Warrior Pose

by Brad Willis

  After an hour of this mantra, my body begins to ache. Despite the chilly morning air, I start to sweat profusely. I feel tremors in my nerves. My arms and legs start quivering. Another thirty minutes and pain grips my whole body. Now it’s concentrating in my chest, shoulders, and throat. I’m losing control of my motor functions. Heavy convulsions now. Memories of the detox ward screaming through my mind. Suddenly, I have a vision of something flying out of my chest at warp speed and disappearing into the universe. In my mind’s eye, it flashes for an instant, looking like an opaque, geometric hologram.

  The moment it leaves, all the pain and convulsions subside. Curling into a fetal position, I’m in an altered state. A voice deep within me says, The demon is gone. I’m past the cancer. It’s gone. My rational mind speaks up to remind me that this is utterly absurd. Nothing more than a hallucination. Cancer is a disease, not a demon. It doesn’t fly through the sky looking for victims, and it doesn’t fly out of someone’s body while they’re lying on a Yoga mat willing it to do so. Yet the experience is as real and tangible as the demons that tore at my flesh in the detox ward. Illusion or not, I know I’m healed. My organic chemotherapy is complete.

  “How can I help you?”

  The receptionist at my oncologist’s office doesn’t recognize me even though I used to have regular appointments and came to know the staff well. I can understand why. It’s been more than two years since I’ve been here and I look nothing like the person I once was.

  “I’m Brad Willis, Cindy, here for a checkup with the doctor.” I watch with a smile as her eyes widen and her jaw drops.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” she exclaims. “I knew you were coming, of course, but you look so much younger and healthier!” She is kind enough not to mention that I used to look like walking death. Cindy explains how difficult it was to find my file because it was shelved in the “inactive” cabinet. The inference is clear: It was assumed I had passed away.

  Dr. Redfern is equally surprised when we sit down in his office. I give him the highlights of my healing journey, even the experience of the cancer demon leaving my body, noting that while it seems absurd to me, it must sound utterly ridiculous to him. After a checkup, he smiles and says, “You are definitely in remission and appear amazingly healthy. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but whatever you’ve been doing, ridiculous or not, it’s a miracle.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Warrior Pose

  THE RISING SUN BURSTS above the mountain ridge on this mid-November morning in 2001 as I sit facing San Diego Bay. I stand up on my mat, bring my palms to my heart, and whisper “Namaste” to the morning light as I begin a series of Sun Salutations, breathing deeply, allowing my breath to move my body, silently chanting an ancient mantra of gratitude to the sun.

  Next, I flow into Warrior One. My right foot is forward on my mat, the knee bent into a deep lunge. My left leg is straight out behind me with the sole of my left foot rooted into the mat at a 45-degree angle. My torso is lifted up, and my arms are high in the air, as if I’m reaching to the light and drinking it into my heart. I feel incredibly strong and balanced, serene yet powerful, vibrant and fully alive. Holding the pose, I feel like a warrior for inner peace, a warrior for healing, and a warrior for self-transformation.

  After ten deep breaths, I change sides and hold the pose for another ten breaths. Now I transition to Warrior Two, standing in the same powerful lunge, this time with one arm straight forward reaching toward the bay and the other arm out behind me, pointing toward the Pacific Ocean. Taking ten breaths on each side again, I feel expansive, grounded, focused, and whole.

  Finally, I enter Warrior Three, a pose I once thought completely impossible. Balancing myself on one leg, I tilt forward at my hips and straighten the other leg out behind me in the air as I reach both arms forward, forming a T with my body. Breathing deeply, I feel as solid as the massive rocks that line the bay and as centered as the snowy white egrets that stand on one leg in the water awaiting their prey. As I change sides in Warrior Three, the sunlight glistens across the smooth surface of San Diego Bay and into my heart center. All my muscles are taut and engaged, working together to sustain my balance and alignment. I feel like I could hold this pose forever and marvel at the fact that it’s taken me less than two years to go from the depths of pain, disease, and despair to a level of health and wholeness I’ve never known. I was supposed to have died by now, but the only thing that passed away was the old me.

