a building on the corner of the street, where the school was hidden. As imperceptibly as this exchange had begun, so it ended. I probably didn’t even manage to thank him politely, as I was paralysed by the gallantry, warmth and simplicity with which he had helped me.
We met up with the birthday girl. The group also included some lovely, lively, self-assured young women, with whom we spent a pleasant afternoon, sharing stories of our lives. We danced without a drop of alcohol – the cheerful company and interesting conversations created a sense of joy all on their own. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, removed from the daily grind and having reached a state where you can view yourself from the outside. With a clear head. A feeling that is brought about precisely by those brief, fleeting escapes from the usual routine – the sort that give energy and direction to the hustle and bustle of everyday life.
I am always reminded of that pleasant gentleman whenever I find myself getting bogged down in everyday worries. Whenever some seemingly purposeful activity has captured my attention, whilst I realise that I have lost my way and my sense of perspective. When I want to bring clarity and calm to my actions.
Encounters during my Ayurveda studies
I met the birthday boy, who also led me to this delightful experience, whilst studying Ayurveda in India. We had already completed an online study programme over the course of the year, which included a weekly lecture, homework and discussions. By that time, we were familiar with each other’s online identities and ways of thinking, but we only really got to know one another in India, when we spent long days together: morning lectures, afternoon massage sessions and evening herbal tea gatherings on the clinic’s rooftop under a canopy, where, whilst stirring the medicinal oil simmering over the fire, we discussed the life journeys of the entire study group.
That’s also how I met a meditation teacher from Australia, who has since visited Estonia. And in the same way, I’ve become friends with a lovely woman living in Nice, who also runs her own Ayurvedic practice. We keep in touch and share experiences; we visit each other and, whilst relaxing together, have talked about the sort of things that close friends discuss when they meet after a long time apart. This, too, provides a backdrop to the hustle and bustle of everyday life, lifts you out of it and gives you the ability to see things from a distance. To find peace.
I have come to realise that this is what Ayurveda is all about: soothing the soul. Soothing it so that worries and the rush of daily life can recede. So that mind and body can relax and find calm. So that we can see the bigger picture, and in doing so, tensions dissolve and the knots woven by everyday life can be untangled. For the human body is intelligent: it receives everything it needs, restores balance and heals itself when we pamper it and give it peace.
The diagnosis and six months
But we don’t always find the agreed-upon place to meet the birthday girl. Five years ago today, whilst I was at my annual check-up with my gynaecologist, the doctor, looking at my test results, told me that we would need to arrange a time to remove a growth from my internal organ that could develop into cancer. She handed me a document to sign, which listed the risks and warnings associated with the clinical procedure. I asked for some time to think about signing it.
I went home and felt torn. On the one hand, it seemed simple and safe to have the growth removed – a growth that instilled fear, one that could develop into cancer and subsequently cripple my life. To have this evil, which had attacked me, removed so that I could continue to be clean, unblemished and successful. But questions remained unanswered about what to do next. Is this the start of a period where I’ll go for regular check-ups and have things removed whenever something doesn’t look right? Is it possible to ensure that the threatening growth and the risky operation won’t happen again? And from there, the next question: if the body has created this growth, is it possible for the body to overcome it as well?
Today’s state-run healthcare system was unable to provide me with these answers. The task is indeed a difficult one. The environment in which we operate is intense, full of chemical, physical, emotional and mental pollution – changes that are difficult to cope with. And most importantly: conventional medicine cannot take risks; it cannot guarantee that a person is capable of changing themselves. Just like today’s education system, the healthcare system must provide a consistent, high-quality service to the whole of society. We are children of our time. The systems were created after independence with the primary aim of eliminating the threat of hunger, and looking around us and comparing ourselves with our neighbours, we’ve done well in this respect – hats off to those who have brought us this far. We must also respect the exploration and development taking place within these systems. But I couldn’t wait at that moment. I had six months to avoid the knife.
