Warrior Pose: How Yoga (Literally) Saved My Life
Brad Willis, Bhava Ram
Language: English
Pages: 384
ISBN: 1937856690
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
At the pinnacle of his career, a broken back and failed surgery left Willis permanently disabled and condemned to life in a body brace. Then came a diagnosis of terminal, stage IV throat cancer.
At his 50th birthday party, friends gathered around Willis, who was crippled, almost mute, depressed, strung out on narcotic medications, and dying. Halfway through the celebration Willis realized the party’s true purpose—his friends were there to say goodbye.
Everyone knew Willis was on his way out...everyone except his 2-year-old son, who urged, “Get up, Daddy!”
His son’s words ringing in his ears, Willis chose to abandon Western medicine and embrace the most esoteric practices of Yoga to heal his body, mind, and soul—ridding himself of cancer and fully restoring his back. As a symbol of his journey, he took the spiritual name Bhava Ram, which stands for “Living from the Heart.”
Warrior Pose is an adventure chronicling some of the most momentous events of our time through a journalist’s eyes, an unforgettable story about the power of love between father and son, and a transformational journey of self-healing, inner peace, and wholeness.
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gouged out. Some have been castrated. Others have multiple gunshot and stab wounds. The bodies of young girls show signs of violent rape, some with iron construction rods, called rebar, forced into their body cavities. I am overwhelmed with grief. What dark evil dwells within us that could ever prompt such atrocities? None of the horrors in this morgue can be broadcast, but we film anyway so there is a record of this savagery. It’s likely the Iraqi soldiers lying comfortably in their hospital
won’t return my smile. My cameraman and I pass through Zakho and drive into the expansive valley beyond. Here we film deserted villages, destroyed Iraqi vehicles, huge caches of abandoned artillery shells, wooden crates of ammunition, and empty Iraqi bunkers. I walk gingerly toward each bunker, carefully inspecting the dirt pathways and occasionally spotting a trip wire. These must be connected to small explosive devices, so we get off the trail and approach through the brush to reach the bunkers
processed MREs I lived on during the Gulf War. As we finish, my friend floats up to standing with ease. It takes me a while to get up from being cross-legged on the ground for so long, and it’s a struggle to do it without groaning. Once I’m on my feet, he beckons me to follow him. We walk through a narrow, dusty shop filled with old wood and iron parts for repairing the hand-pulled street carts used to transport goods throughout the Old Quarter. A creaky door in the back of the dilapidated
reflection on the dark screen of the computer monitor that faces my recliner. Black circles under my eyes, greasy hair sticking out in all directions, a twisted scowl on my face. I look like a madman, and I realize I no longer know who this person is. As the voices in my head continue to compete for primacy, the Get up, Daddy mantra starts looping through my mind. There’s incredible tension in the room as everyone waits for me to say something. Finally, as if I’m outside of my body watching all
it’s very experimental. They use a blend of ancient Eastern healing modalities and modern holistic Western medicine to help patients cope with pain without using narcotic painkillers. They can’t help you with cancer, but they think you are a perfect candidate for help with back pain, and so do I. Are you interested in trying it?” I’m not sure I understand a thing he’s saying, but I’m in scorching pain and need to do something, anything. “Yes. Immediately. Today. When can I start?” “Not quite