  After Warrior Three, I squat down on my mat, lift up on the balls of my feet, and brace my knees into the back of my upper arms. Placing my palms firmly on the mat with fingers spread wide, I lean forward and balance on my hands as I lift into Crane Pose. After ten breaths I lean farther forward, place the crown of my head on the mat, and lift my legs straight into a headstand. Then I come slowly down to my knees and bow my forehead to the mat as I sit on my heels in Child’s Pose, offering my body and breath as a prayer to Mother Earth.

  From Child’s Pose, I rise up onto my hands and feet, sweep my right leg forward, and slide into a full split. I melt into the splits for ten breaths then transition to the other side, chanting and breathing as I go. Rising up from the splits, I roll onto my back and wrap one leg behind my head, straightening the other leg out on my mat. Ten more breaths and I change sides.

  Next, I hug my knees to my chest as I open myself to gratitude, compassion, forgiveness, loving kindness, and inner peace. Now I bring the soles of my feet down, take my arms behind me, plant my palms on the mat, and lift myself up into a full backbend. I hold it for a full minute, amazed every time I do this pose that a spine with a broken vertebra and failed surgery has this much capacity to heal.

  A series of gentle poses follow the backbend as I settle down toward stillness, ultimately entering the Corpse Pose. I lie here for ten minutes, visualizing Mother Earth holding me in the palms of her hands. It feels like the air itself is breathing me, and every effortless inhale is an affirmation of my journey, every exhale is a merging back into the source of all that is. Once I return to a seated posture, I practice Pranayama, then sit with my eyes closed and meditate with immense gratitude for the challenges that have taught me to appreciate the miracle of life.

  When I’ve completed my meditation, I gaze out over the bay, contemplating how Yoga has guided me into a personal transformation I never dreamed possible. Although the poses I’ve done this morning are only a small aspect of Yoga, they do something much greater than build confidence, strength, and flexibility: They reflect life. The more flexible, balanced, and grounded I become on my mat, the more I bring these attributes to life off my mat. If I can move past the resistance I feel in my hamstrings, I have a greater capacity to handle tension in the real world. Staying in poses that test my muscles without backing out helps me stand firm when facing times of challenge. The more present I become in meditation, the more awareness I bring to all aspects of my life.

  There is another aspect to the more physically challenging poses that is also transformative. When, after a long period of sustained effort, I finally master something I used to believe was impossible, like getting my legs behind my head or holding a headstand, it empowers me. This faith in my capacity to do something I felt was beyond my reach soon translates into other aspects of my life. It gives me confidence and courage, and helps me turn setbacks and obstacles into opportunities and accomplishments.

  At the end of my day, I pedal my bike to the beach to watch the sunset. I breathe in the moist, salty air and watch sandpipers skitter along the ocean’s edge. Walking to the water’s edge, I let the tide rush up and soak me up to my knees. It’s bone-chilling cold and feels exhilarating. I feel a rush of exuberance and begin chanting I am alive! I keep it up as I run fifty yards along the shoreline toward a jetty of huge boulders in front of the Hotel del Coronado. It’s the first time I’ve run since the test in Saudi Arabia to be a pool reporter for the Gulf War. I am alive! I climb the boulders effortlessly and sit on a wide, flat rock
facing southwest toward the Coronado Islands and the coast of Mexico. It’s a favorite place of mine that I call Meditation Rock. I watch the sun dance on the ocean’s surface as a line of pelicans soars across the face of a rolling wave. In the distance, a regatta of sailboats heads back toward harbor as a majestic cruise ship departs for the tropics. I am alive!

  It feels like only yesterday that I limped into the Pain Center and was admonished for lying down on the reception couch. I fondly remember the wonderful people who guided me in Biofeedback, Jin Shin Jyutsu, Physical Therapy, and my first Yoga class. Suddenly, a picture drifts into my vision. It’s the poster in the Therapy room of the woman doing Boat Pose on a jetty of rocks much like the jetty I’m sitting on right now. Inspired, I climb to the top of the highest rock and playfully go the pose one better, balancing myself on my arms with one leg behind my head, still chanting I am alive!

  On the jetty at Coronado Beach.