I sat down at my computer and went through a vast amount of information in Estonian and English about my tumour. I wrote down every possible recommendation and treatment I could find. I took large quantities of vitamins and medicinal oils, had sitz baths and followed extreme diets. I battled my tumour every single day. My family grew concerned; my husband and I scoured the entire internet. Among other things, we tried Ayurveda – initially to no avail. There were no practitioners nearby with sufficient experience, and no one was willing to take on the responsibility of treating me remotely. We all have our own financial limits, and it wasn’t possible for me to take time off work and travel far afield in search of a cure.
A book, a letter and a flight to Zurich
And so I came to another encounter, one that had begun almost unnoticed a couple of years earlier in India. On returning from a holiday, we’d bought some books at the airport to read during the flight. Having already had a brief introduction to Ayurveda, I chose a book that dealt with womanhood and its health aspects from an Ayurvedic perspective. The author was a European from Canada who, by training, was a gynaecologist practising Western medicine.
I must admit I was rather hesitant about contacting her and about the whole endeavour at that point. How should I write to her? What should I ask? Will she reply? What do I do next? I’ve always felt a sense of awe towards authors – after all, they do important work and shouldn’t be bothered with trivial matters. But the answer was simpler than I’d expected: the problem is treatable and everything will be fine. There was a link to a website where I could book an appointment. He held consultations in Zurich two days a month – that’s the nearest place to us where Ayurveda is recognised as part of the national healthcare system. I worked out the costs, which weren’t exactly small, but at that moment it was the only glimmer of hope for systematic help that would avoid surgery. I booked the appointment, bought a ticket and was on my way.
I’d booked an afternoon appointment. I’d landed in Zurich before whilst on a skiing holiday and knew how organised the Swiss are and how easy it is to find your way around – I felt confident taking the morning flight. But it was December. There was a snowstorm outside; the flight was diverted via Copenhagen and the departure was delayed. Making the connecting flight was critical, and that flight was also delayed. I was afraid I wouldn’t make it in time and that my booking and money would be lost. Whilst I was in the air, my husband tried to get in touch with the doctor to let him know about the possible delay. It wasn’t easy, as the doctor was seeing patients at the time.
I made it there just fine, though. The doctor had also only just arrived from Paris that morning, and his flight had been delayed too – the whole schedule had shifted slightly. I finally stepped into the consultation room. I’d seen the doctor in a photograph, but it didn’t convey the warmth and calm that he radiated. No white coat or suit. None of the outward reserve I’d attributed to the eminent doctor and author. There was only a complete presence and focus, no sign of a disrupted daily routine. I didn’t feel small at all.
I told him my story. I’d previously sent in my test results, both medical and the Ayurvedic questionnaire on my health and lifestyle. The doctor looked at me and shook his head at the whole treatment programme I’d been experimenting with on myself. He asked if I would give him four months to treat me. He said everything would be all right. He told me to stop all the intensive practices I’d been doing. He gave me two prescriptions: one was a medicinal tea to drink a litre of a day, cup by cup at hourly intervals; the other was a herbal powder to take in the morning and evening with honey or ghee. He advised me to be gentle and loving towards myself and to have an oil massage.
I was there. I knew I had been healed. That I would recover. That I could halt and reverse whatever had caused the cellular changes within me – whatever had shown that there were things in which I was not in harmony with myself.
The healer became my teacher
Today, my healer has become my teacher. I had promised myself that if Ayurveda helped me, I would start learning it, so that I could give others the chance to heal themselves, improve their quality of life and reduce physical ailments. To grow. So as not to turn a blind eye to what our bodies are telling us. To take the time to notice our surroundings and ourselves. To gain a broader perspective on our lives, where the little things are insignificant and surmountable. I am, in essence, addicted to the feeling that comes from knowledge and mindfulness – a feeling that I had previously associated with alcohol and recreational drugs.
Today, I conduct Ayurvedic health consultations in Tallinn and online, and lead panchakarma retreats in Estonia and India.