  It’s early December now. Today is Coronado’s annual Christmas Parade. Morgan will soon turn four years old, and something very special is in store. Morgan is still asleep when I tiptoe into his room. Gazing at him softly sleeping, I suddenly remember the good-bye note I tucked away in my suitcase when I feared I might not survive. I wrote it to Morgan when I was at the Marriot Hotel in La Jolla almost two years ago while attending the Pain Center, asking that he never forget me. I step softly back into my bedroom, bring the suitcase down from a high shelf in the closet, and retrieve the note. My eyes flood with tears of joy as I read it one final time, then I rip it up and toss it in the waste bin.

  Morgan ambles into my room, sees the tears, and says, “What’s wrong, Daddy?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart,” I answer. “They’re tears of joy. I’m so happy to have you, and I can’t wait for the parade!”

  “Me, too!” Morgan exclaims with glee. “Now, will you draw on my back?”

  As happens every year, thousands of visitors have flooded into Coronado for the parade. Two years ago, I was on the curb, watching the parade from my recliner, strapped into my Clamshell brace, drinking a stout beer, pickled on drugs, crippled, and dying. Morgan was snuggled up on my lap, giving me a play-by-play on all the floats and marching bands. I remember as if it were yesterday, how he held me so tightly and pleaded with me to march with him in the next Christmas Parade.

  I had been diagnosed with cancer and was certain this would be the last Christmas with my son. It broke my heart when I promised him that we would march together. I felt like a liar, a failure, and a hopeless case. Little did I know that my son would soon make another request of me. It was just a few weeks later that he pleaded Get up, Daddy! That was the catalyst for this journey, the one thing that gave me the strength to persevere. Without this bond between father and son, I know deep in my heart that I never would have pulled through.

  Last year, I was well enough to watch the parade with Morgan, of course, but not yet strong enough to join in. This year, Morgan has been invited to join a group of his little friends marching in the parade as elves, and I’m all in—one hundred percent. I manage to mock up a fairly silly elf costume for myself and join the other parents who are escorting the kids. When we arrive at the beginning of the parade route, the marching bands, karate club, cheerleaders, sports teams, and even the garbage trucks are all in the queue again, with Santa on the large red fire truck bringing up the rear. I look down the long, wide street and see the throngs of holiday revelers as an instrumental version of “Joy to the World” blares from a nearby loudspeaker. A profound sense of joy washes through me. I kept my promise to my son. I am alive! Joy to the world!

  The excited voices of the little children in our group sound like angels as we are told that our group is next to march down the parade route. As we begin walking, Morgan reaches for my hand. We skip from one side of the street to the other, just like Santa’s elves, waving at the crowd and laughing out loud. After a block or two, I feel a tug at my hand and glance down to see Morgan smiling at me.

  “Daddy, can I have a shoulder ride?”

  “Sure, sweetheart,” I answer with a smile, swinging him up onto my shoulders and dancing with him perched above me all the way through the parade. As I see familiar faces along the way, I realize this parade is very much the same as it has been every year for decades. It’s me who is different. Completely different—in body, mind, and Soul. I never dreamed I would fulfill this promise of being in the Christmas parade with my son, much less be able to carry him on my shoulders. I never imagined that such healing was possible. Joy to the world!

  When we reach the end of the parade route, near the beach and the Hotel Del, I swing Morgan down from my shoulders into my arms, hug him closely, and say, “Guess what? Daddy got up!”

  “What does that mean?” he asks, smiling widely as he hugs me back.

  I have to laugh out loud and then whisper softly, “One day soon, I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Epilogue

  As 2002 unfolds, Pamela and I realize that the chasm between us has become so wide that it might be impossible to bridge. A newsletter from the retreat center where I first learned about deeper purifications and devised my organic chemotherapy regimen is advertising a couples retreat led by a man and woman with international reputations for their work in helping couples reconcile their differences. I beg her to try it with me, and she agrees. Morgan will stay with his grandmother while we’re away for four days, which is challenging for both of us.

  I’m hoping Pamela might love the place so much that she’ll consider moving into residency as a family. We would be in a conscious community, surrounded by nature, and have a chance to make a new start. It even has a school that offers preschool through high school. The day we arrive, I realize it’s a fanciful illusion. This is not her world and never will be. We both do our best to come together during the retreat, but it doesn’t do the trick. The drive home is painful. Our conversation is inauthentic. Like most men, I want to fix things. Find a logical solution. Put it all back together. But I can’t.

  A few weeks later I take one last stab at finding a way to create a new life that we both can accept, and Hawaii seems to hold great potential. There’s a retreat in Maui with Rod Stryker, one of the few Vedic masters in America. Rod is among the small minority of teachers who focus on what resonates most with me: the deep and ancient teachings of Yoga and how they apply to our lives. He’s like a spiritual scientist with a talent for taking arcane and complex theories and synthesizing them into a language that’s accessible and easily understandable. His lectures are punctuated with practices that provide a direct experience of the teachings, as opposed to simply offering intellectual insights.

  I decide to attend the retreat and also find a home in one of the more rural villages that we could buy, again with the idea of creating a new life. Pamela could enjoy the holiday atmosphere of Hawaii while I continued to study and practice Yoga. There’s a private Waldorf school near the place I’ve chosen. Waldorf schools focus on nurturing each child’s creativity, emphasizing music, dance, theater, writing, literature, legends, and myths. Its website says “Waldorf students cultivate a lifelong love of learning as well as the intellectual, emotional, physical, and spiritual capacities to be individuals certain of their paths and to be of service to the world.” It would be a perfect place for Morgan to attend.

  Pamela flies in with Morgan after the retreat. I’ve booked us lodging at a quiet, meditative spa on the more uninhabited side of the island. Pamela hates it. She wants to be at a five-star hotel with pools, water slides, and organized tours. She doesn’t want to see the homes I’ve found to look at, and I realize my whole plan is foolish. It’s hard for me to face, but I also realize that I keep trying to impose my vision on her. It isn’t her vision and it isn’t fair. Anyway, Yoga taught me long ago that true change comes from within, not by altering one’s external circumstances. What was I thinking? I make a switch and we travel to the populated side of the island and check into a resort. She is much happ
ier here, but I can’t stand it. It’s far too commercial, noisy, and inauthentic. We are worlds apart.

  The Royal Way Ranch sits seventy-five miles northeast of Los Angeles in the high Mojave Desert, with the San Bernardino Mountains towering in the background. With its lush gardens and a small stream flowing from a natural spring, it’s an oasis in the midst of a bleak moonscape of cracked earth and dry, twisted chaparral. A full moon illuminates the landscape as it sets in the west. Hints of sunrise are stirring in the east. My mat is rolled out on the desert sand as I sit in Lotus Pose, doing my Sadhana in the “Time of the Divine,” while “listening to the dark,” as Morgan once put it so beautifully.

  It’s late May in 2002, and I’m here for a weeklong Yoga of Fulfillment Retreat with Rod Stryker. During this retreat, Rod has guided us into deep levels of self-reflection. It’s now the final day, and I have a vision that I’m standing on the edge of a great abyss, much like the abyss I fell into with a lost career, broken back, and cancer, and that used to haunt me in my nightmares. This time, however, I’m seeking to open my arms as if they were wings, release all fear, and allow myself to fall forward over the precipice. The abyss, this time, symbolizes the unknown. For the past several days, I’ve felt great resistance to visualizing letting myself fall over the edge. My fear is because I can’t control the outcome. It’s because I have no guarantee what the result will be. In truth, life is always this way, but most of us still want to think we’re in charge of the future, that somehow we can avoid risk, disappointment, and danger.

  This morning, I’ve realized the specific meaning of the abyss. It’s my fear of facing something my Soul had known for far too long but my mind has been refusing to face: My marriage is over. I’m reminded of the Serenity Prayer and having the wisdom to know those things I cannot overcome. Although I’ve been able to effect profound changes in myself through the spiritual science of Yoga, this doesn’t mean that I can determine all that happens in my life. I realize, too, that this realization is an essential part of completing my healing, and I know Pamela feels that her healing also requires this difficult step.